

Remember Me?

Book One

A DCI McKenzie Crime Thriller

IAN C.P. IRVINE

Copyright 2020 © IAN C.P. IRVINE

Published by Ian C.P. Irvine on Smashwords

Copyright 2018 IAN C.P. IRVINE

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright observed above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The school mentioned in this book was a real school. It no longer exists, having been demolished a few years ago. For many years it was the centre of the community. Many, many thousands of pupils went to Portobello High School. And for most, it was an incredible, enjoyable experience, with special teachers. This book is dedicated to the amazing educators that worked there, and who gave of themselves to help others. All of the names and characters in the book are entirely fictional, and every element of this story is fictional. But the school building was real. And it was blue.

Dedicated to all my teachers at Portobello High School.

You were excellent!

With special thanks to:

My house master: Mr Bagleigh

Mr Marshall

Miss Cook

Mr Wheeldon

Mrs Hamilton

Although I may have forgotten everything you taught me, I will never forget you!

Books by Ian C.P. Irvine

The Assassin's Gift

Say You're Sorry

I Spy, I Saw Her Die

Haunted From Without

Haunted From Within

Time Ship

The Orlando File.

The Messiah Conspiracy

London 2012: What If?

The Sleeping Truth

Alexis Meets Wiziwam the Wizard

Chapter 1

Friday

15.15

The plastic ties forcing David Weir's hands behind his back cut into his flesh, the blood running slowly down his wrists and congealing on his sticky fingertips. The blindfold fastened around his eyes pressed against his eyeballs, threatening to burst them open like two small water balloons.

But that was the least of his worries.

When his captor forced him up the stairs, David had tripped and landed heavily on his right arm. Pain now washed over him in waves, threatening to blot out his senses. He was sure it was broken. Only the threat of the electric cattle prod got him back to his feet.

After the climb up the eight flights of stairs, they had eventually come to the top floor. Although blindfolded, David knew where he was. This was his floor, where he'd taught Geography in the first classroom on the right for over ten years. The one with the best view in Edinburgh looking out to Holyrood Park and Arthur's Seat.

It was the classroom where he'd dedicated his life to the children of Portobello High School - until the council decided to close the school and move them all to a more modern building not so very far away.

Now the school was a shadow of its former self, abandoned, derelict, and awaiting demolition, which David knew only too well, was scheduled for Friday afternoon...

Was that today?

A shove between the shoulder blades sent David staggering down the corridor, colliding with the wall, and releasing another wave of pain from his broken arm.

He fell to his knees and breathed heavily, fighting the urge to vomit. If he did, the cloth his captor had thrust into his mouth would stop the contents of his stomach from going anywhere apart from back into his throat and down into his lungs.

He would choke to death.

David sensed his captor step around him, a waft of wind on his cheek as he passed. The rope which his captor had looped through his arms and the plastic ties connecting his wrists jerked him around and he fell sideways onto the floor.

Another wall of pain.

Behind him, he heard a door being opened, feet clanging up a metal ladder, a few thumps and bangs, and then a breath of fresh air swept over him.

It confused him.

David knew what the sounds were and where the air came from.

He'd expected his captor to lead him into his classroom - why else would he have brought him up here? - but instead, it seemed he'd opened the door to the supply cupboard, pulled down the ladder, and then forced open the hatch leading to the roof.

In all his years of teaching, David had never actually been up there. It was too dangerous.

His captor hauled him back onto his feet, pushed him forwards and into the cupboard.

David banged against the ladder and tripped, falling again.

His captor caught him, steadied him, and then bent down and lifted David's right foot up onto the first rung.

Then his left.

A prod to the back.

"Up! Climb!"

David coughed, and tried for the hundredth time to protest, but ended up once again fighting the urge to vomit.

Instead, he succumbed to his captor's demands and started searching for the rungs with his feet, gingerly testing each one with his weight before committing himself to the next.

"Hurry!"

David almost missed the next step, but a hand forced his foot forwards and down until he found the right position.

As David climbed, he sensed the walls around him disappear and the wind began to buffet his head and shoulders. Somewhere close by he could hear the sound of seagulls crying. The smell of the sea filled his nostrils.

And there was something more... voices. David could hear voices.

"All the way up!" his captor commanded him.

David could feel the edge of the last rung against his ankle as he leant forward, but he was reluctant to step up above it, not knowing what was there.

"Step out on to the roof!" his captor urged.

Fighting the pain, his heart pounding, David complied, every nerve in his body flooding his brain with sensations as he tried to build a picture of where he now was and what was around him.

He felt the crunch of gravel underfoot.

The wind swirled around his legs and blew through his hair and against his cheeks.

Fresh air.

Salty.

He heard footsteps below, coming up the ladder, and for a moment he felt relieved. Relieved that he wasn't going to be left up here all alone.

A hand grabbed his arm, the broken one, and David almost passed out with the pain.

His captor dragged him forward, and yanked the gag out of his mouth. He felt an arm around his throat, grasping his head, and a hand forced his mouth open.

Something was thrust into his mouth...a tablet... a capsule? Then the lip of a bottle, and a liquid was squirted into his throat, forcing him to swallow, washing the tablet down into his stomach.

"Who are you?" David choked and then gasped for air, his body trembling with fear. "What did you just give me? Why are we here, on the roof? Why are you doing this to me?"

He felt the breath of his captor on the side of his face.

The stench of garlic.

Stale aftershave.

Next, his captors voice, loud, straight in his ear.

"It's only fair to let you know, it's nearly four o'clock. In less than fifteen minutes they're going to blow up the school. Good luck!"

Then the sound of footsteps as his captor moved away from him.

"Where are you going?" David screamed, terrified. "Don't leave me here!"

More silence. Then footsteps again, retreating.

"Where am I? How far from the edge?"

There was no reply.

And then David felt very strange. His pulse was racing. He became confused. Dizzy. Weird.

What was happening to him?

Almost magically, the pain was ebbing away now, but it was replaced with a heightened sense of awareness and panic. Random thoughts began to rush through his head. Energy began to course through his veins. He was hot. Very hot. Sweat was running down his face, soaking his blindfold.

He felt an overpowering need to move.

Then in the distance, he heard the bang of the trapdoor being closed.

The sound echoed and reverberated through his head.

His captor had gone.

David was now alone.

Alone on top of the tallest building for miles around. A building due for demolition, in the next few minutes.

"Escape. I have to escape..."

The thought entered his mind, and then started to circulate, round and round. He heard the words being spoken to him, first by one voice, then by another. Soon a choir had taken up the chorus and was shouting the word in his mind, over and over again.

"Escape...escape...escape..."

His eyes had begun to twitch, his arms and legs jerking uncontrollably.

David was growing increasingly frantic and scared, his heartbeat pounding rapidly in his ears.

A rush of warmth down his legs told him he'd just pissed his pants with fear.

David began to weep.

"Help!..." He heard himself cry, his voice weak, pathetic.

"HELP!" he shouted again, several times.

But no one replied.

With each second that passed, David could feel the drug taking even more effect.

Agitated, unable to stand still, and heeding the advice in his head now screaming at him to escape, he started stumbling around the roof, searching for the trapdoor.

At first, he moved cautiously, doing his best to sense the space in front of him before committing to it, petrified he could be near the edge of the building. But as the drug took more of a grip on him, his movements became more erratic.

He was losing control.

He had to hurry...and he had to find that trapdoor...

Chapter 2

Portobello High School

Edinburgh

15.55

Gary Bruce checked his watch. Only five minutes before the demolition when the towering hulk of the old Portobello High School would be reduced to a dusty pile of rubble in a matter of seconds. Another famous Edinburgh landmark smudged off the map.

For once, Gary had mixed feelings about his work. Normally he loved blowing things up: it was every little boy's dream, and to a certain extent, Gary had never grown up. He ran his own demolition firm and enjoyed getting up for work every day. Few people could say the same.

The old Portobello High School was his biggest contract yet. The bulk of the school was spread out over several acres and consisted of numerous buildings averaging two or three floors. At the centre of the campus, however, a massive blue eight-floored building rose straight up into the sky. This part of the school was tall, long and thin, each floor containing two rows of classrooms separated by a long corridor which ran down their middle. At each end of the building was a set of stairs and an elevator, with a third set of stairs and two elevators running up through the middle. In its heyday, Porty High had about two thousand pupils, but the school was now over fifty-five years old, out-of-date, and its structure was tired and dangerous. Bit by bit, parts were falling off the building, and it was a miracle that no pupils had ever been injured or killed by falling chunks of masonry.

It was a large building, covering a large area, and planning its destruction had been a complex and difficult job. But ten minutes from now, when the dust cleared, the first and most dangerous part would be over.

Gary himself was one of tens of thousands of pupils who'd happily attended Porty High. Even though it had been one of the largest comprehensives in the country, the majority of pupils who'd gone there had enjoyed a brilliant education from fantastic, dedicated teachers.

Gary wasn't the only one who'd be sad to see the old girl go. Hundreds of spectators had turned up today, wanting to pay their last respects and see the final few seconds of the school as it was blown to smithereens.

Turning his attention back to the checklist on his tablet, he methodically ran through the last few preparations and radioed around for final oks from his team.

Suddenly he heard a cry go up from the crowd at the end of the cordoned-off street that ran past the school.

His radio buzzed.

"Gary, there's someone on the roof. Abort! Abort!"

Turning the key back to the 'Safe' position and removing it from the demolition console, he stepped outside his cabin and looked across to one of his team who was busy pointing to the top of the building.

From his vantage point, Gary could only see the westward edge of the roof from the side nearest the Holyrood Park. "I can't see anyone."

"A man! Wandering around. His hands are tied behind his back, and he's blindfolded. Staggering around like he's drunk... he's near the edge. Get someone up there!"

Two hundred meters down the road behind safety barriers, a shock wave of fear and excitement ran through the crowd.

Someone was on the roof of the old school.

Some of the mothers began to scream, whilst a few, and thankfully just a small minority of the children, started to shout _'Jump! Jump!'_

They were told to shut up by their parents, who covered their children's eyes, or tried to turn them around.

The policemen handling public safety went into overdrive, shouting excitedly into their radios, and directing the crowds to go further back and clear the road altogether.

One of the more experienced officers called an ambulance and requested a helicopter and assistance from the fire-services.

From that point forward, everything happened very quickly.

The man on the top of the building was moving in and out of view, crossing back and forward from one side of the building to the other.

Stew, the team-member with the binoculars who'd first alerted Gary, was now giving a running commentary to the control room, which was being overheard by several police-officers who'd hurried to the command post.

Outside in the street, a stunned silence descended on the crowd of onlookers, replaced by a rising and descending communal sound of alarm as the man seemed to approach the edge of the building but then turn at the last moment and veer back towards its centre.

A policeman hurrying towards the crowd from his parked car had produced a loudspeaker. Fiddling with the controls he pushed past the onlookers and ran towards the hulking edifice towering above them. Raising the loudspeaker to his lips, he began shouting instructions at the man above.

"Stand still. Please do not move! You are in danger! Someone is coming to rescue you! I repeat, stand still and DO NOT MOVE!"

For a moment the man seemed to stop and listen, but seconds later he fell forward onto his knees, out of sight.

He was gone only for a few brief moments before he stood up again and then took several unsteady steps towards the edge.

A moan of alarm went up from the crowd below.

The man seemed to hesitate, turning slightly to the side, and then walking a few steps parallel to the side of the building.

Once again, the policeman was heard issuing instructions on the megaphone, but this time the man on the roof didn't respond.

He carried on moving forward, edging to the rim of the building.

Without knowing that the wind at the top of the building was preventing any of his instructions being heard, the policeman made another valiant effort to guide the man away from the side, but to no avail.

Taking another step forward, the man's left foot landed on the edge of the building, and as the weight of his body followed above it, the outside of his foot failed to find sufficient support and the ankle began to turn outwards.

Almost in slow motion, his leg buckled at the knee, and the man leant precariously to his side.

With his hands tied behind his back, the man was unable to compensate for the sudden loss of balance, and he stumbled sideways.

For those looking on from below, in the years to come, the scene that unfolded before their eyes would replay in their minds over and over again. A few of the children would wake up screaming from nightmare-filled dreams, and some adults would find themselves blinking and shaking their heads in an effort to erase the recurring vision and the morbid questions and feelings that accompanied it.

Just a moment before they had been looking at a man, a human being, alive, breathing, and conscious.

The next, they were watching him fall, accelerating towards the ground, the end of his earthly existence only milliseconds away.

Mercifully, the large wooden blue fence around the side of the demolition site hid the final form which the geography teacher's body adopted: a deformed red mass somewhat akin to shape of the continent of Africa.
Chapter 3

Portobello High School

Edinburgh

17.20

Detective Chief Inspector Campbell McKenzie climbed out his car, brushed down his jacket and wiped away the remnants of his Gregg's sausage roll.

Admittedly, it wasn't the healthiest of foods, but it was warm, filling, and truth be told, rather delicious.

His DI had briefed him in the car on the way over. As McKenzie stood on the road outside the entrance to the demolition site, he looked upwards at the tower block above and couldn't help but imagine what the last few moments of the victim must have been like.

One moment he was on solid ground, the next falling through open air.

How many seconds would it have been before he'd hit the ground?

How far had he fallen?

After he'd stepped off the edge of the building, would the man have had a chance to process any last thoughts before...

McKenzie shuddered.

"DCI McKenzie?" The voice caught him off guard. McKenzie turned to see four men emerging from a door in the fence surrounding the perimeter of the old school.

"That's me. Who would you be?"

"Gary Bruce. Site Manager. I own Bruce Demolition, the company clearing this site. This is Stew, my No 2."

The two men were accompanied by an armed officer and a local policeman, Sergeant Murray Anderson, who McKenzie recognised from previous work together, and who according to his DI was in charge of the local police presence.

The armed officer introduced himself as Sergeant Galbraith. He was a heavy set man with broad shoulders, large biceps and pronounced thighs, someone who obviously spent a lot of time in the gym. He was almost bursting out of his uniform.

"I've got a team of armed officers just started sweeping the campus for any threats. It'll take a while, given the size of the campus." Galbraith explained.

McKenzie thanked him and requested to be informed the moment the site was declared safe. McKenzie then turned his attention to the uniformed officer. Tall, bald with a thick ginger moustache.

"Murray, good to see you again. Doctor been yet to make a formal declaration of death? And any sign of the forensics team?

"Forensics are on the way. And yes, the man who fell has been declared dead at the scene. One of the onlookers came forward and volunteered to help. Doctor from the local practice in Duddingston. For now, I'd rather we kept the footfall around the area down to a bare minimum, so until Forensics arrive, if I may suggest..."

"Don't worry Murray, I saw a picture in the car on the way over. I've got no desire to rush over there until I've properly digested my lunch. Looks like one of the worst falls I've seen in years, and I've handled a fair few. Is it visible from the street?"

"Perimeter fencing's high enough to make sure no one can see."

"Good. Have the press got wind of it yet?"

"Unfortunately. BBC Scotland were filming it. But we've stopped them and they've agreed not to release anything without our permission. We're keeping all other press at bay."

"Excellent." McKenzie smiled at the demolition men. "Is there somewhere we can set up a temporary incident room?"

"It'll have to be one of our portacabins. I'll need time to clear out some papers... How long will you need it for?"

"I don't know. We'll set up properly back in St Leonards later, but there's going to be a lot of activity here in the next few days, so we'll need the space. Can you take us there now?"

The site manager nodded.

"Good, lead the way. And Murray, how many men you do have here at the moment?"

"We had six. Another three just arrived."

"From what I've heard, it's looking like the victim didn't get up there himself. Have you started looking for anyone else? And do we have a name yet for the victim?"

"No. We didn't want to disturb the scene until Forensics got here. So no, we haven't got any ID. His body is badly distorted, so we haven't seen the face yet. Sorry for being so graphic but there's no other way of saying this." Murray paused. "His head, what's left of it, has been pushed inside his chest. Into his rib cage." He hurried on. "And as far as the other question, yes, before the armed response team arrived and took over, Mr Bruce's men had escorted some of my officers on a quick recce of the buildings and we rechecked that all the entrances were locked and reconfirmed that all the exits were cordoned off. I've got some dogs and another ten men on the way over... There's a freshly broken window at the bottom of the far stairwell, and it looks like that's where the victim and whoever was with him may have entered the building."

McKenzie glanced over at the site manager.

"How's that possible? You were just about to blow the place up. The area should have been on tight lockdown."

Gary Bruce turned red, whether from embarrassment or anger, McKenzie couldn't tell.

"It _was_. There's no way onto the campus except through the two main entrances, and they were both closed. All the normal procedures have been followed. We didn't see anyone on the cameras and the dogs on the campus never picked up any intrusions. But to be fair, we withdrew them from the area about forty minutes before the building was due to be brought down. We don't know how anyone could have got inside. All the doors were locked, and the broken window was still intact on the last site inspection thirty minutes before I was due to detonate the explosives. No one entered, and since the man fell off the roof, no one has left."

By this time, Gary had led them into the demolition site, and up a staircase on to the third level of a set of portacabins which had been lifted and stacked on top of each other by a crane, forming a temporary set of offices.

Sweeping a table clear of maps and architectural drawings, and depositing them on another desk by the far window, Gary waved to a few chairs.

McKenzie took his jacket off and placed it on the back of one of them.

"How safe is the site? Once the armed response team have given the all clear, can my officers walk around it without fear of anything falling on their heads or any explosives going off? I'm assuming the area's still wired to blow?"

"It's a demolition site. The explosives have been deactivated, but there's a risk from the buildings. I can't say it's safe, categorically. But given you must access the area, I'd suggest your men be escorted by one of mine at all times. And wear protective hats."

"Agreed. There's a real possibility that whoever did this could still be on site, hiding somewhere. Until the armed response team hand the building over to us, we need men on the ground outside covering everything and everywhere. And if someone is still inside, we need to make sure he doesn't escape. If he has gone, we need to find out where and how. You mentioned cameras?"

Garry nodded. "The CCTV covers most of the campus."

"Good. We'll need full access to whatever you have."

McKenzie crossed to the window of the portacabin, from where he had a partial view of the demolition site and the side of the old school building, the bulk of which towered above them.

He took a deep breath.

The scale of the immediate task was just beginning to dawn on him.

There was a lot to do and time was passing quickly.

If there was anyone still hiding in the demolition site, they had to find them soon.

He turned back to face the room.

"I need maps. We need to know the area we're going to be searching."

Gary nodded. "I can supply those."

"Thanks. And Murray, we'll need those officers and dogs. Get them here soon. Mr Bruce, we'll need those helmets. Can you make sure we have enough?"

Turning to his DI, Elaine Brown, he started verbalising a list of immediate actions that needed done. After a couple of minutes, he finished the list. "... and we need a whiteboard, and some coffees! And find out where on earth Forensics are. The sooner we have an ID the better."

For a moment, no one spoke.

"It's going to be a long night, guys. Let's get going."

McKenzie smiled at everyone and they got the hint. Meeting over, time to go. A moment later McKenzie was left alone with his thoughts, and the growing realisation that as soon as Forensics arrived and the site was declared safe and handed over to them, like it or not, he'd have no choice but to go and take a closer look at the victim.

Or whatever was left of him.

\-------------------------

Portacabin No.3

Temporary Incident Room

Operation BlueBuilding

Edinburgh

22.00

McKenzie stood up at the front of the small portacabin and looked around the room at the twenty officers assembled before him. The room was cramped, with a couple of tables pushed against the wall, a window on each side of the room, and a whiteboard and flipchart behind him. Two rows of five chairs were squashed in just in front of him, with everyone else standing around the walls. The room smelt of pine.

"Thanks for coming, especially to those of you who came in at such short notice. For those of you who don't know me, I'm DCI Campbell McKenzie from St Leonards, and this is DI Elaine Brown," McKenzie nodded to his DI who stood at the side of the room. She smiled back. Medium height. Long black hair. A smart dress-suit. Slim build. A small, pronounced mole on her left cheek which blemished otherwise perfect skin.

McKenzie continued. "We've got a mixture of teams here tonight, from both Portobello and St Leonards, and for the near future, it's been agreed that it'll stay that way. I run an informal investigation team. And I one hundred percent believe in the contribution that each and every one of us can make. So, if you have any ideas, any thoughts, please speak up. No prizes for keeping quiet."

McKenzie paused, and looked around the room. He had their full attention. No one had any questions yet. McKenzie knew that would change soon once the team got underway.

"Now, I'd like to welcome our armed colleagues from Fettes Row who're still on the campus going through the process of sweeping the buildings for threats. Until they hand the area over to us, no one else has access to the site. We have to assume that whoever's responsible for forcing the victim to the top of the school building is still within the campus, and could be armed. I don't want any heroes, so no one takes any risks. We do this by the book. Do you understand?"

A round of nods.

"Until the area's declared safe, we get on with whatever we can. So, first things first, the Forensics team have just informed me that there must've been at least two people involved in today's incident. As most of you know, a man fell from the top of the building at 15.59 today. He died instantly upon hitting the ground, and to spare you the details, what's left of his body is a mess."

McKenzie glanced around the room. Everyone looked grim.

"First of all, the man was blindfolded. Forensics have also confirmed that both hands were tied behind his back using plastic ties, so unless he was a contortionist someone else has to be involved. There are lacerations on his ankles which indicate that at some point he was forcibly restrained. In other words, it seems the man may have been forced to the top of the building against his will. For now, we have to assume this'll shortly be declared a murder, and we'll proceed on that basis."

He paused. Most of the officers were taking notes. Some were slightly white faced, and McKenzie knew that two of them had seen the body and been sick. Even for experienced officers, this was something horrific.

"The one piece of good news is that we now have a name. Forensics were able to retrieve a wallet from the victim's pocket. Due to the facial trauma we can't make a visual ID, but early indications are that the victim is a David Weir. According to his online records and LinkedIn, he's a teacher. He's got a degree from Murray House, and he's been teaching for most of his career at this school."

A murmur went around the room.

"Until dental records confirm his identity, no one takes that name outside this room. We should have those shortly. At this point I'd like to make you aware of Gary Bruce, who runs Bruce Demolition. For the next few days we'll probably be running the investigation from this portacabin. You also need to remember that this is a demolition site. It's dangerous. The main buildings are in a precarious condition. If you don't pay attention, and you go somewhere you shouldn't, bad things can happen. Not only from the loose fittings and falling plaster, but also from the rubbish and drug paraphernalia which is lying all over the floor. The building has been lying empty awaiting demolition for almost two years, and in the meantime, it's been used by homeless people and drug addicts. When you enter the lower floors, the stench is quite overpowering, I'm told. Make sure you're kitted out safely. Hard hats, thick shoes and gloves at all times please. Masks are discretionary. When the armed response team eventually gives us access, no one will go anywhere without consulting with a Bruce Demolition expert first, got it?"

More nods.

"Any questions, so far?"

"What about the explosives? Have they been removed?" One of the officers at the back of the room asked. McKenzie didn't recognise him.

"Not yet. But I'm assured they're all safe and stable. Just don't go touching any if you see them."

A few people laughed.

"Anybody else?"

There were no takers.

"Okay. Now let's move on to what we've done so far about searching the campus... Before the armed response team arrived to search and secure the area, an initial search of the campus conducted by officers already on site confirmed that all the buildings were still locked up but did discover a broken window at the bottom of the far stairwell...Marked here on this diagram as Staircase C."

McKenzie turned to a map which he'd blue-tacked to the whiteboard and pointed to the far end of the long narrow building. McKenzie then briefly outlined the layout of the main tall building.

"Let's take a moment to make ourselves familiar with the campus. There are eight floors in the main building, with a total of four lifts and three stairwells. I've given each of them a letter. The main building is long and quite narrow. At each end of the building there is a staircase which goes up all the floors, and a lift. Needless to say, none of the lifts are working. The lifts at either end only go up as far as the seventh floor. You would have to walk up one floor to the eighth."

McKenzie now pointed on the diagram to the middle of the tall blue building.

"There are two lifts at the centre of the building which only go up as far as the fourth floor. Likewise, the staircase here also stops at the fourth. I've marked the staircase in the middle as Stairwell B. And the one nearest us at this end of the building closest to the portacabin and the main road is Stairwell A."

McKenzie now pointed to a long spur which came off the main building at right-angles near Stairwell A.

"This part of the building only has two levels, and is serviced by stairs in Stairwell A, and by another set marked Stairwell D, at the far end of this part of the building."

He brushed his hands over the rest of the diagram. "As you can see, there are a lot of other buildings on the campus, all single level buildings. I've no idea what they were all for, but I understand that at one point there were two thousand pupils in the school. My wife being one of them!"

"Me too!"

"And me!"

Several other voices chipped in.

"It was a great school! I loved it. It's weird being back like this," one of the uniforms from Portobello added.

"Good. We might be calling upon your experience at some point. Okay, turning back to the window at the bottom of Stairwell C. I've since been back to visit it again with Sergeant Anderson, and having examined the scatter of broken glass on the ground, most of which is on the outside of the building, we know that whoever broke the window smashed it from the inside, possibly in an attempt to escape. But we can't find anyone on CCTV crossing the playground, and no one was seen leaving the exits of the campus. There are however, a few blind spots on the CCTV, particularly where power to some cameras was turned off in the moments before the demolition was due."

McKenzie took a sip of water.

"I'm going to ask Sergeant Galbraith from the Armed Response Team to say a few words."

McKenzie waved at the Sergeant, who then stepped up to the front beside him.

"Thanks, Guv." Galbraith nodded to McKenzie, then turned to the room. "When we first entered the building, we had to retire to get hard shoes, and in some places, I insisted that officers had to sweep the floor with brooms before progressing forward, just to make sure they weren't stepping on needles. In fact, the stench is so bad at the bottom of each stairwell, and for the first two floors going upwards, that the dogs couldn't pick up any tracks. They were only able to pick up a single distinctive scent once we made it to the eighth floor, whereupon they followed it into a supply cupboard where the trapdoor to the roof is located. We didn't venture out onto the roof, as at this point, we don't have the appropriate safety gear. We've not finished the search yet, but so far, it's all clear. However, our search has been limited to the tower block, and as of yet, we haven't searched any of the two-storey spur," Galbraith pointed at the section of building that ran at right angles from the tower block. "We've also not yet started searching any of the single-level buildings...or the outbuildings dotted around the edges. These sections of the school are therefore not yet secure."

McKenzie patted Galbraith on the shoulder.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

Galbraith promptly returned to his seat.

McKenzie continued after a brief pause. "' _So, what next_?', I can hear you ask. Any suggestions?"

One of the female officers in the second row put up her hand then spoke when McKenzie nodded at her. "The rest of the building areas obviously need to be surveyed as soon as possible. Since it's getting dark now, why not survey the campus with thermal-imaging cameras? Or above from a helicopter?"

Galbraith stood up and turned towards the officer who'd just spoken. "That's exactly what we're going to be doing next, hopefully with the help of a helicopter which should be arriving in about..." he glanced at his watch "...ten minutes. However, at this stage we aren't going to re-enter the building. The electricity is off, and we only have a limited number of torches and safety equipment. More is coming, but I don't think it'll arrive until tomorrow morning. As soon as this meeting finishes, we're going to split up into teams, and scan the building from the outside using thermal-imaging equipment."

Galbraith looked across at McKenzie.

"Actually, I'm done for now." McKenzie replied. "I think we should get right on to it. Does anyone else want to add anything? If not, please feel free to talk to me at any time. We mustn't wait until meetings to share ideas."

No one else wanted to add anything.

"Good, I'll just say thanks for now. Our next scheduled meeting will be at nine tomorrow morning. I'll see you all then. For now though, if you'll give us a few moments, DI Brown and myself will divide you all into teams and issue instructions, and then we'll divvy up what safety equipment we have. Please remain in the room until you hear your name called."

The next fifteen minutes was spent organising everyone into teams, and handing out instructions and equipment. When everyone was set, they filed out of the temporary incident room, and made their way down to their start positions. If any heat traces were discovered, McKenzie was to be alerted immediately. An armed search party would then enter the building, surround it, and capture any target.

After they'd left the room, McKenzie followed them out, and blue-tacked a piece of paper to the outside of the door. The words ' _Operation Blue-Building_ ' were scrawled on it in big black letters. No doubt their computer system back at St Leonards would allocate them an 'official' Operation's name in the coming days, but for now, this one seemed the most appropriate.

Turning around he looked back up at the tall tower block.

McKenzie was petrified of heights, but he knew that at some point he should go up there and take a look for himself.

Even the thought of it had his pulse racing.

Just then he heard a buzz on his radio and he raced into the room to retrieve it from his jacket.

"Boss, they've just started the thermal imaging, but they've already got two traces. You'll need to get down here quick... you need to see these for yourself!"
Chapter 4

Portobello High School

Edinburgh

23.15

McKenzie stood beside Gary Bruce, DI Brown and a PC Lynch who was operating a thermal imaging monitor. They were staring at the monitor's screen, linked to the hand-held thermal-imaging camera which had been hoisted up on the end of a long pole carried aloft by two PCs.

The six of them were standing just inside the perimeter fence beside the long two-floor extension that jutted out at right angles to the tower block. The camera was facing into the building at the level of the second floor. They were two classrooms along from the tower block.

PC Lynch, a uniformed officer in his thirties, explained what they were looking at. "According to the plans Mr Bruce gave us, this is the RE - sorry, Religious Education \- area. We've picked up two images, one stationary and one moving. The first one looks like it could be a person crawling along the floor, keeping low. It's this one here... look..." Lynch pointed to the image. "It's quite large, but to be honest, I don't think it's big enough for an adult."

McKenzie stared at the image, the body temperature showing bright white against the black backdrop of the cold building. Whatever it was seemed to be lying on the floor.

"Can't see much detail. Could be an adult curled up, facing away." McKenzie suggested. "We need to get in there and take a look."

"The lack of detail's because of the thick walls. Unfortunately, we can't reach high enough to see through the windows," Lynch explained.

"The other image?"

"It's in the same classroom. We'll be seeing it side on, against one of the walls at right angles to this front wall. The thermal footprint is much fainter, but we can still make it out."

Lynch called to the PCs carrying the cameras, and they walked a few metres further away.

McKenzie squinted at the image which appeared.

Brown was first to comment. "Looks like a person, upside down. Those look like feet, and that looks like a head..."

"I agree. But the image doesn't make any sense."

"That's why I said you had to see this for yourself, Guv." Lynch agreed.

McKenzie looked up, glancing to his left. "And what about these classrooms? Anything showing up there?"

"We've very quickly scanned along both floors, and nothing else comes up. These are the only heat signatures we found. Another team's scanning the classrooms on the other side of this block, but so far they've found nothing either. They've moved on to the music rooms now."

McKenzie thought for a moment.

He called Galbraith.

"Our team's found two thermal images. I know you haven't given us the all clear yet, but we have to go in now and see what these images are. If you agree, I'd suggest three teams, four men on each team, each team comprising two armed officers, one of my team, and one of Bruce's staff. I'd suggest that at all times Bruce's men are in charge of our safety from a structural perspective. If they say it's too unsafe to proceed, we stop. We also maintain radio silence at all times. Everyone wears a night vision headset, and no torches are allowed. Your armed boys go first, and the rest follow."

There was a pause while Galbraith thought about it.

"Bruce's team are civilians. Normally they wouldn't be allowed in, but this is a weird setup. We're potentially in danger unless they escort us, and they're in danger unless we escort them. Okay. But my men are in charge. What they say goes."

"Agreed." McKenzie smiled.

It was the result he needed.

\-------------------------

Portobello High School

Staircase A

Edinburgh

Saturday

00.15

Led by the armed police-officers and the demolition expert, McKenzie followed the two teams up staircase A. There wasn't much moonlight tonight, and there were a lot of clouds. Outside it was dark. Inside it was almost pitch black. In this environment, the night vision goggles they were all wearing were invaluable. With them, they could almost see clearly. Assuming anyone hiding in the classrooms would not be similarly equipped, they would be at a severe disadvantage to the approaching police team. However, thanks to the internet where it was possible to buy almost anything, that assumption could easily prove to be false.

Anderson hadn't been joking when he'd said that the place stunk to high heaven, or that the risk from stepping on used needles was severe. The stench of stale urine and excrement, probably human, caught in the back of McKenzie's throat and almost made him gag. Through his night-vision goggles, the needles on the floor glistened occasionally in the torch beams. It was unlikely that they would penetrate the heavy shoes they were all now wearing, but it wasn't a risk they could take.

The simple broom which McKenzie carried quickly proved to be worth its weight in gold, and where necessary he forcibly widened the existing path through the rubbish and drug debris which had already been made earlier that evening.

When they got to the first floor, Galbraith waved one of the teams along the extension from the tower block, then carried on up to the second floor. Several times Galbraith indicated for everyone to pause, and they stood still, listening to the sound of the building creaking and settling. There were no other sounds, and the team carried on.

They soon came to the junction on the second floor where the corridor ran between the classrooms in the main tower block and the other corridor branched off into the extension.

With a wave of his arm indicating to move on, Galbraith set off down the corridor into the extension. McKenzie and his team followed.

At the first classroom, they paused at the door and discovered it was closed. Not wanting to try the door lest it made a noise and gave away their presence, they moved past it to the RE classroom where the thermal images had been seen from outside the building.

They took up positions on either side of the door, which was half-open, and then paused again. Listening.

Apart from sounds of the building settling, there was silence.

Galbraith gave an 'OK' signal to the other men in the team, and when they all replied in kind, he pointed into the classroom.

The next few moments passed very quickly.

First, Galbraith gently pushed the door fully open.

The armed police-officers rushed into the room, their weapons raised and searching, fingers poised on their triggers. Galbraith took a stance in the middle of the room. The others followed behind, going down into kneeling positions at the sides of the room and poised for a response from the two images they were investigating.

Almost immediately the form lying on the floor sprung up and rushed straight at them.

Seeing it just in time, Galbraith relaxed his finger on the trigger and swept the barrel of his rifle away from his body, aiming to hit the oncoming shape in the head, but missing it by centimetres.

The fox swept past them through their legs and disappeared into the darkness.

The team's attention turned to the far wall.

It was immediately obvious there was no further threat to the team.

Stepping closer to the far wall, the team removed their night vision goggles, switched on their torches and stared at the naked body of the man in front of them.

Upside down.

Gagged and blindfolded.

Wrist and ankles nailed to a wooden cross in the shape of an 'X' attached to the middle of the wall.

As McKenzie took in the sight that befell him, he experienced a strange mixture of emotions.

Shock.

Confusion.

Disgust.

Revulsion.

And curiosity.

How had this been done?

Who had done it?

And how had someone done it without being spotted?

McKenzie walked forward and checked for a pulse on the victim's neck, already knowing the answer.

The man was dead. The body was cold, but still warmer than its surroundings. If they had found him several hours earlier, perhaps he would still be alive.

As it was, however, he had died a gruesome and slow death, either bleeding out as the blood slowly drained out of the violent wounds in his limbs, or asphyxiating on his own vomit and bodily floods.

McKenzie swore loudly.

He pulled out his phone and texted the rest of the search party groups:

_'High alert! Just discovered another body. Assume killer may still be in the building!_ '

For a moment McKenzie stood quietly, deciding what to do next.

His immediate urge was to take the cross off the wall and lay it and the man's body on the floor in an attempt to give the dead man some respect. But the correct thing to do was to leave both alone, cordon off the area and let the forensic team get the body to speak to them in ways that the man himself no longer could.

From experience McKenzie knew that the expression ' _Dead men tell no tales_ ' was completely wrong. On the contrary, in the hands of the right forensics' expert, dead men often gave up their secrets, chapter and verse.

McKenzie was also confident that Police Scotland had some of the best forensic experts in the world.

Backing away from the wall, he put his night vision goggles on and gestured for the others to do the same and follow him.

Whoever did this was probably still at large in the building, and McKenzie was going to find the bastard.

Stepping in front of the armed officers he headed back into the corridor.

"Sorry, Guv, I still have to go first..." Galbraith insisted.

Galbraith, McKenzie and his officers moved into the corridor, Galbraith indicating that they would move back to the start of the corridor and check each classroom in turn.

McKenzie cleared his mind and tried to think. Whoever was behind both of the murders should not be underestimated. These were unlike the typical killings he normally encountered.

The person - or persons - who had committed them, had done so knowing full well that the site was being watched by the public, guarded and under observation of the police.

In spite of CCTV, the perimeter fencing, guard dogs and regular patrols, someone had managed to get two victims onto the campus - along with a full size cross - and commit two gruesome murders, without being seen or heard.

McKenzie had two questions:

How?

And why?

He was a long way from knowing the answers but was certain about one thing: he was going to find out.
Chapter 5

Portobello High School

Edinburgh

'Operation Blue-Building'

Incident Room

Saturday

03.00

McKenzie waited patiently for the last of the remaining DS's and uniformed officers to file into the room. The mood was sombre, and everyone was exhausted.

"I'll get straight to the point. The body of a second person was found a few hours ago. A man. The body was found, for want of a better description, crucified to a cross, upside down. Credit cards found on the body and a LinkedIn search indicate that he's Ronald Blake, a Religious Education teacher who, like David Weir, taught at Portobello High School for most of his career. We're still to contact the next of kin, and get a formal identification, but I'm confident he is who we believe him to be. It's worth noting that Mr Blake's body was found in a classroom which used to be given over to the Religious Education Department. When we couple that with another fresh piece of news, namely that we now know that Mr Weir was a geography teacher, and the top floor of the old school was given over to the geography department, I think we can see that these deaths are linked. Two deaths. Two teachers. Both killed in or near to the departments where they taught."

McKenzie wandered across the front of the portacabin, letting the news settle in properly. The assembled team began to talk amongst themselves. McKenzie gave them a few moments then continued.

"Now, since discovering the second victim, the armed response team has completed their inspection of all the rooms in the building. There are a lot, spread out across the campus and up there," McKenzie gestured at the hulk of the building outside the portacabin behind him, "and there's the distinct possibility a cupboard or a toilet has been missed somewhere, but Galbraith has informed me that the building has been searched to the best of their ability, and no threats and no other victims have been found. With their search now complete, the armed response team is handing the site over to us. I'm formally in charge of the investigation from now on. Before continuing, I'd just like to thank Galbraith and his team."

McKenzie nodded at the Sergeant and smiled.

"Anyway, given the late hour, I'm going to dismiss you all and send you home to your beds. I've spoken with DCS Helen Wilkinson and she's allocated extra resource to this investigation. Consequently, reporting to me, Detective Inspector Euan Mather will be arriving in the next twenty minutes with a fresh team to take over during the rest of the evening, and we'll all reconvene later today at eleven. I know some of you will have other plans, but if you can, cancel them. I need you here."

McKenzie turned to Brown, who he caught in the act of yawning with her hand over her mouth, "DI Brown, do you have anything to add?"

"A couple of matters, sir. The first is something I want to establish as soon as possible: when was the second victim actually crucified? How long has he been in the building? And how the hell did someone get a full-grown man and a huge wooden cross into the building without being spotted? I'll brief DI Mather as soon as he arrives and hand over to his team, but one of the questions raised earlier was just how much planning was involved in this. I'm of the opinion that these murders were timed and planned for maximum visibility and attention. Whoever's behind this is not only clever, but also bold. And my fear is that although we've already got two victims, we can't be sure that's where it stops. Lastly, walking around the inside of the building with all the rubbish and used needles I couldn't help wondering how so many people have already had access to the site when we can't find a way in. Does that tell us something?"

McKenzie nodded. "Good questions. And there's going to be a lot more. On the latter, I've already discussed that with Bruce. Apparently, what you see inside the building is mainly there from before. Bruce demolition put up their new fencing only three weeks ago. Before that, the old fencing had several gaps where people broke through and could get in. Which is why the perimeter was redone and reinforced."

Brown nodded, and a few people whispered something to their nearest neighbours. Obviously, Brown wasn't the only person to have had that question.

"Good. Enough for tonight. I want you all to go home, sleep, and come back with your own thoughts later today. In the meantime, I don't want anyone else going back into any of the buildings on the campus, and the replacement shift of officers will be redoubling all efforts to make sure the perimeters are secure and no one can enter or leave the site without permission."

McKenzie scanned the room full of tired faces and finished the first day of Operation Blue-Building by clapping his hands along with the words, "Dismissed."

Thirty minutes later McKenzie and Brown left the portacabin, having fully briefed DI Mather, and given him a long list of actions to get underway.

After Brown had driven off alone in her car, McKenzie waited for a taxi to arrive. Standing on the side of the road, he looked up at the dark building towering above him, and felt a cold shiver run up and down his spine.

He had only just been allowed to return to active duty, but already he was wondering if he should have taken the offer of another month's paid leave instead.

Recalling what he'd seen this evening, he knew this was a case he was never going to forget.

One thing was for certain.

Whoever was behind this was one sick, depraved bastard.

And he needed to be caught.

Before he killed again.

\-------------------------

On the side of the street

Further along the road from Portobello High School

03.45

Sitting in the back of the white van parked several hundred metres down the road, the man put down his cup of thermos flask coffee and raised his pair of military night vision binoculars to his eyes.

"Patience is a virtue", one of his fathers, the last one, used to say. Mostly just before another beating was dished out. Looking back now it certainly gave a new meaning to the phrase, 'I'll beat some sense into you'.

Slowly, over the years, yes, he'd learned many a useful idiom, but he'd never really appreciated the why, how, or what for. He just remembered the bruises. And the hate. And the look in his father's eyes.

Nowadays however, some of it was beginning to make sense.

Like now.

His patience had paid off.

The policeman getting into the taxi was DCI Campbell McKenzie. The man in the van had been listening to the police chatter over the hacked police radio he'd bought from a guy in Leith, and he'd picked up that McKenzie would take a taxi as soon as another detective, Mather, arrived.

Focussing his binoculars on McKenzie through the one-way glass windows, the man had watched as McKenzie waited beside the road for his cab. He'd watched him staring up at the hulking edifice of the old school before finally stooping forward and climbing into the back seat of a private hire.

This wasn't the first time he'd seen McKenzie.

The man already knew a lot about him.

McKenzie looked like his old photograph. He hadn't changed much. He had a colourful track record. He'd recently been cleared of any wrong doing in connection with the death of his previous partner, DI Danielle Wessex, and had only just returned to duty after several months off.

But now he was back.

Just in time.

It couldn't have worked out better.

McKenzie's appointment to lead the investigation had been nothing more than a coincidence, but the man in the van still couldn't quite believe his luck. He couldn't have chosen a better or more appropriate person himself!

The man in the van had listened to all McKenzie's Airwave conversations earlier today. Writing down anything of interest. Updating his profile of the man who would now be responsible for tracking him down.

After McKenzie's taxi drove off, heading towards Duddingston, the man in the van tuned back to the police airways and spent the next thirty minutes listening to random conversations, before finally settling on a conversation between DI Mather and Fettes Road.

Now he had Mather's frequency, he would easily be able to follow his conversations too.

Which would be essential in the coming days.

Staying one step ahead of McKenzie and Mather, and anyone else who was to subsequently lead the investigation or direct actions around the school, would be key.

Today had gone brilliantly.

No one had a clue how he'd done it.

Or what he'd actually done.

So far, he was Scot free.

Which was the way he would have to remain if he was going to complete the rest of his plan.

Today had been exciting.

Two deaths.

Two rights wronged.

But there was a lot more work to do.

This was only the beginning.

\-------------------------

The Grange

Edinburgh

04.15

"What are you still doing up?" McKenzie reprimanded his wife as he walked into their kitchen and saw her sitting at the island, eating ice-cream from a carton.

"Cravings. Driving me insane. I woke up. Couldn't get back to sleep."

"Fiona, you need to rest. You've only got another two months before Little Bump comes, and once it arrives, you'll never get any rest again!" He laughed, grabbing a spoon from a drawer and sitting down beside her.

"Get your own, this is mine." She laughed back, pushing him playfully away as he went to dip his spoon into her carton.

"Any more in the fridge?"

"Nope. Sorry... that's why I'm being so possessive."

"You're going to eat the whole tub?"

"Don't just blame me. Little Bump is hungry."

McKenzie knelt down and kissed Little Bump through Fiona's pyjama top.

"Naught boy."

"Girl..."

"Boy..." McKenzie insisted, standing up and crossing over to the American-style fridge-freezer.

"There's some cold lasagne in the oven."

"Thanks."

"So, can you talk about it?" she asked, not forcefully, but interested.

"Two deaths. Murders. Very gruesome. Looks like the same person did it. That's all I can say."

A few minutes later McKenzie was standing in front of the microwave waiting for the lasagne to heat up, when he heard his Airwave ringing.

He retrieved it from his jacket in the hallway and called DI Mather back.

"You've seen it then?" Mather asked.

"What?"

"Ah,...so you haven't. Someone posted a video on Facebook of the man falling to his death from the roof of the school. It's gone viral..."

McKenzie swore loudly. "Text me the link. I'll call you back."

McKenzie hung up, waited for the link and then watched the video several times. Now angry, he returned Mather's call.

"I can't believe it! Who'd post something like that? I thought we'd got a news blackout on this?"

"This is Social Media, not the news. And there's more than one. I've seen three. Obviously filmed from different phones in the crowd on the street. It doesn't surprise me in the slightest, Guv, it's what people do nowadays. They'll probably be on YouTube soon as well."

"I want you to get them pulled. Wherever they appear. As soon as possible."

"You mean call Facebook?"

"Whatever it takes, just get them pulled by the time I get back to the school later this morning."

"I'll leave that to the Media team in Fettes Row. I'll chase them. But don't forget it's almost four-thirty in the morning. And it's Saturday."

"Do what you can."

"Guv, do you know about tonight?"

"What about tonight?"

"I just heard from one of the officers here who's going... if it's still on."

"If what's still on?"

"The Portobello High School Reunion Ball."

"The _what_?"

"The School Reunion. Apparently it's the first time all the pupils who left between 1990 and 2000 will be getting back together again."

McKenzie looked up and glanced at his wife.

He ended the call with Mather and then walked over to Fiona.

"Did you know about the reunion ball at your old school?" he asked.

She stared back at him, licking the last remnants of the ice-cream from her spoon.

"Campbell, exactly what planet are you on? I've told you about it a thousand times. Hence the new red dress I just bought. And why your kilt went to the dry cleaners."

It rang a vague bell. McKenzie swore again under his breath, as he returned his gaze to the video on his mobile.

Hitting play again, he watched for the fifth time as the man fell off the edge of the Portobello High School.

McKenzie shook his head.

Things were going from bad to worse.

A school reunion was the last thing they needed just now.

And he could think of at least two people who wouldn't be going.
Chapter 6

Cramond

Edinburgh

Saturday

09.30

Stuart Nisbet parked his Ducati in his garage, hung his helmet on the hook on the wall, and then pressed the button on his key fob to close the garage door.

After watching the large metal door slide back into place, he left the garage by pressing his fingerprint against a sensor on the wall, waiting a few seconds for the door to slide sideways, and then stepping through into the opulent house beyond.

Placing his finger on a panel on the inside wall, he then waited for the door to slide shut behind him, effectively sealing off the garage and its contents - the Ducati and two luxury cars - from the main house.

As he walked through his spacious hallway, he called out to his electronic assistant and told her to run his bath and pour his coffee.

"And Sabrina, tell me the latest stock prices for New Zealand Hydro and GlaxoSmithKlein."

As he picked up his coffee from his expansive kitchen-diner with its floor-to-ceiling, sweeping glass-filled panoramic view of the River Forth, he mulled over the recent stock prices Sabrina recited to him, and made some quick, calculated decisions.

The markets were closed now, but if he sold the stock electronically as soon as the markets opened again on Monday, he'd make another killing.

After instructing Sabrina to call his broker, a human's voice filled the air.

"Mr Nisbet, It's Duncan. How can I help you, sir?"

"As soon as the markets open on Monday, sell forty percent of the stock in GlaxoSmithKlein, and all of the stock in New Zealand Hydro, so long as they don't drop more than ten percent upon opening. Confirm the sales once done."

"Yes, Mr Nisbet. Understood."

As he picked up the paper from the table in the hallway and took the stairs two at a time up the circular staircase to the third floor, Nisbet did the mental maths. Even if they dropped the full ten percent, he'd still make a cool four hundred thousand dollars.

Stripping quickly out of his leathers, he lowered himself into his marble bath in the floor of his penthouse bedroom, took another sip from his coffee, and thought about the day and night ahead.

There was so much to do.

He'd been looking forward to the school Reunion for over twenty years. Twenty years of planning how he'd rub the noses in it of all those who'd treated him like shit while he was at school; all those who hadn't believed he would ever succeed or make anything of his life. Well, he'd have the last laugh. Not them.

Stuart Nisbet was perhaps the richest Scotsman of his age, one of only a handful of billionaires in the country.

He mixed with celebrities, dined with Royals, and raced his horses at Ascot every year.

Not bad for a little boy who grew up in Portobello and left school with only a few elementary qualifications to his name.

After a stint in the Army he'd realised in an incredible moment of epiphany in Afghanistan that it was mostly the uneducated that made up the cannon fodder of warfare. And life. If he wanted to survive, and to make anything of himself, he had to get smarter. Incredibly he'd survived Afghanistan, and as soon as he returned home and left the service, he'd enrolled himself in college, spent years studying, got into University and then graduated with a degree in Economics.

His determination to turn his life around was impressive, and his drive to succeed was inspiring.

He'd easily passed the interviews he'd chased with the financial houses in Edinburgh, and after rapid progression upwards through the ranks, within years he was heading up and managing his own funds.

Several years later he'd left the rat race - being employed by others who pocketed most of his profits was no longer for him. Confident he could do just as well, if not better, by himself, he'd founded his own investment business, establishing and running several incredibly successful funds that invested in high-tech stocks, energy and pharmaceuticals.

He'd taken some gambles - albeit calculated gambles - and made several small fortunes.

Which he'd then turned into bigger fortunes.

And which in turn, had then been transformed into a vast fortune.

His success knew no bounds.

Stuart Nisbet had the Midas touch.

He now lived in one of the most beautiful and richest areas of the UK. His house was amazing, with sweeping views across the River Forth that were unparalleled anywhere. He drove fast cars, dated fast women, did whatever he wanted.

He lacked only two things.

True friends.

And _real_ love.

Of which money could buy neither, no matter how much he had.

Nevertheless, Stuart was looking forward to tonight.

Not only would he get the chance to awe those who had dismissed him as trash all those years ago, but we would get a chance to see the few friends he did once have.

And then there was also Maggie Sutherland.

Even thinking of her now made his heart flutter.

He'd had many women since he'd first fallen in love with Maggie. Some famous, some beautiful - and sometimes more than one at the same time - but he knew that one day when he was dying and his life flashed before his eyes, it would be Maggie Sutherland and her blue, blue eyes that he would think of during his last few seconds.

She'd had the softest lips.

The sweetest smile.

And the cutest dimple in the world.

The reality of it all, however, was that at the time Stuart had only been a pathetic little second-year. Not a man like the others in Sixth Form, or even some of the teachers.

He hadn't blamed Maggie - he understood her reactions, he _knew_ her only too well, and anyway, the chase had and would make the catch so much more worthwhile - but still it had hurt, a lot, when she had so publicly thrown his Valentine's Card into the bucket in front of all her laughing friends.

Later, he'd heard that one of the teachers had given her a Valentine's card. And two of the Sixth Formers.

Bastards all of them.

The opportunity had been a long time coming, but tonight there would be scores to settle. Not one, but several.

Looking back, Stuart had few regrets. He'd faced life the best way he could: accepting his lot in life, he'd taken charge of his own destiny, and forged a new future for himself.

So yes, Stuart had _few_ regrets.

But tonight, he'd make up for the ones he did.

Stuart had a plan.

\-------------------------

Duddingston Road

Edinburgh

10.00

Irene Quinn had been dreading this day. For months. Ever since some stupid person had decided to plan the bloody thing and her husband had found out about it. No one had ever considered planning a Reunion before, so why now all of a sudden?

Irene had enjoyed school. She'd done well, had good friends, passed all her exams, and even made it to university.

Now she had two children, and unlike some of her friends, she still even had the same husband.

Barry Quinn and Irene had been married for almost twenty years now. Twenty years ago, Barry had been a catch. He'd played rugby in the First Fifteen in the year above hers, and when they were married, she had been proud.

Over the years, she had got less proud, \- as Irene knew Barry had of her - and together they had both descended into a life of mediocrity. They lived in a mediocre house. Did mediocre jobs. Lived mediocre lives.

Yet, in spite of all the mediocrity, their lives were not too bad. In fact, truth be told, they were probably both happy with their lot.

Barry and Irene knew their place in society, and until Barry had come home that day full of the news about the school Reunion, they had been content with what they'd had and the lives they lived.

Lives which were not great. Not bad. But ok.

Since that day however, it had been a very different story.

"Do you think Peter Black will be there?" Barry has asked Irene within an hour of starting to think about the Reunion. "He was a right bastard! Always putting me down and showing off and always going on about all the great things he was going to do when he left school. And what about Andrew Jessop? He was going to be a doctor... or was it a surgeon? And Cammie? He wanted to open up a string of garages and make millions. They all had such big plans. And what have I got? What did I end up doing?"

"You married me. We had two wonderful children. We're happy. Never mind about the others. You can't go about comparing yourself with everyone else..." Irene had started to defend her life, even though Barry had a fair point. What had they done with their lives? Apart from stagnate.

"What about Fiona? I wonder..."

"Fiona who?"

"Lewis. Fiona Lewis. She was beautiful."

"Was she the one that you snogged at the Christmas disco, before you and I got together?"

"Aye, but nothing else happened."

"But you still fancy her..."

"How can I? I don't even know what she looks like now. Anyway, what about you and that guy, Paul Bentford? That English guy, whose mum and dad owned that hotel in Joppa?"

Irene started to blush.

"What about him?"

"I bet you sometimes wish you'd married him instead of me? He was taller than me, his parents were loaded and you got off with him once, didn't you?"

"I went out with him for a whole term, until he dumped me."

"But you still fancy him? You're not going to tell me you've never thought about him?"

Barry was pacing round their front room, playing with his car keys in his hands.

"I'm not going," he finally announced, plonking himself down on the sofa and reaching for the TV remote.

"Good. It'll save a baby-sitter. I'm going." Irene sat down on the chair beside him. "It'll be a laugh, and it'll be good to see everyone else."

Barry glared at her.

"So, if Paul's there, are you going to dance with him?"

Irene blushed again.

"Not if his wife is there with him. And not if you go with me." Irene fiddled with the strings on her apron and then rested her hands on her stomach. "Anyway, why won't you go?"

"Because it'll be embarrassing. I haven't kept up with anyone else. Everyone will have forgotten me. And I know that everyone else will have done so much more with their lives. They'll be living all over the world, doing big jobs, having tons of fun. I was no big shakes at school, and when everyone finds out what I've done since school, it'll just confirm what everyone said at Porty."

"But people didn't really talk about you, Barry."

"Exactly. I was a nobody then, and they'll just laugh at me when they find out I'm still a nobody now."

"Thanks. So, I'm a ' _nobody'_ too then?"

"You know what I mean..."

"I just hope Paul's there, then. He was never a nobody. And he was sure to God never going to be a nobody either." Irene replied, getting angry now, and deliberately winding her husband up.

"You're not dancing with him!" Barry's face started to turn red.

"I'll dance with whoever I want Barry. Especially if you're not there, you coward!"

"If you dance with Paul, then I'm going to dance with Fiona Lewis."

Irene laughed, stood up and walked out of the room.

When she got to the downstairs bathroom, she closed the door, and stood in front of the mirror.

The reflection staring back at her had changed a lot in the past twenty years.

She'd be lucky if Paul even recognised her, let alone wanted to dance with her.

And Fiona Lewis?

She thought of Barry and her, and the disco all those years ago when she'd seen Barry trying to get a hand up her top while they danced slowly to Dire Straits and 'Sultans of Swing.'

For a moment she closed her eyes and fought back the tears, then when she'd recovered enough she escaped to her kitchen, found her phone, and called her hairdresser.

"Sorry, Irene. We're booked that whole week."

"Why?"

"It's the Porty Reunion. Haven't you heard about it?"

Irene lied, hung up and went to get the old yellow pages. She needed to book an appointment with whoever she could get.

There's no way she was going to go the Reunion looking like she did.

After she'd booked something with someone in Leith, she'd searched for and found her old gym membership card.

At the time, she'd had three months until the Reunion.

Three months to get fit, lose weight and tone up.

Whatever it took. Paul was going to notice her. And bloody dance with her.

Maybe it was about time she shook Barry up and made him jealous for once!

\-------------------------

Duddingston Road

Edinburgh

10.30

Iain Small stood in front of his mirror, his hand playing with the mound of fat that had slowly and imperceptibly buried his tummy over the past few years.

Underneath there was still a six-pack, Iain was sure of it. There used to be one there, but even though Iain still worked out - although truth be told only very occasionally - years of drinking beer with his rugby pals, had covered the six-pack with a 'one-pack'.

Quite a large one-pack.

Until recently it had been possible to ignore it, but now, with only eight-and-a-half hours until the Reunion started, he couldn't help compare himself to how he used to look then, and how awful he looked now.

Where had his youth gone?

Iain had been popular at High School. He'd had lots of friends, and thanks to the Rugby Club, he was still friends with most of the people he used to hang out with back then.

Iain had got older, life had moved on, but in many ways a lot had remained the same.

The boys he'd be drinking with at the bar tonight, were 'his boys', the same boys he'd been hanging out with since he was eight, or even younger.

Half of them still played rugby together every weekend, and most of them still got together every Saturday night in Town or down in Porty on the Esplanade somewhere.

Even the girls that he talked to most weekends were still the same girls from school. The only difference was that a lot of them were now married to his friends. The fact that most of the boys he still hung out with, had, at one time or another, gone out with or slept with the girls who were now married to _their_ friends, was no big deal.

Nowadays, however, life and the choosing of partners had mostly settled down. Most of his friends had kids who were themselves now in the final years of school at the new Portobello High School, and Iain wouldn't be surprised if in twenty years' time, his kids were still hanging out with the same friends they had today.

Outside the rugby crowd, things were admittedly different. A lot of people had flown the nest, escaped their insular ecosystem and ended up in different cities, with flash careers and big mortgages. But Iain had never really seen the point of the rat race. After leaving Edinburgh Uni he'd got a job in a computer company in Leith, and had stayed there ever since.

He was content. Happy. Loved his life. His friends. And his lot.

Iain wasn't a millionaire, and realistically never would be. But he had almost everything he'd ever wanted in life, and was basically happy. Very happy.

He had few regrets. Just one or two. But they were just small ones. Like, for example, never being brave enough to tell one of the girls at school - Marie McDonald - just how much he fancied her, or to ask her out. Marie had been special. Just being in the same room with her had made Iain nervous, and reduced him to a silly, quivering, speechless, spotty wreck!

But that was the past. Iain was now married to Debbie, three kids - two boys and a girl, and a cat.

Debbie had been in the year beneath him, and they'd got together one night after the disco down in the Town Hall in Portobello High Street.

They split up several times, but always got back together and they'd eventually married eighteen years ago. They lived in a bungalow not far from the new school, and he drove to work in Leith every day.

Edinburgh offered him everything he needed in life: employment, rugby, mountains, sea, a great social life and regular time with his friends.

He was looking forward to the Reunion. Although he was in almost daily contact with his main friends from school, there were others who had moved on and found other lives far away from Edinburgh.

He wondered how they were? Why did they leave Edinburgh? What took them away? How were their lives? Were they just as happy as he was?

Perhaps a little part of him did wonder, if the grass was greener for those who had left and gone elsewhere? If they had found better lives, Iain knew that he was unlikely to be jealous. Curious, yes, but no, not jealous.

Standing there, looking at himself in the mirror, the biggest problem that Iain had now was his 'one-pack'.

And if that was the biggest problem he had, then things weren't that bad after all.

Roll on tonight!

\-------------------------

Northfield Broadway

Edinburgh

10.45

Marie McDonald stepped out of the shower and towelled herself down in her bathroom. Technically she hadn't lived at her parent's house for over twenty years, but this would always be her home, even though it was her parents' house.

Her parents had left her bedroom as it was the day she'd caught the train down to London, and her new life, the August following her graduation from Edinburgh University. Her old posters were still on her wall, and David Bowie and Duran Duran would be forever staring down at her whenever she woke up in her old bed. _Her_ bed. The most comfortable bed in the entire world.

And she should know. She'd slept in most of them.

Since she left Uni, she'd lived the life of a nomad, going to whatever country needed her most.

She'd studied History at Edinburgh, but upon graduating had 'been called' to spend a year doing Voluntary work in Africa. After a year of volunteering and being paid nothing, she'd decided to help an endangered tribe in South America. She moved continents and carried on doing much the same sort of work, but this time for a small salary. Not much. But it was something.

She'd then spent several years in South America before returning to Europe.

Almost accidentally she'd ended up in Poland, where she'd been taken by the plight of Roma children in an orphanage near Warsaw.

When the charity which had run the orphanage had collapsed, Marie had almost single-handedly somehow managed to raise enough money to keep it open.

Without intending to, the lives of over sixty previously abused, neglected and otherwise unloved children, now depended upon her.

She couldn't leave.

Hadn't wanted to leave.

And she now lived there, full time, with no end-game in sight.

In fact, as each year had passed, she'd unwittingly got herself in deeper. The orphanage had grown, expanding from sixty Roma children to a charity with several homes in different parts of Eastern Europe, and a total of over three hundred children.

As the years had passed, Marie had become a recognised expert in many of the issues relating to the problems orphans faced - particularly those from Eastern Europe - and she was often invited to speak to various assemblies at the European Union, or to individual governments, or large corporations \- in fact, anyone, anywhere that could help support her or donate much needed funds to her work and her charity.

Increasingly, as her mission had expanded, Marie had done less of the hands-on caring, and more of a managerial and public speaking role, championing the little children's cause, and raising awareness of their plight, and the need to look after and love them.

Marie was a passionate believer in education as being the solution to raise her children out of poverty and their often very hopeless past associations and lives. Through education, her children could empower themselves for good, solid, lives ahead.

Her trip back to Scotland, planned serendipitously so that it coincided with the Portobello High School Reunion, was originally intended to be a long-deserved break, recommended by her doctor who was concerned about the effects of both physical and mental exhaustion.

Although initially reluctant, she'd eventually succumbed to those badgering her to take a relaxing holiday, but no sooner had she booked her ticket to Edinburgh, than she'd started to make plans.

She would visit Loch Ness, climb Ben Nevis, cycle along the Great Glen, and then find out who her parent's local MP was, and try to seek an opportunity to raise some 'Overseas Development' funds from the Scottish Parliament.

And now, having discovered about the Portobello Reunion a week ago, she'd bought a new dress and lipstick.

Marie was sure not many people would remember who she was. Over the years she'd lost contact with everyone, but she was still excited.

She'd been happy at school. Learned a lot. She'd had good friends at the time. In fact, looking back on her youth, all in all she'd had very positive experiences.

Marie knew that she'd been so busy looking after her children that she had neglected her own life, but now, tonight, perhaps there would be a chance to rekindle some friendships and build upon them for the future.

Marie had always believed in fate, and as the hours ticked by and the Reunion got steadily closer, she couldn't help believe that her returning to Edinburgh at the same time as the Reunion was taking place, was more than just coincidence.

There was a reason she was here today.

And tonight, she could feel it in her bones, something big was going to happen.

Something very big indeed...

\-------------------------

Joppa

Edinburgh

11.00

Willy Thomson reached from underneath his duvet and hit the top of his clock, stopping the bloody alarm and knocking it off the bedside table.

His head hurt.

And as he began to stir, he realised that his right hand hurt too. A lot.

Pushing back the duvet, he lifted his hand to his face and saw the dried blood and the bruising, and slowly began to remember the cause of it the night before: too much beer, and a cheeky bastard who'd disrespected him on his way back home.

Willy smiled to himself, thinking about the beating he'd given the man. He'd done a good job, considering how drunk he was.

Last night had been a good bash, thanks mainly to the wallet he'd got from another stupid tourist in the Grassmarket: drunk, having too much fun, and not paying enough attention to his valuables, which in this case amounted to two hundred pounds, a French driver's license, a credit card and a contactless debit card.

Willy could sell the driver's license and the credit card, and with a little luck he'd still be able to have some fun with the debit card for a few days, before he passed it on to his mate in Leith.

As he lay in his bed, Willy contemplated the best course of action for the rest of the day.

Stupidly, he'd let himself have too much fun last night, and now, even without getting out of bed, he knew he was facing a hangover.

A hangover was the last thing he needed. There was a lot to do today, and he wanted to be sober tonight, at least at the beginning of the evening, so he was able to think clearly and make plans as events unfolded.

He'd been looking forward to the School Reunion ever since the rumours started circling that one was on the cards.

Willy's life was a mess. Since he'd left school, he'd been in prison three times - theft, assault and attempted murder - and he'd struggled to hold down any form of job for long.

If it wasn't for the Council looking after him each month with dole money, the flat, and the rich pickings he lifted from the tourists who flocked to the eternal honey pot that was Edinburgh, Willy would have long ago wasted away and died from starvation or cold.

Willy survived from day to day, and when things were going well, from week to week.

The reason why Willy was a mess was due to a lack of decent parents while growing up (they were drunk most of the time), lack of friends (who would want to hang out with such a loser who stank to high heaven?), and his complete lack of education and absence of any skills or training.

Probably the most relevant of all that small list, was his lack of education.

Willy knew he was smart, though, which meant that his ignorance was purely down to his old school teachers.

Willy's life had been one long struggle. He'd had to fight for everything he ever had - which admittedly wasn't much - and Willy couldn't see an end in sight, any time soon.

Things would have been very different if he'd had a decent education. He could have been rich by now. Clever. Living in a big house with his girlfriends. One of them might even have stuck around long enough for Willy to have got married. Maybe he would even have been mad enough to have a few screaming kids. Unlikely, but possible.

At school however, instead of helping him turn his already rubbish life around and teaching him something useful that could have got him into a good job, his teachers had instead belted him at almost every opportunity. Willy had very quickly been identified as a trouble maker, and since that moment his teachers had done their best to make as much trouble for him as possible.

They'd had it in for him since the moment they'd first laid eyes on him.

All of them.

Tonight though, was going to be payback time.

Willy was a big man now. Not small like he was when the teachers took advantage of him and bullied the crap out of him.

Tonight, if Willy could find any of the teachers on his list, he'd make them pay.

Yep. Tonight was going to be dead good, and by the time the evening was over, at least one of them bastard teachers was going to be good and dead.
Chapter 7

Portobello High School

Edinburgh

'Operation Blue-Building'

Incident Room

Saturday

11.05

McKenzie stood at the front of the portacabin waiting for the room to settle down. Recognising the evening shift should have finished several hours ago, he acknowledged with a smile and a nod some of the uniforms who were still present.

McKenzie clapped his hands together to get everyone's attention.

"Okay, good morning everyone," McKenzie began. "Apologies for the late start, but most of you here pulled almost two shifts yesterday, so I wanted you to get some proper rest. For some of you it's also been a long night, I know, and I appreciate you still being here, but I hope we'll get you home and in bed as soon as possible. From tomorrow we'll go back to normal times again, okay?"

There were no objections.

"DI Mather, can you update us on what the night shift covered, and any items for the day team to get going on?"

Mather pushed himself off a desk at the side of the room, nodded at McKenzie and stepped across to the whiteboard assembled against the wall.

"Thanks Guv. It's been a busy night." He lifted up his phone and showed it to the room. "You've all seen the videos. We've had a team in Fettes working on them since three this morning. They've been trying to find out who posted them, and where they were filmed from. Anything that could be useful. And they've been trying to take them down. It doesn't help that it's a Saturday morning, but both Facebook and YouTube have promised to take them both down by lunchtime. That was the good news. Unfortunately, there's very little the videos can tell us. They were posted from burners using fake accounts. Which means they could have come from the public or someone involved in the murder. We'll never know."

"So, what else do you have, Mather?"

"Quite a lot, actually." He paused, turning to a flip chart on which he'd made a number of notes already. "First of all, let's focus on the victims. Early this morning we contacted next of kin from both the deceased, and about twenty minutes ago we had the second of two positive IDs in the morgue. Both of the deceased have now been formally identified. As preliminary reported in yesterday's meeting, they are David Weir, 55 years of age, and Ronald Blake, 57 years of age. Both were teachers at Portobello High School for many years. Mr Weir was a Geography teacher, and Mr Blake, an RE teacher. Mr Blake had left the school and had transferred to Leith Academy, a promotion, but Mr Weir had moved to the new school site on Milton Road and was still a teacher at the new Portobello High school. What's important to note is that Mr Weir was killed after having been taken onto the top of the school via a ladder in the old Geography supply cupboard, and Mr Blake was killed in the same room he'd taught in for many years as a RE teacher, ... sorry, for those of you who have forgotten everything they learned already, that's Religious Education, or was. Nowadays I believe it's called something more PC."

"RS?" someone volunteered.

"Yes, I think that's it. Anyway, back to the victims. Mr Blake was married. His wife had reported him missing after he hadn't returned home on Thursday night. As for Mr Weir, he lived by himself. He separated from his wife several years ago. He has two grown-up sons, both now working down south somewhere."

"Did someone go to their houses?" McKenzie asked, whilst crossing his arms across his chest and leaning backwards against the wall.

"Yes. PCs Daniels and Winston. They visited Mrs Blake. But they visited Mrs Weir in the old family home, not where he's been living recently."

McKenzie scoured the room for PC Daniels and Winston, and upon finding them, asked, "Anything remarkable to report? How was Mrs Blake?"

"Visibly distraught, Guv. She needed to sit down, and it was a while before we left. We ended up calling in a neighbour to sit with her after we'd gone. Mrs Weir was also upset, but when we visited her, there was another man there in his dressing gown. She's obviously moved on since the marriage. Don't get me wrong, she was upset, but you could tell there was a lot of separation between them now."

"Thanks. Sorry, carry on Mather." McKenzie nodded at the DI.

"We sent someone round to Mr Weir's tenement flat in Leith where he's been for the past year and have knocked on the doors in the stair trying to find out when he was seen last. We didn't access the flat yet, as we didn't have a key. We made enquiries in the stair though. A woman on the third floor said she'd seen him on Wednesday morning about seven thirty on the way to the school, but not since. Quite a few of the people who lived in the stair didn't come to their doors, so I've put it down on today's duty roster for another team to go back there this afternoon, and again in the evening or the morning, until we've managed to speak to everyone and gone round the local shops and pubs etc. We also need for Mrs Weir or someone else to accompany us to the flat and to let us look around. That must be a matter of priority. It could turn out that it may be the scene of his abduction, and if so, we'll need to get forensics there asap."

Mather continued, "Moving on, let's talk about the campus here. The school grounds and the buildings are completely locked down. No one's come or gone, and no one can get in without us knowing. We've also got extra CCTV installed in several of the areas I thought were a little blind."

Mather pulled the top of his marker pen off and underlined the word 'Motive' which he'd already written near the top of a list on the whiteboard.

"So, why did someone want to kill two teachers in the classrooms they'd taught in?"

He let the question hang in the air for a while, but continued before anyone volunteered an answer.

"That's one of the questions we need to answer. And quickly. The obvious choice would be that it could be an ex-pupil with a grudge. But we can't be too sure. It could be another teacher. Or maybe someone who knew them both outside the school and thought it might be sick, or funny to kill them where they used to work."

"But why here? In the old school, and not in the new one?" McKenzie asked.

"Good question. That hints at it being an old pupil who attended the old school, but like I said, that could also be just what someone wants us to think." Mather hesitated and pointed to a hand that had just gone up on the left of the room.

"DS McLeish?"

A tall, skinny man dropped his hand and spoke, "If someone has killed two teachers, and we have a bona fide serial killer on our hands, we have to assume that there could be more. This might not be the end of it. Perhaps we should be checking on all the teachers in the school to see if any others have gone missing?"

Mather nodded.

"Good thinking, McLeish, which is why we contacted the school secretary about an hour ago, and said someone was coming round to talk to her about something which was pretty sensitive and needed her immediate help and attention. How do you fancy volunteering?"

McLeish nodded and smiled. "I'll take that one. I'll also get a full list of the teachers from the past twenty years and start enquiries about any other murders or unexplained deaths amongst their number, just in case these are not the first."

McKenzie nodded. "Can you also get a synopsis of their careers, and the contact details and names of the headmasters and other non-teaching staff of the school during that time frame? It would be good to contact them to establish if there's any obvious reason why the victims have been targeted. Mather, is there anything else, before I let you go home to bed?"

"Just one more thing. The pathologist doing the post-mortems is Brian Wallace. He's aiming to start them tonight. He's already made an initial viewing of the bodies, and commented upon one observation common to both victims, namely, that both of them seem to have multiple burn marks on their bodies. He's not sure yet, but he thinks they could be the result of a powerful cattle prod."

"Which might explain how they were coerced to the site of their murders. There's nothing like a million volts being stuck in your side to encourage you to do whatever someone else wants," PC Lynch volunteered from the front row.

"Possibly, PC Lynch. But even if they were forced into the building, we still have to figure out how they got the victims into the school, undetected. And two of them in rapid succession?" Mather replied.

"We need to figure out how long Mr Blake was attached to that cross for, if that's possible. Maybe one victim was brought in before the other? If they were both brought in at the same time, then surely we're looking at more than one murderer, here?" Brown suggested. "What I'd like to know is how and when the murderer brought the cross into the building? If it was in advance, how long before? Was it before they grabbed Mr Blake and brought him to the school? How much preparation has gone into this and how on earth did they manage to do it without being spotted by anyone in the demolition team?"

"And how heavy was it? If it was one murderer, how did he lift and fix it onto the wall alone? We also need to know how long the two men were missing for, when they were last seen alive, and where they may have disappeared from." McKenzie replied. "To help with that we need to find the mobile numbers for the deceased. Then we need to get their phone records and cell site data so we can track down their last movements. Whoever gets their numbers first needs to record it in the Investigation Log, get the appropriate warrants raised, and request the information from the phone operator as soon as possible. Don't bother waiting for my permission. Just do it, and let us all know when it's been done. Understood?"

A round of nods.

"Okay, now I have an interesting one for us all," McKenzie said, standing up and walking to the centre of the room. "It seems that tonight there's going to be a big school reunion of Portobello's illustrious alumni."

"I know, I'm going!" Anderson announced.

"Me too," another voice quickly followed, this time coming from DS Shona Wishart, an attractive woman from Orkney who McKenzie had worked with several times before. When she spoke, it was more like she was singing, her voice rising and falling in cadence and her accent strangely hypnotic and mesmerising. "I did my O'Levels and Higher Exams at Porty High. I wouldn't miss the Reunion for the world. I can't wait."

"Anyone else? I didn't know anything about it until my wife told me this morning." McKenzie admitted. "She's going too... The big question, for me, is, should we cancel it? I'm just not sure it's a good idea to let it carry on as normal."

"Do you think we could actually cancel it? It's a private affair, being organised by a group of alumni, nothing to do with the school." Wishart continued, with everyone listening attentively.

"I think we have to consider it. Shouldn't we be worried that something else might happen? If there's a serial killer killing teachers, isn't a school Reunion like a red flag to a bull?" McKenzie asked, opening his hands outwards and inviting opinions.

"Possibly. But that depends if there are any old teachers going. You could also look at it another way," Mather argued. "What better opportunity is there going to be, to talk to old ex-pupils and find out reasons why someone might want to kill the two teachers?"

"I'll think about it. Wishart, can you find out who's responsible for the event, and sound out their thoughts on cancellation or postponement? If they're not keen on doing that, can I put you in charge of making some plans around beefing up security for the event? Can we also get some more of our team in there somehow? As helpers, or ushers, or waiters? Whatever? If we let the event carry on, we need to have as many eyes and ears in the building as possible. I'll be going too, so that's at least three of us who can mingle and ask a few questions, but more would be good."

A hand went up at the back of the room.

"DC Barnes?" McKenzie nodded and waved to a detective to stand up.

"I was just wondering, what if there's no murderer at large after all? Since it's unlikely that anyone else could've got into the building, is there any chance that David Weir brought Ronald Blake into the building, kept him here for a few days, crucified him, and then took himself to the top of the building and jumped off?"

Both Mather and McKenzie raised their eyebrows and looked at each other. A murmur went around the room.

"Wow... that's a good one. It would certainly answer a few questions if you were right." McKenzie mused.

Mather turned to the whiteboard, popped off the lid to his pen, and made a note of the question.

"Given that could be a possibility, it adds to the argument for just letting the Reunion go ahead as planned," Wishart suggested.

"Possibly. Like I said, I'll think about it. But that's a fair point."

McKenzie clapped his hands together.

"Okay, I think it's time to let the night crew go home. We'll take a few minutes break and then reconvene in ten to make a list of today's actions and assignments. Thanks Mather."

Everyone stood up and one by one they filed out of the room.

As Mather left, a head popped round the door and asked for DCI McKenzie.

It belonged to Gary Bruce.

He looked nervous, and the moment McKenzie saw the expression on his face, he knew another problem was just about to be added to the list.

It turned out McKenzie's instinct, as usual, was right.

Chapter 8

Portobello High School

Edinburgh

'Operation Blue-Building'

Incident Room

Saturday

11.45

Gary Bruce watched nervously as the last of the police officers and detectives left the portacabin and the door behind them was closed, leaving him alone with McKenzie.

"It's a bit delicate..." Gary started, his eyes searching McKenzie's as he spoke.

"I need to know how long this is going to take. How long will it be before I get the site back?"

McKenzie cocked his head to the side, appraising the man before him. From the way the question had been posed, there was obviously a lot riding on his answer.

"The school is now a murder scene. I'm not at liberty to discuss everything with you, because you are a member of the public..."

"Two deaths. A video posted across the media. I know. I get it. I've heard everyone talking and I know what's happening." Gary nodded, wiping some sweat from his forehead. "I just need to know how long these things normally take."

"What do you mean, Mr Bruce..."

"Gary. Call me Gary..."

"Ok, Gary. Thanks. But it's only been a day. Not even that. These things run their own course. At this point, I can't really say..."

"Guess. Give me some idea..." Gary interrupted him.

McKenzie hesitated before replying. The man was nervous. He wasn't the same, cool demolition expert that McKenzie had met yesterday afternoon.

"Gary, obviously there's something worrying you. Can you tell me what the real issue is here, so that I can understand how I can help?"

Gary turned away and walked across the cabin to the window, leaning on the edge of the window frame and staring up at the tall blue building towering above them.

He coughed.

"Explosives." He replied. "The whole bloody building is wired with explosives. And we have a serial killer running around killing people inside, and I don't have the faintest idea how he got in. How do I know that he hasn't found the explosives and done something with them? Or stolen some of them? It took days to rig that building. Almost a week. And if this is going to drag on, I'm going to have to take the explosives out again. Then put them all back later on... I can't let people walk around in the building knowing its set to blow up at a moment's notice..."

"It's safe now though, isn't it? You deactivated everything? That's what you said earlier..."

"Of course it is. But... even so, there're still things that could go wrong. A storm. A lightning strike..."

"And it would all blow up?" McKenzie asked, surprised. Also alarmed.

"No, probably not... but maybe." Bruce shook his head, and turned back to face McKenzie. "But this is crazy. It makes me really nervous. I can't allow it. I need to get my building back..."

"That's not going to happen anytime soon, Gary. I think we both know that. So, if you're telling me now that there's a real risk to everyone with the explosives being in the building, then we're going to have to come up with a plan to remove them pretty sharpish. But something tells me that this isn't the main thing that's worrying you just now. Do you want to tell me what it really is?"

Gary turned towards the DCI and studied his face for a minute. McKenzie could see the man was thinking, and said nothing. He'd long ago learnt the power of silence, and how to let the pressure of it build up until it literally squeezed the truth out of another person.

"Do you know how many people I've got working on this project? Eight. Eight full-time workers. Skilled workers. Expensive. I mean really bloody expensive. And now half of them are doing nothing, but that doesn't mean I'm not paying them. I haven't got any other jobs to send them to just now, and I can't put them on something else until this job is done. In the meantime, I'm also paying for equipment hire. Equipment which I can't use or return because I might not get it back when I need it."

"Don't worry, I'll sign whatever paperwork you want to help get you the insurance..."

"WHAT INSURANCE!? I haven't got proper insurance... I couldn't afford it..."

McKenzie's face went blank, trying to process what he'd just heard.

"No Insurance? Are you serious? Are you sure that's something you want to admit to me?"

"Don't worry... I've got all the important stuff, but with the level of insurance I've got, I'm only covered for five days of delays. I couldn't afford the premiums for longer than that. Beyond five days of delays, all the additional costs come out my own pocket. And my pockets are empty. I've got enough money to keep us going till Friday, but if we're still here next Saturday and that school hasn't come down yet, I'll be ruined. Bankrupt! Finished!"

Gary swore aloud and turned away to look out the window again.

"Yesterday morning I was on top of the world. This is the biggest job I've ever done... I've been building up to this for years. This is the job that was going to _change everything._ For me, after all the years of growing slowly and surely, this is the big time. But I've got everything invested in it. _Everything_. There's nothing left over. So, if I don't get the bulk of the demolition done by Friday, I won't be able to afford to finish the job."

"But you are covered until Friday for all the legal requirements that come along with something like this?"

"Yes. Of course I am. If anyone gets killed here and it's my fault, then the Insurance company will take care of everything..."

Gary sat down hard on one of the chairs beside the window.

"Listen, I'll talk with the others and my superiors about how long it will be before we're done here. Maybe I can expedite things." McKenzie offered.

Gary looked up. "Please. I've only got until Friday next week. Maybe I'm jumping the gun in worrying so much but I've got every moment of the next few weeks planned out, and every minute of delay is literally costing me a fortune."

"Noted. Like I said, I'll make some enquiries and try to get a better indication of when we might be finished here. But can I change the subject for a moment?... Can you give me a list of all your staff who've been working on the site for the past week? We need to establish if any of your staff went to Portobello High School themselves, and if so, when?"

"Absolutely. But why? What are you thinking? Are we suspects all of a sudden? Do you think one of my men did it?"

"I can't rule it out. In fact, I've got to rule it _in_ , for now. Somehow two people were smuggled into the building without being seen by anyone else. Either the killer knows a secret way into the building that no one else does, or they have the keys and simply walked into the building when no one when else was looking. Which means it could well be someone in your team."

"Or someone else, who stole a copy of the keys and somehow managed to get past our cameras and my men when we weren't looking!"

"True. But how would they get access to your keys?"

"I don't know. They're under lock and key, but all I'm saying is, that it doesn't have to mean that one of my team is a murderer."

"Gary, it's my job to suspect everyone. Don't take it personally. But can you give me that list in the next hour? And can you please instruct all your staff to keep quiet about anything they've seen or heard here yesterday or today? This is a murder case. We don't want any details getting out. And the public don't yet know that there have been two deaths. We need to keep it that way for now."

Gary nodded, stood up and moved towards the door.

For a moment, he hovered in the doorway, and McKenzie thought he was going to say something. His mouth opened, and words seemed to form on his lips, but then he seemed to think better of it, nodded to himself and left the room in silence.

Just then, McKenzie's phone rang. It was DCS Helen Wilkinson, his boss.

"McKenzie, I've got some bad news for you... and I'm afraid, you're not going to like it."

\-------------------------

Portobello High School

Edinburgh

12.18

McKenzie was furious. Facing the portacabin which was now once again full up with his team, he took several deep breaths and tried to control his emotions.

Lifting his right hand up to get everyone's attention, the room quickly fell silent. For a second, McKenzie felt like a school teacher controlling a classroom of pupils, and for the first time ever, realised that he was using the same control mechanisms his teachers used at school.

This one was simple but effective: whenever he lifted his hand, everyone shut up.

"As you know, the Queen is visiting Scotland next week and staying at Holyrood Palace. I've just been informed by DCS Wilkinson that Police Scotland has been passed some intelligence detailing a credible terrorist threat to the Queen. Until further notice, all available hands are now to be made available to join Operation Crown, whose sole mission is to find those behind the threat and protect the Queen. This means that the following people are to report to Fettes Row as soon as possible."

McKenzie read out a list of names, and most of the room stood up, looked around at each other with quizzical looks on their faces, and then exited the portacabin.

By the time they had gone, there was only a handful left: DS Wishart, DS McLeish, DI Brown, Sergeant Anderson and PC Lynch.

McKenzie's face was blank, but the apparent lack of visible emotion did little to hide the frustration beneath.

"I'm sorry guys, but apparently the threat is very serious. There's nothing I could do."

"We understand Guv. The Queen's safety is obviously paramount here, but we need everyone we can get on this, NOW. We've probably got a deranged serial killer running about bumping off his old teachers..." PC Lynch enunciated what everyone was thinking.

McKenzie smiled at him.

"Like I said... there's nothing I could do. I almost lost you two as well, but I managed to persuade DCS Wilkinson that your local knowledge would be invaluable, and she made a few calls for me," McKenzie said, speaking while nodding at both Sergeant Anderson and PC Lynch.

"We'll just have to hope that Operation Crown is successful and wraps ups sooner rather than later. In the meantime, it's just us and Mather on the night shift, so let's make sure that everything we do counts. Okay?"

Everyone nodded.

"Good, so let's put our heads together and do a bit of brainstorming then."

McKenzie grabbed a coloured pen and turned to the whiteboard.

"During the last session we made plans for the rest of the day. Some of them may to be scrapped now we've lost most of the team, but McLeish and Wishart, you two can carry on getting the lists of employees and staff and finding out about the Reunion tonight. Beyond that, let's start from scratch and map out what we know, what we need to know, and how we're going to get it, in order of priority. Then we can divvy up actions from there, okay?"

"Good. So the way I see it, the four big questions we have are, ' _How did the murderer get the victims into the school without being spotted', 'How long were they there for_?', ' _Why were they killed?'_ and finally _'Is there any connection between the victims themselves_?'"

McKenzie nodded at the team and then made some notes on the whiteboard.

"Comments?" he asked, as he finished scribbling away.

"Thinking about the second question, we need forensics to tell us how long Blake was in the school for, before we discovered him."

McKenzie nodded, and then annotated something on the board.

"Thinking about how they got into the building, is there any possibility that we've missed some gate or door, somewhere? Are we absolutely certain we haven't missed anything?" Brown questioned. "There's no hole in the boarding, a loose panel or something?"

"I've already had the perimeter walked, and all the doors to the building checked, several times." McKenzie responded. "But there has to be something we've missed. Apparently, the perimeter fencing has been up for months. Somehow someone got into the building and then out again, without being spotted, or they're still here. And we're pretty sure they aren't still here. The false panel idea needs checking again, I think. Can I ask you to take that one this afternoon? Go around checking everything to your heart's content. Convince yourself we've not missed anything. And then get hold of Gary Bruce and get him to recheck all the plans for the building to make sure there's no other way in. He's already said there isn't, but get him to do it again."

Brown nodded, and McKenzie put her name against the action on the board.

"Right, now to the question of motive. Why were they killed? Any ideas?" McKenzie asked, leaving the question hanging in the air.

"It's interesting ' _how_ ' they were killed." Lynch commented. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to kill them in or near the departments they worked in. Which means that they must have known that the victims worked there. As mentioned before, the first thought was to consider a grudge from an ex-pupil \- someone who was taught by them and took both their classes - but I like the idea that maybe it wasn't a pupil at all. Maybe it was another teacher? Someone who worked with them at some point."

McKenzie smiled.

"McLeish is getting a list of all the staff, past and present. Can you help him, and try to establish what previous teachers thought about the deceased? Is there anything that connects them? Is there is anything obvious we need to know? Does anyone know any reason why they may have been targeted? Grudges or animosities between them, pupils and other staff? I'm also going to leave it to both of you to check the previous list of staff against any reported missing persons. Make as many calls as you can to names on the list and check that they're all accounted for in some way. Just do the best you can."

They both nodded, and McKenzie noted the actions on the board.

"So far so good. Now, because we're so short staffed I'm going to help out as much as I can and start by visiting the relatives and homes of David Weir and Ronald Blake. Anderson, can you come with me?"

McKenzie checked his watch and then added himself and Anderson to the action list.

"It's almost one o'clock. Can I suggest we meet back here about five?"

Everyone nodded.

Nobody smiled.
Chapter 9

David Weir's flat

Leith

Saturday

13.05

It had been several years since McKenzie had last made a house call in the course of investigations. Since being elevated to the grand heights of DCI, he had found himself increasingly office-bound, spending the bulk of his time managing and coordinating the capabilities and efforts of others in the solving of crimes.

Within Police Scotland, Campbell McKenzie was recognised as one of the rising stars. His last few reviews had cited his ability to motivate his teams, who worked together effectively and efficiently, and he had an impressive track record in solving crimes and building cases which more often than not, had led to many successful arrests and convictions.

Were it not for the events which occurred last year during his second last case, he would have had an amazing track record behind him. Thankfully, the recent Review Board had all but exonerated him from any serious wrong doings, and approved a full return to duty, albeit only after several of the officers on the review board had nevertheless expressed concern about his judgement in allowing himself to get so deeply involved with and conducting a short-lived affair with a fellow member of staff, his protégé DI Danielle Wessex. Thankfully, it was recognised that McKenzie may actually have been the victim of a sophisticated attempt to manipulate and discredit him: DI Wessex was the lover of one of Scotland's most notorious criminals, the crime lord Tommy McNunn, who had later murdered DI Wessex and attempted to compromise and frame McKenzie for her death. It was also recognised that it was McKenzie himself who had ultimately brought the real murderer of DI Wessex to justice. Until then, McNunn had been a seemingly untouchable crime lord who for many years had been the subject of many investigations but who had always managed to wangle himself free from prosecution. Following the murder of DI Wessex, McKenzie's fast actions had led to the arrest of McNunn with sufficient evidence to ensure that Tommy McNunn had subsequently been found guilty of the murder of DI Wessex.

Following the case, McKenzie had been suspended temporarily, but had then been allowed to return to duty temporarily pending the final outcome of a review board who were commissioned to investigate the sequence of events and determine if McKenzie had been guilty of any criminality or was in breach of police regulations and procedures.

Upon returning to duty, McKenzie's had found himself the target of a hired assassin, who had been contracted to kill not only himself, but also Tommy McNunn. Threats to his life had resulted in McKenzie then going into hiding. In the weeks that followed Tommy McNunn had been found dead in his cell, and the assassin had tracked down McKenzie and confronted him.

The official record of what had followed, recorded the discovery of a body whose identity had been attributed to the assassin. McKenzie had walked away, alive.

In reality, only two people knew what had happened that day: his wife, and the assassin who was very much still alive.

Immediately after this, McKenzie had taken some time off to assimilate everything that had occurred, and seek some counselling: marriage guidance counselling and also personal counselling to help him deal with the latent psychological effects of the past year.

McKenzie had only just returned to active duty again the week before, and although he was feeling fresh and determined to carry on where he had left off, he now wondered if the lack of staff and resources on this case would now give him an excuse to roll up his shirt sleeves and get out of his office and back out onto the streets. Perhaps it would give him the opportunity to reconnect with some of his early career, and help enliven his skills and freshen up his understanding of current practices. The bottom line was that he was determined to make the most of a bad thing.

It would also give him an opportunity to prove himself to anyone on the review board who may retain any niggling doubts about his ability or right to return to duty.

\---------------------

As the car driven by Anderson pulled up outside the tenement where David Weir had a flat on the third floor, McKenzie closed his eyes for a few moments and took a couple of deep breaths.

Before leaving the portacabin, McKenzie had made a few phone calls, arranging events for the rest of the afternoon, and ensuring in advance that his time would not be wasted. In any homicide, the first twenty-four hours were crucial. McKenzie knew that the clock was ticking. He also knew that news of this double murder was likely to rock the whole country. It was exactly the sort of news that the press and social media would go to town on: an old school about to be demolished, two teachers found murdered in their old class-rooms, a mysterious and clever serial killer on the loose. It had lots of catchy elements to it that would hook the world's attention: crucifixion in an RE classroom, a blindfolded walk off the top of a tall building, and a building that was packed with explosives and set to blow up only minutes after the second murder, whilst being watched by literally hundreds of onlookers. Soon the worlds press was going to be focussed on his team. Nothing much had been accomplished in the past few hours, and now with only a tiny team left, they needed to make progress soon or the trail would go cold very quickly.

The worst thing was, McKenzie had a nagging feeling that the two murders were not going to be the last. Whoever was behind this had planned the timing perfectly. Planning was the key to it all. _How_ had the killer known what the demolition plans were? _How_ had the killer felt so secure and confident in his movements? The building was due for demolition, primed to explode at any moment. If the killer had made any mistakes, suffered any delays, they - and there probably had to be more than one killer -– would have been blown sky high along with their victims!

Before they got out of the car, McKenzie motioned to the Sergeant to give him a few moments, and then busied himself in scribbling some notes into his notebook. Most of the DIs, and DSs in Police Scotland had long since succumbed to the temptations of modern technology and made their notes electronically directly into a tablet. McKenzie was often labelled a Luddite for his insistence on using pen and paper, but the others were wrong. McKenzie could easily see the benefits of tablets and using the app the police provided: automatically saving notes to a common fileshare, or the ease by which they were able to share notes with others. But the benefits didn't outweigh the one singular negative: McKenzie hated typing, and preferred to use his God-given hands to scribble away as fast as he could go – he could write down three times as many words on a piece of paper than he could ever manage on a screen before he started swearing at his inability to spell, and the determination of the app to autocorrect his words from something meaningful to gibberish that was completely out of context.

"Okay, done... " McKenzie nodded, closing his notebook and popping the pencil inside his pocket. Anderson looked at him inquisitively, his eyebrows sliding upwards at the sides, as if to say, 'anything interesting?'

"Nope. Just personal thoughts. Good thoughts."

Anderson smiled. "We're going to need as many of those as possible on this case, Guv." He opened the door, climbed out and stretched. "Any thoughts or words of wisdom before we go inside?" Anderson asked.

"You're one of the most experienced Sergeant's I know. I don't think there's much I can tell you. After the initial introductions though, I'd appreciate it if you'd lead the conversation. I want to look around the flat as much as possible." McKenzie looked up at the tenement above them, appraising it and its local surroundings. "I'd be interested to hear your thoughts, Murray?"

Anderson nodded, almost expecting the question.

"Obviously we need to ascertain if there's any reason Mrs Weir can think of why someone would want to harm Mr Weir. But I'm keen to establish if there's any known association with the other victim outside of school. Is there any connection between them that we should know about or which could help us understand what happened to them yesterday in the school? And are there any signs that Mr Weir had gone to meet someone before he was presumably taken against his will?"

McKenzie stepped up to the door and scanned the list of names that were presented on the intercom alongside the numbers of the flats. He found the one he wanted – 'WEIR' – and pressed it.

"We haven't got a search warrant, and given the commotion that's going on at Fettes Row with the Queen's visit and Operation Crown, it's unlikely we'll get one before Monday or Tuesday. I just hope they're as cooperative as possible. Ideally it would be good to have a look around the flat. See any letters, find a diary. Listen to an answer-phone if there is one," McKenzie said, looking across at Anderson as he waited for someone to respond to the buzzer. "If there's any sign of a struggle, the flat will also become a crime scene."

"Hello?" A soft voice spoke, and McKenzie leaned forward to speak into the intercom.

"DCI McKenzie here. I believe you're expecting us?"

There was a buzzing sound and a loud click as a latch was automatically released on the inside of the door.

"Come on up. Third floor. On your left."

McKenzie pushed the door open and stood aside to let Anderson go first. As they stepped inside the staircase, he felt the hairs on his neck bristle, and he paused in the doorway. Instinctively he looked behind him and up and down the street. There were a few kids on bicycles further down the road, hanging around outside the local shop, but other than that, no one else to be seen. He quickly scanned the cars and vans on the road, then looked up at the other tenements on the other side of the street, but he didn't spot anything or anyone untoward.

"You coming?" Anderson asked, waiting at the bottom of the stairwell for him.

"Yep, sorry, just had that feeling I was being watched."

Anderson laughed. "It's obvious you haven't been out your office for a while. Quite a few of the residents will no doubt be on our books, and thanks to whatever they're taking today, they'll be as paranoid as their neighbours and worried I'm coming after them. They'll be watching me, not you."

"Perhaps..." McKenzie smirked, walking past the uniformed Sergeant, "but I didn't see any curtains twitching."

"Hello, it's up here..." A voice caught them unawares from above, booming down the staircase and echoing loudly of the cavernous, empty, cold blue-painted stairwell, which was typical of almost all the more affordable tenement properties this side of Edinburgh. In some of the others in the more up-and-coming areas, the tenants had pushed up their property prices by making the stairwells warm and attractive, by hanging pictures on the walls, laying out fancy doormats, and filling plant pots with sweet smelling colourful flowers. There was none of that here though. As McKenzie looked up the stairwell and saw the anxious face of Mrs Weir peering down at them from above, he couldn't help but exhale defensively out through his nose as the smell of stale urine accosted him from below, wafting up from the passage underneath the stair that led out to the communal gardens behind the main building.

Anderson pointed to a little empty clear plastic packet lying on one of the stone steps. "I wonder if someone in the stair is dealing?"

"It's worth noting, but it's unlikely there's a connection to what we're here for."

"Definitely worth noting though," Anderson said, bending down and picking it up, sniffing it with his nose. "I'll run it by the boys down at Fettes to see what it is."

Mrs Weir was waiting for them just inside the doorway of the flat.

"I'm DCI McKenzie, and this is Sergeant Anderson," McKenzie introduced himself as they arrived on the third floor. "Thank you coming over to let us look around. I'm sorry for your loss, and I appreciate this will all have come as a shock to you."

McKenzie studied her face as she replied. She nodded, swallowed hard, and for a second her check twitched.

She opened her mouth to say something, then hesitated. Then she coughed to clear her throat.

"I'm sorry,... Sergeant,... DCI McKenzie. It's... just so hard to believe."

"Can we come in?" McKenzie asked.

"Sorry, yes... absolutely. Sorry... " Mrs Weir nodded again, then stepped aside, and waived her hand into the flat behind her. "Please. Please come in."

McKenzie stepped past her. The inside of the flat was dark. Almost as if the woman could read his mind, Mrs Weir stretched out her hand and flicked the light switch on the wall.

They stepped through a short corridor, into a lounge. As Anderson behind him immediately started to engage David Weir's wife, as instructed by McKenzie earlier, McKenzie started to scan the lounge for anything and everything memorable, drinking up the decoration and the contents of the room.

McKenzie noticed that his pulse was slightly raised. This was the first time in years that he'd been out doing this. In recent years he'd relied upon the reports of his team who had themselves gone out and done the legwork.

He'd missed it.

The lounge was clean, contained all the usual contents you would find in any lounge in any home in Scotland. But there was something about it. There were no photographs. Nothing too personal. It lacked soul.

As Anderson invited Mrs Weir to sit down so he could ask her some questions, McKenzie started to peruse the room: a large 55 inch TV, a Hi-Fi, and a wood-burner sitting against one wall. The focus of the room though, was the large window through which the flat commanded an amazing view across the old Leith docks to the sea behind, probably less than a quarter of a mile away.

From here you could see for miles, right across the Firth of Forth into the North Sea beyond.

It was an amazing sight.

"This why David bought the flat. He loved the view." Mrs Weir announced.

"How long has he had it?" McKenzie asked, detecting that perhaps there was a story there. The way she had spoken the words had contained a hint of reminiscence.

"We bought the flat together years ago. We lived here for a while before we got married. But when the kids came along, it was too small, and to tell the truth we were a little worried about the area. We wanted something more for the kids, and luckily we were able to find it. I saw the Sergeant pick up the empty packet of drugs from the stair. That's nothing new. The owner of Flat 11 at the top of the stair is well known to the local police. Always has been, and always will. He's part of the local landscape now and nobody ever bothers to do anything about it. Or can do anything about it."

McKenzie nodded, taking a mental note to learn more about Flat 11 later on.

"May I ask how long you've been separated? I understand you are..."

"Divorced? Well almost. It'll be official in the next month or two once all the paperwork is signed..." she said before pausing and realising the redundancy of what she was saying.

McKenzie glanced around the flat, and back at Mrs Weir.

"I see you have a set of keys. Were you still on talking terms?"

Mrs Weir glanced at the keys in her hand and then back at McKenzie, before realising the significance of what the detective was saying. Most couples approaching divorce were not on talking terms, let alone letting the other person have free access to their home.

"Ah... yes," she hesitated. "Actually, recently things had become a little stressed, and we haven't really seen each other since Christmas... we went out for a meal with the boys on Boxing Day. But technically I still own half the flat, and I still have my own keys."

"When was the last time you were here? Can you see anything odd or out of place?" McKenzie asked, glancing around the room.

"I had a quick wee look around whilst I was waiting, just being nosey really, and everything seems fine. Nothing odd. Would you like to see the other rooms?"

"Yes, please. That would be helpful. After that Sergeant Anderson would like to ask you a few more questions, and if you don't mind, I would like to have a look round the flat by myself, if I may? It's standard procedure in cases like this. We need to learn as much as possible, as soon as possible. The first hours of a murder investigation are the most important."

Mrs Weir glanced across at the Sergeant and then back at the Detective.

For a moment, McKenzie wondered if she was going to ask if he had a search warrant.

Luckily, she didn't.

She spent the next ten minutes guiding McKenzie and Anderson around the two-bedroom flat, and then let herself be guided back to the small kitchen where Anderson was able to make a cup of tea for Mrs Weir, and sit her down at a small kitchen table.

Strangely, there had been no obvious unopened mail lying around, but when McKenzie asked Mrs Weir if she'd seen any, a look of intense guilt clouded over her, and she'd slowly reached for her handbag.

She pulled out a bundle of letters and handed them to the Detective.

"I was just checking... to see if there was anything from anyone else... "

"Did he have a girlfriend?"

"Not that I knew off. My lawyer's always pressing me to find out if there is. Maybe it might help my side of the proceedings."

McKenzie reached out and took the bundle of envelopes from her, several of which had already been opened.

"It would be helpful if you could explain as much as possible to the Sergeant about both your circumstances and your husband's. As much as possible. And if possible, also the details of your current partner and how we can contact your two sons. I think it's likely that we may wish to talk with them at some point in the near future too."

"The boys, John and Sam are coming up later today from London. They'll be here about five, I think. They're both very shaken by all of this."

"Please pass them my condolences. It would be good if they could come into the station in the next two days, if possible, please? Along with your partner? The Sergeant will give you the address."

McKenzie saw the register of alarm on the woman's face, and anticipated the next question, but it never came.

Instead of the usual, "Am I under suspicion?" she looked away, towards the nearest window.

"I saw the videos on the internet of him falling from the building," she whispered.

Then she started to cry.

\-----------------------------

Outside in the white van, the driver pulled back the sleeve of his blue overalls, and glanced at his watch.

1.35 pm.

It was time to go. He'd done what he needed to.

However, he still had a lot more preparations to make, and time was running out.

Glancing once more back up at the third-floor flat, he saw the outline of the detective looking out from the window and waited a few moments before he retreated back into the room.

Then he switched on the ignition and pulled away.

As he drove away from the tenement, the driver smiled to himself as he counted two other white vans in the street.

Around here, man-in-a-van was the Invisible-Man.

Chapter 10

David Weir's flat

Leith

Saturday

13.35

While Anderson comforted Mrs Weir in the tiny kitchen, and did his best to make his way through all the questions that needed to be asked in a situation like this, McKenzie made his way systematically around the flat looking for anything that could tell him something which might help.

McKenzie trusted the Sergeant to ask the rights questions. He'd worked with him before, and although he wasn't a detective, that was out of choice. The Sergeant could easily make the grade if he wanted to, and McKenzie knew that others had suggested it to him before, that were he to apply, he'd be highly recommended. In fact, he would be a very good detective, perhaps better than most of those who preferred not to trudge the beat and wear the uniform.

McKenzie knew that at the top of Anderson's list would be some more questions around the divorce. Although his instinct told him that the woman was genuinely upset, from what she'd just told them, there was a possible motive right there. The divorce was pending, probably due for completion in the coming weeks or months. McKenzie's investigation would now need to determine if there was any financial benefit to Mrs Weir if her husband were to die before the divorce went through. How much did she stand to inherit if he died? And how much better off would she be before the divorce, were they not able to find a will?

Unfortunately, it was a sad truth that many murders were committed by loved ones, and it could be that they'd just established the basis of a motive for Mrs Weir to end her husband's life before the divorce was made final.

A possible motive.

Obviously, it was highly unlikely that Mrs Weir would have committed the murders herself, but she could have paid for others to help her.

After making a note to that effect in his little book, he started to look for a phone. Unfortunately, as was increasingly the case these days, he didn't find one. Mr Weir didn't have a landline. He probably only had a mobile phone, and used that for everything.

Which meant that it would be more difficult for him to check Mr Weir's voicemail or text messages to find out what had been going on in Mr Weir's life in the days leading up to his disappearance.

Not finding a physical phone, McKenzie started to look for any phone bills from which they could get details to contact the phone company. Luckily it didn't take long before he found one on top of a pile of letters and other bills stacked on a shelf in the lounge.

He put it in his pocket and started to look through the other mail.

There were a few bank account letters, already opened.

He scanned the contents.

They revealed positive balances, nothing spectacular, but showing no debts either. One had eight thousand pounds in it, but nowadays that wasn't much at all.

McKenzie pocketed that one too. Later, they'd contact the bank and try to coerce some details from them, checking to see if there were any other accounts that seemed significant.

There was a calendar on the wall in the hallway.

McKenzie scanned the dates of the past week, and the weeks ahead. There was nothing to show any obvious appointments made for the past week that Mr Weir may have attended, but over the next few weeks a few social events seemed to be highlighted, with names he took note of: over the next few days, they would start tracking down friends to see if they knew of anything that could be significant. No doubt, one or two would end up being invited down to the station to help with inquiries.

Rather poignantly McKenzie saw the red ring around today's date, with a note pointing out the upcoming school Reunion.

Entering Mr Weir's bedroom, he quickly made his way around the room.

It had been years since McKenzie had done anything like this, but he quickly remembered the routine.

He checked the bedside table and the pockets of any trousers or clothes lying around.

Then he looked through the drawers, paying special attention to the back of them, where people would often hide things.

Next, he looked for hidden spaces. Over the years he'd developed an uncanny ability to walk into a room, quickly assess the possibilities and then find them.

In circumstances like this one, the job of the detective was to find out as much as possible about the deceased and everything they had done in the last few days.

Who had they met? Where had they been? Why had they gone there?

Was there any motive for a possible murder? Was the deceased hiding something?

Where obvious answers were not forthcoming, then other questions needed to be asked: did the deceased lead another hidden life that others did not know about?

Was there a lover? A mistress? A boyfriend? An ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/ or spurned lover?

Was the deceased in debt?

Who were their enemies?

Why did they have enemies?

In the case of Mr David Weir, he found very little.

Yes, he did find a secret place, just inside the wardrobe, underneath a floorboard.

It contained several porn magazines.

It turned out Mr Weir had a slight fetish, apparently.

He liked high-heeled shoes, and naked, Amazonian women wearing them.

Sometimes McKenzie would feel guilty seeing into the lives of others in this way, especially when they were now dead.

Tonight though, McKenzie did not.

Instead he felt only frustration.

Returning to the lounge he scanned the contents of the book shelves, trying to ascertain more about the deceased's interest or hobbies.

He noticed a number of books on sailing... was he possibly the member of a sailing club? Perhaps a study of his bank accounts would reveal details on subscriptions to clubs or societies he could then contact and visit.

There were a number of thrillers, some books by big names he recognised, and a lot by others which he didn't.

After an hour McKenzie realised that he wasn't learning anything new.

For once, the expression 'dead men tell no tales' was proving right.

A visit to David Weir's flat had revealed almost nothing at all.

\-----------------------------

Shortly afterwards, they all left the flat together, Mrs Weir requesting that they wait with her while she locked up and made her way down and out of the stair.

Once outside, they escorted her to her car which was parked close to theirs on the main street.

She got in, they thanked her, and she drove off.

"So?" McKenzie asked the moment she was out of earshot.

"She didn't do it. Although you probably also picked up there's possibly a motive for killing her husband before the divorce went through, she'd need someone else to actually do it for her. But why would she then also want to kill Mr Blake? Plus, I just didn't pick up any negative vibes or false answers. She seems totally genuine. Her husband was murdered. She's surprised and genuinely sad about it. I don't think she's going to be able to help us out much more."

McKenzie nodded.

"Thanks. I think you're probably right, but can you brief me on what you asked her and what she replied, en route to Ronald Blake's house?"

Their car was only a few metres away.

"I'll drive," McKenzie volunteered, reaching out to the windscreen to retrieve a flyer which had been left on the windscreen.

McKenzie was about to crush it up when he saw his name scrawled on it in red pen.

Or was it blood?

Climbing into the car beside Anderson he unfolded the sheet of A4 paper and read its contents.

It was two lines: a derivation of a popular children's poem.

"One, two, buckle your shoes.

Three, four, watch out for more!"

As McKenzie digested the words, a chill coursed its way down his spine and he shuddered.

The meaning was obvious. The two deaths at Portobello High School were only the beginning.

But that was only the half of it.

The note was addressed to him personally.

The killer had been here. Had followed them.

Had written this note in advance.

And he'd placed it in full view of McKenzie to find personally.

Whoever had placed this note here, on _his_ windscreen, was playing a game.

A game of death.

What worried McKenzie most was that the killer had thought about all of this in advance.

By announcing more deaths to come so publicly, so personally, to _himself_ , the man was laying down a challenge.

"Stop me if you can."

Clearly, the killer was convinced that McKenzie couldn't.

Which meant that unless McKenzie could prove him wrong, at least one or two more victims were going to die!

Chapter 11

En route to Ronald Blake's family home

Duddingston

Saturday

14.05

"Will all due respect, if you don't give me some of my team back, I have no chance - none - of finding whoever the killer is before they carry out their threat. I need more people – now - not next week."

There was a pause at the other end of the phone, while DCS Helen Wilkinson took a deep breath and tried to control her response. "Count-to-ten", she was busy reminding herself. "In fact, best count-to-a-hundred."

The conversation was already several minutes old, and McKenzie was not accepting the answers she'd given him so far. She'd made it clear that until the security level was reduced or Operation Crown was cancelled or terminated, every able-bodied officer was working full time on resolving the very real threat that had been made to the Queen.

"And while you think about it," McKenzie went in for the kill, detecting a moment of weakness, and a moment of opportunity, "I want you to realise that if someone else dies in the next few days, then their blood will... "

"One officer. That's all," she replied. "And I'd caution you about what you were just about to say Campbell. That's was unfair and unjustified. You don't go around saying things like that. You know my hands are tied."

"Do I get to choose who?" McKenzie replied, already feeling bad. But it had worked. And one person – one good person – could make a massive difference.

"No."

"Good, then I want DI Fraser Dean. Full of initiative. Works hard. Does the job of two people. Please send him straight over to the school and tell him to call me en route."

McKenzie hesitated for a second, knowing he had been pushing it. Then rather meekly he added.

"Thank you, Guv," and hung up.

For a few minutes they drove in silence, before Anderson broke the spell.

"I'm saying nothing, but, you were a little harsh on her, Guv."

The phone rang before McKenzie could reply.

"DCI McKenzie? Hi, it's DI Dean here. I've just been reassigned to you, and told you need to talk with me urgently?"

\-----------------------------

As they made their way through the streets of Edinburgh to the house of Ronald Blake, McKenzie briefed Dean on what had just happened.

"There's a number of things I need you to do. Get over to the address I'll text you in a minute, and start chasing down any CCTV cameras in the area, public or official. Check anytime between one-fifteen and two o'clock this afternoon. Whoever placed the note on my windscreen is highly likely to be the killer, or at least know them. If we capture an image of them doing it, we hit the jackpot. It's likely that whoever did it followed us from Portobello High School, so I want you also to look for CCTV cameras in the neighbourhood of the school. We left there just before 1pm. It's going to be a long manual process of identifying traffic that's seen both in the immediate vicinity of the school, and then again near Mr Weir's flat, but once again, if you do it, you might just trace the car straight back to the killer. I don't want to micro-manage you on this. You know what to do. Just do it please. If you get anything, you call me immediately, okay?"

"Yes, boss." Dean replied. He'd worked with DCI McKenzie before so he knew the ropes and what to expect. "I'll get right on to it."

"Just do your best. That's all I'm asking you. It might take weeks to analyse and cross-reference the footage if you get any, but the stakes are high, so it's worth doing."

Dean hung up.

Anderson waited a moment and then commented.

"It's a long shot, but sometimes it's the long shots that pay off."

McKenzie nodded, without speaking. Anderson could see he was thinking.

"Okay," McKenzie finally spoke. "There's a slight change of plan. You're going to drop me off at the Blake household, and then you're going to drive straight down to Fettes Row, get hold of someone in Forensics and give them this note. It's another long shot, but it could possibly have the DNA on it from the killer, or whoever placed the note on the car. Call me when you're done, and either come and pick me up, or meet me back at the school. Also, take this phone bill and get the ball rolling on getting phone records and phone mast data from the phone company."

McKenzie reached into his pocket, pulled out the phone bill he'd picked up in Weir's flat and gave it to the Sergeant. "If I get anything from Blake's house, I'll text you the number to chase that one down too."

Anderson had just turned the car into the road where Ronald Blake lived, and was pulling up in front of a semi-detached three-bedroom house in the middle of a cul-de-sac. It was an expensive area. An expensive house. A big achievement for a family only on a teacher's salary.

McKenzie took a few mental notes, reminding himself to find out from Mrs Blake when they had moved in and what her job was. And how they could afford a place like this.

McKenzie climbed out the car, and nodded at Anderson who then drove off. Before walking up the garden path, McKenzie called McLeish.

"I'm just about to go into the Blake household, and I was wondering where you are with the list of former staff and teachers at Portobello High School?" McKenzie asked, before briefly explaining about the note.

McLeish understood immediately. McKenzie was worried that another teacher may about to be killed, and McLeish and Lynch needed to hurry up the process of calling around and checking that no one else was missing.

"We've got some of the list, and we've just started calling the people on it. We'll have to wait for the rest of the names. We've been promised more later today. Unfortunately, regarding the details we've been given, we've mainly only got home numbers. There are very few mobile numbers. It's Saturday afternoon. Most people are probably out just now anyway."

"It's going to be a long process, but it's one that's got to be done. I also want you to talk to whoever was the Headmaster at the time they were both teaching at the school. The fact that they were killed together in the school surely means there's a link between them and the school and something that happened there. Something that was a good enough reason for someone to kill them."

McKenzie thanked McLeish and hung up.

Usually calm and collect, McKenzie was beginning to feel the pressure.

Someone somewhere knew what this was all about. They had to find them soon, before others started to die.

\-----------------------------

It took several minutes for Mrs Blake to answer the door.

McKenzie held up his badge and was about to introduce himself when the woman interrupted him.

"I'm a neighbour, Detective, not Mrs Blake. She's in bed. She didn't get up today, and she's very upset. I don't know if she will speak with you, but if you come in, I'll have a word with her."

"Thank you, Mrs... ?" McKenzie queried.

"Mrs Duff. From number thirty-six over the road. We're good friends."

Mrs Duff showed McKenzie into Mrs Blake's lounge, smiled at him and then backed out of the room.

McKenzie could hear the sound of the women speaking together, a few tears, and then a few minutes later, Mrs Blake appeared in the doorway, wrapped up warmly in a dressing gown despite the nice day outside.

Her eyes were red, and she looked terrible. McKenzie felt a pang of guilt, almost as if he was intruding. It had been years since he'd done this.

"Mrs Blake. I'm Detective Chief Inspector McKenzie. I'm heading up the investigation into the murder of your husband. I'm sorry for your loss. I just wanted to come around to speak with you personally, and to see how you are?"

McKenzie noticed the spark of recognition in her eyes as she picked up on his rank.

"Chief Inspector?" she half-smiled, nodded to herself, and then took a few steps closer, reaching out to the side of a chair, before easing herself in.

"Yes, we're all very shaken by what has happened to your husband, and we are absolutely determined to find out what happened and who is to blame for his death."

She looked out of the window, and without turning to face him, she asked.

"Helen's going to make us both some tea. Or would you prefer coffee, Detective McKenzie?"

"Tea please, Mrs Blake."

"If you're a DCI, I reckon you'd better be calling me after my first name. Please call me Ruth. I've got the feeling we're going to be speaking quite a lot over the coming days."

She turned to him and looked him straight in his eyes.

Her eyes were a bright blue. But cold. Without warmth.

Which was understandable given the circumstances.

"I knew something was wrong. I felt it. And that's why I reported him missing. As soon as I felt it."

There was something about the way she spoke her words that caught McKenzie's attention.

"You and your husband were very close?"

"Yes. We were."

She began to cry.

"He normally calls me. Wherever he is. Just to check I'm okay. And to say he's okay. Even if he's really drunk. He never wants me to worry."

"Can you remember when was the last time you spoke with him?"

"Thursday afternoon. Just a normal conversation. I asked him what he wanted for dinner. But then he didn't come home. I waited up for him until about 10 p.m. and then went to bed. It wasn't the first time that he ended up in the pub after work in Leith and then didn't come home till very late. I was getting used to it."

"Mrs Blake, may I ask, did he know David Weir? Did Mr Blake go out drinking with Mr Weir?"

"No. Not him. They used to be friends but a few years back they stopped talking. And then Ronald decided he didn't want to work at Portobello High School anymore and he started looking for a new job. That's when he got the job in Leith Academy."

"So, your husband was a friend of David Weir?"

"Yes. Years ago, they used to be very close. Then something happened between them, I don't know what, and he stopped coming round to visit, and they stopped going out for drinks together. They still talked together at the school, I think, but they weren't as close as before."

"Any idea what it was that happened between them?" McKenzie probed, but looked up and nodded at Mrs Duff as she came into the room and offered him a cup of tea.

"No. I think I once asked, but he didn't want to talk about it. And Ronald had lots of other friends, so it wasn't a big thing."

"There's a reason I was asking. I don't know if you know or not, but unfortunately David Weir's body was also found yesterday afternoon. He fell from the roof of the school. We have reason to believe that the fall was not a simple accident."

The expression of sadness and shock that appeared on Mrs Blake's face answered any questions McKenzie may have had about whether she already knew of his death.

"Oh, the poor man... " she half-whispered, then looked down and stared into the cup of tea which Mrs Duff had handed her.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of the bad news. I've just come from Mr Weir's house, where I met with his widow."

McKenzie said nothing for a few moments. He sipped his tea and smiled weakly at Mrs Duff. She shook her head a little and looked down at the carpet.

"Mrs Blake, can you remember if there were any other teachers or friends that your husband used to spend time with around the same period he was good friends with Mr Weir?"

"No. Sorry. I don't think so," she replied after a moment of thinking. "Why, do you think it might be one of the other teachers that killed Ronnnie?" She was looking directly at McKenzie now, her eyes steady, but the pain she was feeling was evident in the warble in her voice as she spoke.

"I can't say. The investigation has just begun. From experience though we can say that sometimes it's just the small things that make the difference to an investigation. Small details that you might not think are relevant, but which suddenly become very important. So, may I request that if you remember anything which you think could be important, would you please let me know?"

McKenzie reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a card, and passed it over to her.

Mrs Weir nodded.

"Do you know if your husband had any enemies? Anyone who would wish him harm?" McKenzie moved on.

There were a few tears now.

"No. Ronnie didn't have enemies."

The fact that someone had very carefully planned Ronnie Blake's death, clearly indicated the contrary, but McKenzie knew that now was not the right time to point this out.

Instead, he spent the next thirty minutes running through a long list of standard questions, gathering the basic facts, and hoping, just hoping, for a breakthrough.

None was forthcoming.

"Would you mind I were to have a quick look around the house or through his personal things? Does your husband have an office?"

With the help of her neighbour Mrs Duff, she slowly raised herself out of her seat, and made her way through the back of the bungalow and to a room on the left.

"Ronald's private room. I hardly ever go in. It's his domain... was his little den where he could lose himself from everyone else. I don't know what went on in there. But, if you think it might help you, please take your time and have a look around. I don't want to know what you find, but I hope you find something useful."

Then Mrs Duff helped her carry on through to the kitchen, and McKenzie was left alone to sift through the remnants of another man's life.

He turned the handle, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Chapter 12

Ronald Blake's Den

Duddingston

Saturday

15.10

Only a few days ago, all this had meaning. The notes on the man's desk, the files on the bookshelves, full of records, receipts, letters, and plans. Photographs of distant and past relatives, most of whose identities were known only to Ronald, and would now be lost to future generations. Sadly, Mrs Blake had revealed that her husband and herself had not been able to have children, even though they had desperately wanted them. Ronald had one brother, but he had died a few years ago in a climbing accident in the Cairngorm mountains, and Mrs Blake was an only child.

Standing in the centre of the office, it dawned on McKenzie once again just how meaningless and sad some aspects of life were. All of this, everything that surrounded him had so much meaning to Ronald Blake. Much of it was probably the accumulation of thoughts, feelings and experiences which had taken decades to accumulate, and some of it may even be all that remained from previous generations of Blakes.

Perhaps, somewhere in the Blake's attic, there would be other boxes full of even more photographs, or memorabilia: old plates, books, souvenirs from lives gone by which Ronald Blake had kept and felt too guilty about throwing out or taking to the local dump when older relatives had died, leaving Ronald to inherit the dust of their lives.

Now it was Ronald's turn.

McKenzie could guess that after his funeral, Mrs Blake would perhaps never step foot in her husband's office again, and it would remain like this until the day she died.

Until the day someone was asked to come into the house and clear it out.

Looking around, McKenzie knew that almost everything in the room would end up in boxes, packed into a little white van, and taken to a land-fill.

To be buried without respect, and with no formal recognition of everything which those boxes contained: hopes, tears, laughter, moments of extreme pleasure, and the depths of pain and sorrow.

Everything that makes up a life.

Dreams. Aspirations. Experiences.

Tossed in a box.

Then buried or burned.

"Detective McKenzie? Would you like another cup of tea?" the voice of Mrs Duff caught him off-guard, dragging him back from his spiralling dark thoughts.

"Yes, please. That would nice," McKenzie replied through the door.

Then he took a deep breath, switched on the light in the dimly lit room, and got to work.

\-----------------------------

Ronald Blake's Den

Duddingston

Saturday

16.30

An hour later, McKenzie left the office, carrying a small box full of a few items he wanted to examine back at the portacabin.

Mrs Blake was back in the front room, sitting on a seat closer to the window, staring out towards the distant view of the sea and the other side of the Firth of Forth.

"Thank you," McKenzie said, interrupting her thoughts, whatever they were.

"Ah, Detective... " she smiled meekly, turning slowly towards him. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, and Mrs Duff had to go home to cook dinner for her husband." She paused. "Did you find what you needed? What you came for?"

"Not really," McKenzie replied. "But if it's alright with you, I have a few things here that I would like to take away and look at later. I promise that they will be returned to you as soon as possible."

She nodded.

"One of them is a phone, which I found on his desk. It's password protected. May I take it? And would you perhaps know what the password might be?"

"His phone? Oh, I forgot about that. I'll have to cancel the contract now, won't I?"

She began to cry.

McKenzie fought the urge to step forward, place an arm around her shoulder and cuddle her.

"Yes. I'm afraid you may have to do that, if you don't want to keep the phone for your own use. But if it's okay, I would like to have a look at the contacts he's had recently, which means I need to let one of our specialists look at it once we can get through the password."

"My birthday. 8th August. 0808. Try that."

"I've made a list of everything, could you please just give me your signature on this form?" McKenzie asked, stepping a little closer and offering her a pen.

She nodded, took the pen, and with McKenzie's help, she made her mark on the blue paper covered in legal gibberish which was proffered to her.

"Mrs Blake, I was wondering, this photograph was on one of his shelves amidst his collection of books. Its three men, one of whom is David Weir. Do you know who the other one is?"

McKenzie picked a gold-framed colour photograph out of the box and extended it out towards Mrs Blake so that the light from the window could reveal the figures on it.

Three men. Holding fishing rods and cans of beer in their hands.

Smiling.

Two now dead.

Who was the other?

"Mark. Mark McRae. Sorry, I'd forgotten completely about him, Detective."

"Who is he? Can you tell me anything more about him?" McKenzie asked, studying her eyes as she replied.

"He was another teacher. Yes, that's it. Another teacher from his time at Portobello High School. For a while they were good friends. But then they seemed to stop seeing each other, just like he did with Mr Weir."

"Do you know if Mr McRae is still alive? Or when the last time you or your husband saw him?"

Mrs Blake shook her head.

"I'm sorry. No, I can't. I'm getting old now, my memory isn't what it used to be. And I'm missing Ronnie so much I can't think clearly."

McKenzie nodded. It would be wrong to press her just now.

"Mrs Weir, may I come back and talk with you again? Just in case we have some more questions, and to see if you might perhaps remember anything else?"

"That would be nice. Please do. And I'll let you know when the funeral will be, once all the arrangements are made and the coroner releases Ronnie back to us."

McKenzie felt very sad as he walked down the steps to his car. When he glanced backwards, Mrs Blake was standing in the window, watching him.

A little old lady.

Now alone.

In an empty house.

As he got back into the car, McKenzie remembered just how much he'd hated this part of the job before he'd started climbing through the ranks.

\-----------------------------

16.45

The first call McKenzie made in the car was to McLeish.

"Mark McRae. A teacher at Portobello High. Find him. Check if he's okay, and then get him into the station for questioning as soon as possible," he instructed.

"He's one of the people we've called already. Actually three times. No answer yet. I've got an address. Shall I prioritise him and go around and visit him? There's only two of us doing this just now, and... " McLeish replied, scanning down the list and the spreadsheet on the computer in front of him.

"I know. Leave it an hour, and if you still have no response, go visit him. He knew both of the deceased. We need to talk with him. And if we start focussing on other teachers in the school as possible suspects, he could be one of them."

Next, he called Anderson and gave him the number of Ronald Blake's phone, instructing him to record it on the incident log, raise a warrant and get the ball rolling on obtaining all the relevant phone records and cell site data.

The next call was to his wife, who'd left two voice messages and a text.

"When will you be back? The Reunion starts at eight, and I don't want to be late. There're drinks and nibbles to start with, then the band starts at nine."

Then there was another discussion about which dress she should wear. The one she'd chosen earlier was too tight, and Little Bump was now not so little anymore. She couldn't make up her mind whether being so obviously pregnant in a dress was tasteful or embarrassing.

"Never be embarrassed. And I don't care what anyone else thinks. I love you, and I love Little Bump!" McKenzie insisted, telling her to go with the green dress, as first chosen.

He promised to be home by seven o'clock, begging his wife to have something ready for him to wolf down the moment he got through the door and before he jumped into the shower.

She jokingly threatened him with a Gregg's in the microwave, but when Fiona detected that he liked the idea, she immediately revealed it was going to be something far more healthy. "Little Bump needs a healthy dad, not one with a coronary bypass!"

He'd laughed, but hadn't found it funny. Fiona was right. His diet had to change. But a few minutes later, as he passed a Gregg's on the main road en route to the school, he only managed to protest to himself for a few seconds, before he pulled over, jumped out and hurried inside.

He was starving.

Getting back into the car a couple of minutes later he was only half way through demolishing it, when the phone rang.

It was Wishart. She'd got an update on her conversations with those responsible for organising the Reunion.

"They were furious about the idea of possibly cancelling it! They know about the death of someone and the video yesterday afternoon, but they've pointed out that there's almost two hundred people coming tonight, with a lot of them coming from abroad especially for the party."

McKenzie listened carefully, still uncertain about the wisdom of letting the event proceed, but acknowledging the potential opportunity to learn first hand from people who had been at the school when Weir and Blake were teaching there. There's was also the possibility that the killer could show up amongst those at the Reunion. And if they were lucky, _very_ lucky, perhaps something would happen that might get them a step closer to identifying or even arresting a suspect.

Unlikely.

But possible.

Although highly unlikely.

"Okay," McKenzie decided. "We go with the flow. The event goes ahead. We probably don't have time to cancel it anyway. Are you still able to make it?"

For the second time in an hour, McKenzie ended up giving advice on a dress.

"Okay, that one sounds wonderful," McKenzie finally agreed. "Go with the blue one. Decision made. I'm only five minutes from the school now. I'll see you back at the portacabin at five, as agreed earlier."

\-----------------------------

Cramond

16.55

Stuart Nisbet was nervous.

Uncharacteristically nervous.

Apart from the last time he'd been anywhere near Maggie Sutherland, the last time he'd been this nervous was in Afghanistan, the day before his first tour began: arriving at the airport and getting off the transport plane, he'd passed several coffins which were waiting for repatriation to the UK.

Realising that within a few days he could be going home like that, he'd suddenly understood the seriousness of the situation and almost wet himself.

No more schoolboy bravado.

Just plain fear.

Now with only hours to go before he would once again come face-to-face with so many of those whose faces had haunted him for over twenty years, he was having second thoughts.

It wasn't only that he might see Maggie again,... it was far more than that.

Something bizarre. A weird set of thoughts and feelings that he couldn't quite understand.

Even though for twenty years he'd been planning this, looking forward to rubbing everyone else's noses in the dirt of his success, suddenly, weirdly, he'd wondered, ' _Was that the right thing to do?_ '

At first he couldn't quite understand the thoughts and feelings which were going through his mind. He needed fresh air again, and it was only when he was a mile out in the Firth of Forth on his jet ski, skimming across the water at over sixty miles per hour, that the fog began to clear.

Slowly, a realisation dawned on him.

Yes, Stuart was a success.

He'd been lucky.

Very lucky.

Financially.

But money wasn't everything.

Was it?

And what would it gain him to rub the noses of the others in his fortune, when he was jealous of the one thing most of them probably had, and which money couldn't buy?

Who was the successful one, now then?

And who was the fool?

Perhaps turning up tonight with all guns blazing, splashing the cash and playing the big guy was nothing but the most foolish thing he could do.

Twenty years of driving himself, pushing himself, willing himself on, imagining an evening like tonight...

It was all for nothing.

This wasn't about others.

This was about him.

His inadequacies.

His failings.

No wonder he had no real friends. No one to love.

In spite of owning more than anyone else in his country, he had nothing at all.

A mile out to sea, Stuart Nisbet closed his eyes, twisted the accelerator handle as far as it would go, and shot forward faster, faster, ever faster.

Then he lifted both hands of the handle bars, stood up, closed his eyes, and fell backwards off the jet-ski into the sea.

\-----------------------------

16.58

Mark McRae shivered, closing his eyes and riding out the muscular spasm that swept up and down his body.

The water dripping from the roof of his prison cell was cold, despite the temperature outside which had to be at least twenty degrees warmer. It was the summer after all. Earlier that week it had been over twenty degrees... but here, inside this damp, dark room, he was almost hypothermic.

The incessant drip, drip, drip of the water drops echoing around the room was driving him mad.

He'd long ago given up trying to scream, and he was even beginning to manage the constant urge to vomit as the gag bit into the back of his mouth.

The others were gone now – where he did not know – but he missed their company – whoever they had been. They too had been gagged, and alone in the dark they had tried for a while to communicate through their grunting, but had quickly realised that their unintelligible sounds were exactly that: unintelligible.

How long they had been gone for Mark didn't know. In almost complete darkness, the hours and days blended into one. The passage of time was imperceptible.

If he'd wanted to, perhaps he could have counted the drops of water as they fell from the ceiling, but something as clever as that was now well beyond his capability.

Mark was starving. He hadn't eaten since he had first woken up in the room and found himself with the others.

Thirst was the other problem.

His mouth was as dry as a bone.

His captor was making no effort to look after him. No water. No food.

Mark was scared. Petrified.

He had defecated and urinated in his trousers several times, both from fear and necessity. At first the smell had been overwhelming, but now he couldn't smell it, his brain compensating for the stench and filtering it out.

His chains were cutting into his wrists and he thought they had been bleeding.

But you can't see red blood in the dark, so he wasn't sure either way.

It had been hours since his captor had last come into the cell.

Each time, he'd heard the trapdoor open and then been blinded as the light bulb hanging from the ceiling had burst into life like an exploding sun.

Before he'd had time to adjust, he'd felt the cattle prod in his side again, and he'd fallen back down onto his knees in compliance, at the mercy of whoever his captor was, and awaiting whatever his fate would be.

His captor never stayed long. He just came in, checked the chains, and left.

When the others had been in the room with him, Mark had been blindfolded, but after the second person had been taken out of the prison cell, his captor had come back in and swept the blindfold of his head.

"I need it. I'll give it back to you later." He whispered.

That hadn't happened yet, and Mark had not complained.

With or without it, the blindfold made very little difference.

He sat in almost complete darkness, the only source of light being a slight crack in the edge of the trapdoor through which some light oozed.

It was his only connection to the outside world, and he stared at it constantly, trying to figure out what had happened, how he had ended up here, and how on earth he would get out.

Mark was not a tall man. He was of a slim build, and no match for his captor who was a hulk of a man. His captor wore a mask, which was probably a kid's cheap Halloween mask, but it did the job. All Mark saw of him was a wizened old North American Indian, long fake black hair, and a feather sticking up.

His captor had only ever spoken a few words and even then, his words were muffled by the plastic mask and the small slit for a mouth through which the voice escaped.

He'd detected an accent. Slight, not too pronounced, but the man had obviously lived abroad for some time.

Mark had hoped that might give him a clue as to who his abductor might be, but after hours of thinking about it, he'd still drawn a blank.

Instead he started to worry about what would happen when the man came back for him.

The others who had been here before were now gone.

Where had he taken them?

Was he next?

Were they still alive?

Adrenaline surged through his exhausted and cold body, and once again he began to shake.

In the dark, fear is twice as bad as in the light.

Mark defecated in his trousers one more time.

This time he didn't even notice.
Chapter 13

Operation Blue Building

Incident Room

Portacabin

Saturday

17.00

McKenzie strode into the portacabin, half expecting to find no one there.

There was so much to do, and so few people to do it, he knew that asking everyone to do their job and respect meeting times was a tall order.

But McKenzie was known for his insistence that everyone makes meetings. Not because he believed in meetings for meeting's sake, but because McKenzie believed that the sum of the parts was always greater than the whole. Or that 'one-plus-one' would often make three when people talked together and shared the information they knew.

Breakthroughs came not from lots of people working individually, but from a team - small or large - working together.

Five faces looked up at him as he turned at the front of the room and faced them: PC Lynch, DS Wishart, DS McLeish, DI Elaine Brown, and Sergeant Anderson.

In typical McKenzie style – his own personal quirk – he clapped his hands together and smiled.

Everyone knew the meeting was now in progress.

"I'll kick off, everyone, if that's okay, because I may have the most important news. And it's not good. You might have heard that I was probably contacted directly by the murderer. He followed us and left a note on the car."

McKenzie recounted to the team the details of the note. The looks on their faces said it all: unless they did their jobs, more people would die.

"Murray? Have you got anything?" McKenzie asked the Sergeant. "Any luck with forensics?"

"It'll be at least three days before we get any sort of response. At a minimum. And that obviously depends upon them being able to find any DNA traces. And DI Brown will be handling that from now on, as part of her ongoing liaison with Forensics."

"Thanks Murray. Please keep on it, Elaine. It's a long shot, and I wouldn't bank on the murderer handing us an identify on a plate. My guess is there will be nothing, but you never know."

"Next," McKenzie continued. "We now have two mobile phone numbers for the deceased, and I've handed Murray the task of managing the appropriate warrants and getting all the usual data we can from the telephone companies. Hopefully we'll get that by tomorrow morning?"

Anderson nodded. "If not sooner."

"Good." McKenzie turned to the board and made a note on the action list.

"Right, next." McKenzie continued. "I have a name for a colleague of Ronald Blake who also knew David Weir." He held up the photograph and recounted his visit to Mrs Blake. "McLeish is lead on tracking him down, identifying if he's missing and if not, getting him in for questioning."

McKenzie turned to the whiteboard, and scribbled two words before underlining them: "Suspect List".

Under the heading he quickly scrawled a few bullets: _Other teachers. Ex-Pupils. Mrs Weir (ex-wife to be). Mark McRae (colleague teacher and friend)._

"Has anyone got anyone else to add to the suspect's list?" McKenzie asked, scanning the team, but seeing no response.

"Lastly, I spoke with DCS Wilkinson, and after much begging we've got one more person on the team. DI Fraser Dean. I've got him working on the CCTV cameras trying to find an image of the person putting the note on my car. You'll get to meet later."

"Last from me, is in talking with Wishart it seems we're too late to cancel this evening's Reunion. It's going ahead. I'm putting DS Wishart in charge for this evening's activities."

McKenzie held out an open hand to Wishart and she stood up and came to the front. She gave a quick update on her conversations that afternoon and then started to build a list of names on the board of who was going to the Reunion.

She wrote down her own name, followed by Anderson, and McKenzie. She then spent two minutes negotiating with Lynch if he could come too. He agreed. His wife would have to find someone else to babysit for their children tonight, at short notice. He wouldn't be a popular man.

After giving them instructions on how to get to where it was being held, Wishart gave them duties and tasks to perform during the event, and they all agreed. Including McKenzie. They'd communicate with each other by personal phone and text messages. Airwaves should be left in the car or at home. This was an undercover operation.

McKenzie thanked her.

"McLeish, you're up next." McKenzie nodded at him.

"Thanks," McLeish said, moving forward and swapping places with Wishart at the whiteboard. "I went to visit the school secretary in her office at the new school – which is incidentally very nice. Anyway, she's given me a list of all the staff she has a record of going back forty years. Names, subjects they taught, duration of employment. She's cooperated fully. I also got a list of former Headmasters as you requested. In particular we've identified the one who was the headmaster for most of the time that Ronald Blake and David Weir taught at the school. I have his contact details ready for you. I tried calling him but there's no answer. By the way, after serving as Head for about fifteen years, he moved to live on the Island of Coll. It's way out there in the Hebrides. Almost completely off the grid."

"Interesting. I'll have those details immediately after this meeting, please. I need to speak with him as soon as possible."

"No problem. Anyway, I've built a spreadsheet, and I've started going through it, trying to make contact with as many past staff as possible. McRae's top of the list after the old headmaster. As discussed by phone. It's going to be a tough job. At the moment, there's only myself and Lynch. I could do with some help."

"Understood, but until Operation Crown is over, it's just the two of you. Nothing I can do about it. Sorry." McKenzie replied. The answer wasn't ideal, but the decision was above his pay grade. "Thanks, McLeish. Appreciated."

McKenzie nodded at Brown, his partner.

"Elaine, anything interesting to share?"

She stood up.

"My two tasks so far have been to liaise with both forensics and Gary Bruce. Starting with Bruce, this afternoon we went on a long tour of the inside perimeter of the site, searching at great length to find any possible routes of entry onto the campus. As suggested, we looked for false panels. We also walked the outside perimeter looking for low walls, adjoining rooftops, ladders, trampolines, tree branches... anything and everything that could possibly help someone to get over the fence, although realistically speaking we've got to remember that the victims were probably forced against their will and could not be carried over such a large fence. They'd probably put up some sort of resistance, and the people living around the edge of the school would surely see or hear something." She paused, looking for questions, but there were none.

"Okay, so we also then took another look at the schematics and plans for the campus to see if there was any possible tunnel into the school from outside, and there was nothing. To be honest, there's no possible way into the school except through the new entrance that Gary's team has built at the front of the school. Having spent the best part of today chasing this up, I'm completely stumped by it. Short of parachuting onto the roof of the school, I can't see how it was done."

For a moment, just for a moment, Brown could see that some of the team were actively pondering the possibilities of how someone could parachute onto the roof of the school without being seen.

"I was joking." Brown laughed. "But, actually, I suppose we do have to look at all the possibilities, because at this point in time, we're clueless as to how it was done."

"Unless Gary Bruce has got something to do with it?" McLeish volunteered. "Maybe they didn't break in: perhaps they were allowed in or led in?"

McKenzie stared at McLeish. Yet again, he'd come up with an alternative angle that couldn't be discounted. McKenzie stood up, and walked to the board, contemplating adding Bruce's name to the list of suspects.

"Okay, that's a good point." McKenzie admitted. "But for now, we'll leave his name off the suspect list. Mr Bruce is in and out of this room, and right now, I don't want him seeing his name on the list. Everyone just remember that it's there, okay? And it might not be Bruce. It could be one of his employees. They're all suspect."

Nods all round.

McKenzie gave the floor back to Brown.

"Moving on to Forensics, I've got a few interesting things to report. Firstly, Forensics has indicated that both victims had the same traces of brown dirt on their trousers. It appears they were both sitting down in the same place, possibly on the ground, or somewhere which was covered in wet dirt. It confirms that before they were brought to the locations where they were individually killed, they were at some point both in the same place, somewhere. They're now looking at the soil types, and trying to narrow it down further.

"They've also confirmed that both bodies have similar burn marks on them, which are consistent with those that might be experienced as a consequence of being pushed rather forcibly by a cattle prod."

"I've asked if we can narrow the type of cattle prod down, and identify who might have access to one, but it appears they're widely used by many farmers, and aren't controlled. In other words, anyone could get hold of one, if you really want one."

"They've also now said that both bodies had lacerations and markings on their wrists or ankles which could indicate they've been handcuffed or shackled in some way for an extended period of time."

"Also, forensics have informed me that they have found what they believe to be some form of writing on the forehead of Ronald Blake. It looks like it was written in felt pen. Unfortunately, they can't tell _what_ was written, because Blake's sweat washed almost all the writing off, but they think they can make out a couple of letters – R, E, M, and that it was written in red. They're going to see if they can find anything on David Weir's forehead too, but because there was not much left of it, that exercise is not straightforward. I didn't ask for any more details on that part."

"The killer wrote something on his forehead?" Lynch asked. "Whatever it was, that could be hugely significant. The killer would have wanted us to read it. It could have been some form of message?"

"Sadly, we were too late. If it was meant to be a message, the killer used the wrong type of ink to leave a permanent note." Brown replied, then continued.

"Lastly, moving on, Forensics have identified a drug being present within the blood of David Weir, which they are trying to identify for us by tomorrow morning. They think that when he fell from the roof of the school, he was high as a kite. He probably didn't know what was happening to him."

"And Ronald Blake? Was he drugged too?" McLeish asked.

"I asked, they weren't able to say yet. Anyway, that's all I have for now."

"No news on how long Ronald Blake was on the cross for?" Wishart enquired.

"Sorry, not yet. That's another thing they can hopefully tell me tomorrow."

McKenzie stood up and moved to the front.

"Okay, boys and girls, if you're not going to the Ball tonight, I want you home for a rest, and some relaxation. If you take a bath, make sure you have a notebook handy to capture any ideas or Eureka moments. We need all the help and ideas we can get on this one. And then we'll all meet back here tomorrow at nine-thirty sharp. I'll give you all a lie in till then." He smiled, jokily, knowing it was no lie-in at all.

"Guv, are you sure there's no way you can talk some sense into Fettes? We need more people on this. If someone else gets murdered... "

McKenzie raised his hand.

"DS Wishart, as long as we try our hardest, there will be no blame and NO guilt felt by anyone on this team if another body turns up. Frankly, this is a ridiculous situation. We can only pray that Operation Crown concludes as quickly as possible. In the meantime, as soon as this meeting finishes, I'll be on the blower to DCS Wilkinson to insist we get an undercover armed team covering us and the party goers at the Reunion tonight. There's a high possibility the killer will show up, and we've been warned to expect more victims."

"What about the school?" McLeish asked.

"Mather is still on the team. He's covering the night shift. Before we came in, Anderson managed to pull a few strings in Portobello and he's going to have a couple of uniforms helping Mather to patrol the perimeter and inside of the school site. And the dogs will be out in the playground. No one is getting in here tonight, that's for sure.

"Anyway, for everyone going to the Reunion tonight, we'll meet in the foyer of the new Portobello High School at about 7.45pm. I'm afraid there'll be no alcohol drunk tonight, no matter how tempting it is. We're all going to need our wits about us. See you there."

McKenzie clapped his hands together. Meeting adjourned.

\-----------------------------

17.25

"Ma'am, with all due respect to the Queen, I also have a real threat I'm trying to deal with here. Two dead so far, with a real possibility of more to come, and a high likelihood that it could be within the next few hours. What I'm asking is NOT unreasonable, and I think you appreciate that. So, please, can you authorise and pull whatever strings you need, to ensure that my team and the School Reunion event this evening is supported by an appropriate team of armed officers. As you see fit, Ma'am."

McKenzie finished his diatribe and took a deep breath. They'd been at it already for several minutes, with the impatience on both sides growing.

DCS Wilkinson wasn't happy. She'd lost the argument, and she knew it.

McKenzie could almost hear the steam hissing out her ears.

"Four officers, undercover, arriving at 6.45pm. And just let's hope no one assassinates the Queen tonight, or we'll both be going to the Tower."

"Thank you, Ma'am." McKenzie replied, smiling slightly.

There was a moment's pause, and then DCS Wilkinson offered an olive branch.

"So, what are you wearing to the ball, tonight? Are you going fully kilted up?"

"Yes, actually I am." He replied, wondering how his superior knew.

"Campbell, there's something I've always wanted to ask, given that I might be forgiven for being an English woman, working north of the border."

"And what's that, Ma'am?" he asked, noting her use of his first name to still the waters.

"What's actually worn under the kilt?" she asked. "If you excuse me for asking."

McKenzie hesitated, and then replied in one sentence, before summarily hanging up.

"Nothing Ma'am. Nothing's worn beneath the kilt. It's all in perfect working order."

\-----------------------------

17.35

Mark McRae heard the approaching footsteps and tensed, quickly closing his eyes and attempting to avoid the sudden onslaught of light as the trapdoor was opened.

He knew that if he controlled the amount of light that entered his eyes, by slowly opening his eyelids, he might be able to quickly adjust to the light.

At the very least, it wouldn't hurt so much.

As soon as the trapdoor opened, a draft of fresh air assailed him, the sweetness of it stirring his senses and making him realise, possibly for the first time, how good fresh air actually smelt.

If he ever got out of this hell hole alive, he would never take fresh air for granted again.

Slowly opening his eyes, he could make out his captor coming backwards down the stairs from the trapdoor above, his head covered with the mask as normal.

He was a huge man. Broad across the shoulders, and a slim figure. He obviously kept himself in good shape.

The man turned and came towards him, the cattle prod in his right arm.

For once the man didn't turn the light bulb on, leaving them both relatively in the dark.

As he approached, the man in the Indian mask lifted the cattle prod towards Mark, who immediately fell forward onto the ground in an act of total supplication. By this time, Mark's reactions were automatic.

His captor had trained him well.

"I just wanted to let you know that it's your turn next, _Mr_ _McRae_."

Mark noticed the inflexion uttered on the last two words, turning the simple sentence into a chilling threat. His captor was mocking his career as a teacher, and the way he'd inflected on his name hinted at all this having something to do with his job.

"For what?" Mark choked, as he tried to speak through the gag in his mouth.

A searing pain immediately swept through his side.

"Talk only when invited to. Otherwise, stay quiet." The Indian commanded, retracting the cattle prod back having made his point.

Mark writhed on the floor, biting hard on his lip.

For a moment the Indian looked down at him, an evil laugh emanating from behind the mask, adding to the terror of the moment.

"I'll be back shortly," the man threatened, and perhaps I'll take you for one last walk. If you're a good boy, that is. If not," he paused. "You'll get eternal detention, and I'll make you stay behind after school,... for ever."

"Water. Some water please... " Mark almost whispered. Begging as silently as he could.

Another searing pain in his side was the only answer he got.

This time, Mark passed out with the pain.
Chapter 14

Duddingston Road

Edinburgh

17.45

"Barry, what on earth is that?" Irene Quinn screamed, pointing at the car sitting in their drive way. "And where the hell did it come from?"

"That," replied Barry proudly through the open window of their lounge, and after coughing a couple of times to clear his throat, "... is a 2019 Porsche Boxster!"

"I KNOW it's a Porsche Boxster... it's got it written all over the tail of the car. I'm not a complete idiot! I meant, what is _THAT_ , and what is it doing _HERE_!"

Barry coughed again.

"Think of it like a taxi. Or your carriage for the Ball this evening. ' _Yes, Irene, you too can go to the Ball!_ ' " he answered, mimicking the best version of the Disney voice he could think of.

"BARRY QUINN! You get out here _NOW!_ What the hell have you done? And where the hell did you get it from?"

A few minutes later Barry Quinn, survivor of over twenty years of marriage, but probably now heading to the divorce courts, appeared before his wife, tail between his legs, and slightly red in his face.

"You didn't seriously expect me to take you to the School Reunion Ball in our clapped out Ford Escort, did you?"

"What on earth has got into you, Barry Quinn?" she said, stepping towards the red apparition on her drive-way. "Barry, you promised. You PROMISED you wouldn't do anything like this. What are you trying to prove? What does this say to everyone else that knows us? We'll be the laughing stock of... "

"No, we ARE the laughing stock of our year." Barry interrupted, his face turning slightly red. "I'm Barry Bloody No Mates who never achieved anything in his life, and in over two decades didn't manage to make it more than a mile away from the Secondary School. I just want everyone else who doesn't know how pathetic I am to think, just for a moment, that I'm not the complete and utter failure that I am!"

Irene Quinn turned from the car to her husband.

For a moment her heart went out to him, and she felt an overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around him and squeeze him tight.

After taking a few deep breaths, that feeling was replaced with another. An urge to wrap her wrists around his throat and squeeze it until he turned blue.

Instead, she stormed past him, tears running her cheeks.

"I am not nothing, Barry. You've got me. And I AM not _NOTHING._ And our life is fine. Just fine. What on EARTH are you thinking?" She paused in the doorway, before turning and issuing one final torrent of emotion at him. "Send it back Barry. Send the bloody thing BACK!"

\-------------------------

Duddingston Road

Edinburgh

17.55

Iain Small sat on his sofa, talking with his friends about the video on WhatsApp which had gone viral. Everyone was watching it. So far it had got over eighty-seven thousand hits. The video had been pulled several times, but someone kept re-posting it.

"Poor bastard!" Iain said, shaking his head. "Do you think it's anyone we knew?"

"Dunno," Kerrin replied, whilst staring at his wife who had just walked into the room topless and looking for her bra.

"Everyone will be talking about it tonight. If someone knows who it is, then we'll soon find out," Iain suggested. "You know, these school Reunions can cause a lot of stress for some people. Some people worry about seeing their old school pals again. They're scared that everyone will judge them for what they've achieved, or slag them off for being a failure."

"Are you thinking that this guy topped himself because he couldn't hack the idea of going to the ball?" Kerrin wondered, whilst blowing his wife a few kisses and smiling at her. They'd just made love, and if Kerrin had his way, they would probably be doing it again, or at least trying, as soon as Iain got off the phone.

"Yeah, something like that."

"It's pretty pathetic really... I mean, dinnae get me wrong, but why get so stressed about it? Just don't go to the bloody Reunion. There's no need to throw yourself off the roof of the school."

"Kerrin, you're a lucky bastard and you know it. You've got your own house, healthy kids and a bloody gorgeous wife. Okay, you've got a crap job, but in comparison with most folk, you're really successful."

Kerrin coughed.

"Okay, straight up, perhaps I do know where this guy was coming from. I mean, I did actually consider renting a really flash car for the weekend, and pretending it was mine. Just, you know... so that people would think... "

"That you were a prat? We all know you, Kerrin. Who were you trying to impress? Who?"

There was a moment's silence.

"Hang on a second, Emma's just leaving the room." Kerrin whispered.

Another pause.

"Can you remember that girl in Brunstane House, you know the one with big tits and the blue eyes that I used to fancy something rotten?"

"What? Yvonne? The one who knocked you back about ten times?"

"Yea. Yvonne McDougall. Well, I was just thinking, maybe if she's there tonight, and I turned up in a flash car, then... "

"Shut the hell up, Kerrin. You're married to Emma. You've been going out since the school Qually dance... what on earth are you still dreaming about Yvonne for?"

"I'm not... I mean, maybe just a little. What about you and that girl Marie? You used to go on about her tons, when you were in fourth year?"

"Marie McDonald? True, but she was _way_ out of my league. She'd be about forty-six now. You've got to be realistic about these things, mate. I might have fancied her like crazy when she was sweet sixteen, but we're all getting older. Have you looked in the mirror recently pal? I'm just saying. I've got Debbie, and I'm lucky she doesn't dump me for someone better looking than me. You've got Emma. And you're punching way above your weight with her mate. Way higher."

Kerrin pretended to laugh, but he knew Iain was right.

"I told Emma I wanted to rent a car, and she just laughed. She told me to stop being an idiot. She just said that the car park's probably going to be so full of cars rented by other twats pretending to be something they're not, that I'd just be wasting my money."

"Shit," Iain replied, changing the subject completely. "Have you seen the time? It's gone six o'clock. I've still got to cook the kid's their dinner. What time are you getting there?"

"It's still the same plan. We're meeting in the Forrester's Arms in Porty for a glass of Prosecco first, then getting the taxi's from there."

"Seven?"

"Like I said, that's the plan, Stan. Be there or be square."

"Twat!" Iain laughed back, and hung up.

Getting up out of his sofa, Iain walked through to his bedroom and kissed Debbie on the back of her neck, whilst she sat at the dressing table and started to apply her war paint.

"What's that for?" she asked, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

"For persuading me not to hire the Corvette. It was a stupid idea, and you were right."

Debbie shook her head.

What was it with men and school Reunions?

Did it bring out the Twat-factor in all of them, or was it just her husband?

\-------------------------

Northfield

Edinburgh

18.05

Marie McDonald was nervous. A little scared. Annoyed. And much fatter than she'd realised.

The dress she'd hoped to wear earlier this evening no longer fitted. Her bust was too large and was barely contained, and the sides of her dress just held her in. If she ate one too many biscuits this evening her dress would probably pop off.

For a moment she did consider wearing it anyway - perhaps getting a little bit of attention due to the bust factor may not be too bad after all - she might need all the help she could get! But after only a few moments serious consideration she admitted to herself that it was not appropriate.

The last thing she needed was someone to snap a photo and pop it on Facebook, only for a colleague of hers in Poland to see her dressed like a decadent Parisian tart.

Although that was probably a little harsh, both for herself, and the Parisians.

Luckily, the TK MAXX near where the old Meadowbank Commonwealth Stadium had come to her rescue.

She managed to find a tasteful, yet rather cheap dress within twenty minutes, and even if she did say so herself, she looked great.

All day long she'd been thinking about tonight.

Would anyone recognise her? Would anyone remember her?

What should she say about herself if anyone asked?

One of the things she did not want to do this evening was to turn it into a fund-raising exercise. But she knew her own weaknesses, and she knew that she often used fund-raising as a method of diverting focus away from herself. And tonight was not about that.

Also, tonight _was_ about her.

It was not about her kids. Or the orphanage.

And the last thing she wanted to do was bore everyone else.

Unfortunately, the few phone calls she'd placed to different charities over the past few days had not gone well. Corporations and people in Scotland were tightening their belts. The economy was not doing so well.

Earlier that afternoon she'd found a school diary in a drawer in her old wardrobe. There were a few numbers in there of her old friends. She'd even drummed up the courage to call a few of them, but two of the numbers didn't work anymore, and one had gone through to a family from Lithuania who had inherited the number when they moved into the house.

So, she couldn't arrange to meet anyone before the evening started, and she would just have to go to the Ball by herself.

She looked at her watch.

Only a few hours to go.

Should she get there early, or turn up late?

Deciding to be on time, she planned the timing for the umpteenth time: a small meal, shower, make up, and then an Uber to the Reunion.

The cab was already set for 7.35pm.

She looked in the mirror again.

The person who looked back was no one special.

Suddenly she felt very alone.

Tonight would be dominated by friends hugging each other, air-kisses, real kisses, and people laughing and having fun together.

She'd be lucky if anyone even remembered her.

She closed her eyes and began to sob.

Maybe she wouldn't go after all.

\-----------------------------

Cramond

18.10

Stuart Nisbet had sunk.

Mentally, and physically.

Whereas he'd probably only gone down about a metre before the buoyancy in his life-jacket had begun to drag him back to the surface, in his mind he'd felt himself falling and falling.

Spiralling down and down.

Deeper and deeper into a place he'd never been before.

And then it had stopped.

He'd found a place where everything was once again in balance, and the world around him had begun to stabilise.

He experienced a strange but pleasantly surprising mental inner calm.

For a moment he floated in the universe, doing nothing, trying nothing, striving for nothing.

Just being.

Existing.

Nothing to prove.

Nothing to do.

Just _being_.

An inner peace like he had never experienced before, engulfed him, and he realised that for the first time in years... perhaps his entire life... he was happy.

Then he had opened his eyes.

The world around him was grey and dark.

Cold.

His chest was hurting.

Not painful.

But full of a desire to breathe, to suck in air, to exist once more.

His feet had taken over, kicking, propelling himself upwards, and almost immediately he was on the surface, surrounded by sea as far as the eye could see.

Stuart gulped air, almost surprising himself with his appetite to live.

He knew immediately that something had changed.

His life would never be the same again.

A few metres away his jet ski bobbed on the water patiently awaiting its master, having dutifully circled in an arc and returned to where Stuart had jumped off.

Smiling, Stuart had struck out across the water, climbed aboard and fired up the engine.

A moment later he was speeding back towards the beach, laughing aloud as the salt spray splashed his face and the wind buffeted against his chest.

A man reborn.

Upon arriving at the beach, he'd loaded the jet-ski on the trailer, changed, and headed home.

Entering his garage, he stowed everything away, then found and dusted off his old pedal bike.

His plans for this evening had belonged to his old life.

Now they had changed.

Yes, Stuart Nisbet was still going to the ball, but not in a super-car or a helicopter, but by bike.

God had given him two good feet and a pair of legs, and tonight he would use them both.
Chapter 15

The Grange

Saturday

18.20

McKenzie closed the front door and strode into the kitchen, his arm hiding the flowers behind his back, hoping to catch Mrs McKenzie by surprise.

The kitchen was empty.

The house was silent.

"Fiona?" McKenzie had called out, wondering where she was.

"Up here... in the bath." She'd replied.

Hanging his jacket on the back of a chair, he grabbed a bottle of non-alcoholic beer from the fridge and headed upstairs.

"Are you not cutting it a bit fine?" McKenzie questioned, popping his head around the door, but keeping the surprise safely hidden out of sight.

"Sorry, I was getting ready, but I realised I was a bit stressed, and... Little Bump started to kick!"

"Bump kicked?"

"Yup. It was amazing. So I stopped stressing and decided to relax and chill a little."

"Any room for me?" McKenzie asked.

"No way. Two's fine. Three's a crowd. Sorry."

"Even if I give Mrs McKenzie these?" he asked, proffering the bouquet out from behind his back towards her. "I thought you might want to make yourself a corsage for the ball?"

Mrs McKenzie smiled and blew him a kiss.

"They're beautiful, although I think you're being a little old-fashioned. But the thought was nice, thank you."

"So, why are you stressed?" he asked, dropping the lid on the toilet, sitting down and taking a few sips of the cold beer.

"It's the school Reunion. Of course I'm stressed. School Reunions are the stuff of nightmares."

"Why? You were popular at school. And you've kept in contact with quite a few of your friends, so you'll have plenty of people to chat to."

"I know. But... everyone's going to be there. I'm all grown up now, I know, and I've got Bump on the way, but, suddenly I just feel like a little schoolgirl again, and all the old insecurities and doubts have magically resurfaced. It's bizarre. Last night I even dreamt I was sitting my exams again. And that I failed them all and I have to re-sit them all in October again."

McKenzie laughed.

He knew the dream.

He'd had them too, over the years.

A person's school days never truly go away.

"Okay, I've got a few calls to make before we leave, but we haven't got much time. The cabs coming in forty minutes. What's for dinner? Shall I make something or... "

"I'm not hungry, but I've left you a salad and some cold salmon in the fridge. Make your calls but be ready, Campbell. I promised to meet the girls at the bar at eight sharp!"

Downstairs in the kitchen he wolfed down the salmon and salad, and then walked back upstairs to his study. Or what used to be his study. In a few weeks' time the transformation to a baby's nursery would be complete, and his book shelves and desk would have been replaced by a cot and a baby mobile hanging from the ceiling.

He'd begun the redecoration a few weeks ago, but hadn't made much progress yet. He'd miss his man cave, and he knew it.

He was incredibly excited about Little Bump.

Somehow, though, it still all seemed a little unreal.

Fiona was getting pretty huge, but was there really, _really_ a little person in there?

And was it a boy or a girl?

In a few years' time, would the walls of his office be covered in Hibs posters, or pictures of ballerinas and sparkly handbags?

Laughing to himself, he sat down at his desk, and pulled out his phone.

Trying to get hold of Daniel Gray was proving more difficult than anticipated.

According to the list McLeish had given him, Mr Gray was Headmaster at the old Portobello High School for over ten years, covering much of the period during which both Ronald Blake and David Weir had been teachers at the same time.

He'd been the Headmaster there until 2001, then moved elsewhere, before retiring in 2010.

After Portobello he moved to a school in Oban, and from there had retired to the small Hebridean Isle of Coll.

According to the map McKenzie had looked at, you couldn't get much more off the Grid, than there.

The Google Maps view of Gray's cottage was beautiful, located on the top of its very own beach, but miles from the nearest house.

Based upon his retiring date, and assuming that he'd retired when he was sixty-five, that would make him seventy-four now.

McKenzie couldn't help but wonder if the reason Gray wasn't picking up the phone was because he was dead, having passed away without anyone noticing.

It was rather a morbid thought, but given McKenzie's recent luck, he couldn't put it past the realm of possibility.

Fortunately, the next few seconds proved him wrong.

"Hello?" a gruff but strong voice bellowed down the phone at him, picking up after only a few rings.

"Good evening. This is DCI Campbell McKenzie of Police Scotland, based in Edinburgh. I'm calling you just now in connection with two murders that took place very recently within the premises of the old Portobello High School. I understand that you were the Head Master at the school for a number of years, and I believe you may know the victims, both of whom were serving teachers during your stint at the school."

There was a moment's silence.

_"TWO_ murders? At Portobello High School?"

"Yes sir. Unfortunately."

"Oh dear... " the voice quivered at the other end of the line. "Hang on, please,... I think I'd better sit down."

The voice seemed less strong than before and McKenzie felt guilty for being so brusque and matter of fact without any social preamble. For all he knew, Gray, Wier and Blake could have been very close, and this news might be quite shocking.

"May I ask who was killed?" the old headmaster enquired, his voice shaking.

"Yes. Normally we wouldn't do this over the phone like this, but given your current location, and the situation we have here in Edinburgh, I can't really afford to send anyone over to speak with you from my team at this current time. Time is also of the essence, so if you would promise me not to repeat anything I am about to tell you, I would like to share two names with you, if I may, Mr Gray."

"Yes, I promise. Who were they?" the headmaster pressed, with McKenzie detecting a sense of urgency in his voice.

"Okay, but I repeat, you must not reveal the following two names to anyone without discussing it with me first." McKenzie reiterated. He was taking a risk. He didn't know this man on the phone from Adam.

"I've promised you once already. Please, get on with it man! Who were they?"

"David Weir, a geography teacher, and Ronald Blake, an RE teacher."

"Oh shit... " the old man, immediately swore, then went silent.

"Mr Gray? Are you still there? Are you okay? Again, I apologise for just breaking the news to you so... "

"I'm sorry, I can't help you officer. And I'm very busy. My apologies, but I have to go now... "

"Wait!" McKenzie interrupted him, fearing that at any second he was going to hang up. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about them. To establish if you could think of any reasons why someone may wish to kill them both? Did you know of anyone who had a grudge against both of them? Or either of them individually?"

"No, sorry, I'm really busy. And I can't help you. Please don't disturb me again. I'm an old man, and... _Goodbye!_ "

The line went dead.

McKenzie nodded to himself and smiled.

'Bingo.'

Mr Gray's actions, contrary to his insistence that he knew nothing, had just spoken volumes.

Gray knew something.

There was a reason why Blake and Weir had been killed, and McKenzie's instinct had immediately began shouting at him that Headmaster Gray almost certainly knew what that reason might be.

McKenzie glanced at the map again and googled how far away it was.

He swore to himself as the answer came up.

Coll was over one hundred and seventy miles away through the mountains and across the sea via a ferry from Oban.

Unless Gray could be persuaded to be a little more cooperative over the phone, McKenzie was probably going to have to do a road trip.

McKenzie picked up the phone and dialled the number again.

This time it was not answered.

\-------------------------

Joppa

Edinburgh

18.35

Willy Thomson's right hand was hurting. _Really_ hurting. It turned out that the eejit he'd wacked in the face on the way home last night had been harder than he'd first thought. The chances were that Willy's hand was broken.

It hurt like shit.

Willy was used to pain, but tonight he could have done without it.

Tonight was going to be a special night. His night. The night he'd get payback.

It also didn't help that to take the edge off the pain, he'd now drunk most of a small bottle of whisky.

Admittedly, it hadn't been all at once, and he had managed to drag it out over the past two hours, but he still did feel the buzz and the adrenaline that shot into his veins whenever he thought of those who were guilty for his lack of success in life.

Whisky was a good friend of his.

In his line of work, and with his lifestyle, it was the fuel he needed to complete and succeed in a lot of the things he did.

Whisky.

And a knife.

Like the two he'd been sharpening for the past hour. Just checking that he'd be sufficiently tooled up for this evening.

Willy was no fool. He knew that he might get searched on the way in to the Reunion Ball, so he was taking his special DMs with him: the ones with the hollowed soles and the slit underneath where he could slip in the knives and simply walk through the detectors with the knives hidden underneath.

Sometimes the alarm went off when he marched into a night club, but then he lifted his feet and showed them all the metal segs he arranged in a horseshoe around the heel. The bouncers always took one look, shrugged or laughed and waved him in.

The knives weren't that big but Willy didn't need anything large. It was what you did with a knife, not its size, that really mattered.

As he'd proved so many times before.

Willy was excited. Really looking forward to the Ball.

He'd spent the majority of his time that day thinking about all his victims over the years. He'd been proud to admit to himself that it had taken quite a while to think them through, because there had been so many. In particular, he'd thought about how close he'd come to actually killing someone.

So far, none of the bastards he'd stuck had actually kicked the bucket.

He'd always thought that was actually quite a good thing. In a way, it sort of made him a virgin.

He'd never really done it before.

Tonight that was going to change though.

This evening was going to be the one when he finally popped his cherry: he'd bloody really do it tonight.

He'd kill someone.

Bloody _really_ do it.

Who he was going to kill he wasn't quite sure.

Which of them bastard teachers was about to die, Will didn't actually know yet.

He'd not made up his mind.

But one of them would.

Whoever he saw that pissed him off the most.

Or whoever was the easiest.

Tonight Willy was going to do it.

For real.

Chapter 16

The New Portobello High School

Milton Road

Saturday

19.45

One by one the flashy cars turned into the car park from Milton Road, and ex-pupils from Portobello High School got out, smoothed down their clothes and then loitered with the sole intent of being seen by as many others as possible, standing beside their expensive cars, before wandering almost reluctantly over to the entrance to the new school.

Without doubt, the car rental firms were doing a roaring trade tonight, and never before had the Portobello High School produced such an amazing crop of actors.

As Willy Thomson sauntered into the car park after getting off the Lothian bus, he whistled as he saw all the cars lined up. Before he went home that night, he was going to have a fair old time with his house key!

Just inside the school entrance, the foyer was chock-a-bloc with air-kisses, hugs and high-fives. People who had never ever really liked each other where hugging and kissing, and almost immediately begun to jostle and reposition themselves in a new 'Post-Reunion' hierarchy of students.

Sadly, for many, the past twenty-five years seemed to vanish in the blinking of an eye, and old-feelings, insecurities and emotions resurfaced as if from nowhere. All their successes, all the therapy and all the education so many had gone through to better themselves in life, were quickly superseded or swept aside by the comments of their peers. Within minutes, the old school order was being reimposed, and everyone was once again a pupil back at school: a geek, a swat, a bully, a tart, a clart, a hack, teacher's pet, a perfect Prefect, Head Boy, Head Girl.

Friends who were actually once friends quickly gathered at the bar, and were friends once more. Those who had few friends, began to circulate in the main hall, looking for others like them, who were lost and desperately seeking some form of post-school validation.

Stuart Nisbet watched it all, standing just inside the main hall, but having crossed the demarcation line from the foyer into the main event.

He was one of the very few who had cycled to get here, and for now, probably also one of the very few who was genuinely unphased by all the social complexities and shenanigans which were going on around him.

He wasn't judging anyone. Just observing.

Until his 'epiphany' – for want of a better word to describe the weird self-realisation that had overcome him just a few hours earlier, he'd been planning the same as most of the others: how to impress everyone else, and how to best make others regret any negative comments they'd made about him when he was at school.

Stuart was fascinated by what was now happening.

True, in the first moments, the veneer of the last quarter century was swiftly blown away, and old social values resurfaced and were reestablished, but what was happening next was truly brilliant.

People HAD changed. After school, everyone had gone in different directions. Their values had evolved. Their likes, their dislikes. The words they used, their mannerism. Who they were.

They were all different.

So, it came as no surprise to Stuart that as the evening progressed, he saw some people who were initially immediately thrown back into their prior selves, actually emerge from their old ways, and walk away from their pasts.

After initially standing by some of their school heroes, or bullies, or friends, some pupils realised that they were no longer 'pupils' or their former selves. And they saw that the old school bully who had always scared them was now still tiny, or smelled terribly, or even that previous school heroes were actually cowards, or boring, or that friends who once were, were now no longer friends, simply because they no longer had anything in common. As a result, as the boredom set in, or the initial attractions slowly vapourised, and previous heroes became today's fools, some people just began to walk away from others.

A new group of people formed in the big hall, who joined the lost souls of earlier, and they too began to circulate, and mingle, and attract and detract others.

New relationships were formed: numbers, email addresses, Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp numbers were swapped.

The old world order was turned upside down, and a brave new world was formed.

The beautiful thing about it all was that, without saying much about his past successes, without having arrived in one of the most expensive cars in Scotland, and without anyone realising what he was or who he had become, some of the other pupils he recognised saw him, greeted him, and stopped to talk with him.

Casual conversations were had.

Stories were exchanged.

Memories were shared.

After an hour of just experiencing the Reunion for what it was, Stuart decided to do something positive.

There was someone he wanted to meet.

\-------------------------

The New Portobello High School

At the Bar

20.46

Barry Quinn stood at the bar, waiting for his turn to get a fresh round of drinks for himself and two of his friends.

Stupidly though, he couldn't drink, because he'd decided to drive the Boxster after all.

Irene had sworn there would be no sex for a month, and she was busy getting drunk with her usual friends, and several people Barry couldn't remember at all, but whom Irene had recognised at once and for whom she'd immediately abandoned Barry.

Not only did Irene now think that Barry was a prat of the largest magnitude but Barry also knew that she was right. He'd spent almost a grand hiring the Boxster for one day, thinking it would really set him apart from the others and get everyone saying, ' _Wow... is that Barry driving the Porsche? He must have done well!'_. As it had transpired though, there were another two Boxsters in the car park, seven sports cars, and ten top-end elite cars.

Everyone had had the same idea as him, and far from bragging about it at the bar, those who'd been stupid enough to rent a flash car, were now disowning them as fast as possible.

What a bloody waste of money!

On top of that, both of his friends were giving him a really hard time over the Boxster. The number of flash cars in the car park was the second biggest topic of conversation so far this evening, second only to the video of the man falling of the old school building's roof. When Barry had admitted that one of the Boxsters was his, they'd almost wet themselves laughing. He'd only offered them a drink each to shut them up and give him a chance to escape.

They were both good mates. They'd stayed friends since school, but Barry didn't want to just hang out with them tonight. He wanted to 'mingle'. To see who else was here.

And to find Fiona Lewis.

He also wanted to catch Paul Bentford before his wife did, and then keep an eye on him for the rest of the evening.

While he waited for the drinks to come, Barry thought about the slow dance with Fiona all those years ago. He'd touched many breasts since then, but for some reason, he would never forget that fleeting second when he managed to touch Fiona's nipple, before she'd pushed his hand away.

From that moment forward, Dire Straits, Fiona Lewis and her right breast had been connected in time, and branded indelibly on his mind.

Barry was just beginning to ponder, for the hundredth time that day, just what the possibility of another dance with her might be, and were it to happen, could there possibly, _perhaps_ , be a chance of recreating that wonderful moment from all those years ago?

"Barry Quinn?" A voice suddenly caught him unawares from behind, dragging him back from his daydream. "Is that you?"

Barry turned, recognising the voice immediately, and feeling a surge of panic traverse its way up and down his spine. It was the voice of Peter Black. One of the people Barry least wanted to see this evening.

As he spun around, there was a microsecond of confusion when Barry found no one behind him, but immediately realised that by looking down, - quite far – Peter Black was there, after all.

He had hardly grown at all.

The man was bloody tiny.

"Peter?" Barry questioned himself aloud.

"Aye, that's me. Barry, I recognised you immediately! You haven't changed at all!" Peter said, his eyes lighting up and seeming genuinely pleased to see Barry.

"Neither have you. You've not changed either!" Barry replied. Meaning every word.

Peter moved forward to give Barry a man hug, but Barry was quick enough to thrust out his hand and avert the impending disaster.

"How's life? What have you been up to?" Barry asked, dreading what he was about to hear. Peter had always made Barry feel like a piece of shit. Not by bullying him, really, but just by being so positive about his plans, and all the things he'd wanted to do with his life. Barry didn't have any plans. And hadn't done anything.

"Not much, actually." Peter replied. "Just surviving really, I suppose. And you?"

Barry shrugged his shoulders back.

"Me? Nothing, really. I still just live around the corner from the old secondary school. I've done the same job for the past twenty years. And I'm married with two kids." Barry glanced across at the barman. Where were his drinks?

"Two kids? Wow, that's great." Peter smiled. "I'm jealous. What're their names?"

"Gregor, and Derek. Two boys. Grown up now, one's in third year at Edinburgh Uni, and the other is on a gap year, but going to St. Andrew's next year."

"Both at Uni? That's brilliant! You've done really well."

"Not just me," Barry replied, smiling. "Me and Irene. She's a great mum."

"What, Irene Gillespie?"

"Yes. You remember her?"

"Too right. She was one of the best catches in the year. Bloody hell, Barry. You've done brilliant. I'm really jealous."

"Why? How's things gone for you?"

Just then the drinks arrived.

"Listen, can you hang on a second, I'll just take these two drinks over to my friends, and I'll be straight back."

A moment later, Barry Quinn returned to speak with Peter Black. Voluntarily.

Ten minutes later, Barry began to realise, perhaps for the first time in his life, just how lucky he actually was.

Unlike Peter, he'd never had testicular cancer.

Unlike Peter, his wife had not run off with another man.

Unlike Peter, who'd desperately wanted kids and couldn't have any, Barry'd had two.

And unlike Peter who'd got a high-pressure job in London, just as he'd always planned to, but who'd then hated almost every day of having to commute three hours a day in and out of London, and who was bored to tears with his work, Barry quite liked his job.

Barry's life, it was beginning to seem, was not so bad after all!

\-------------------------

The New Portobello High School

At the Bar

21.05

Fiona Lewis was surrounded by a quorum of giggling 'girls' in the large hall of the new modern secondary school. They were standing in front of a row of tables stretching down one length of the hall, all covered in memorabilia from their days at school, behind which were large boards covered in things stuck to them with pins. There was a lot to see, covering school concerts, sports events and achievements, school musicals put on over the years, news articles about the school, details on school trips abroad: photographs, posters, school prizes, news articles, programmes from the school musicals, large collective pictures of all the pupils in the different years of the school standing in rows, some standing on long wooden banks in the back row, others sitting down in the front row, cross-legged.

There was a board covered with articles on ex-pupils and their achievements in the outside world since graduating: scientists, businessmen, teachers, professors, senior positions in Scottish government, one Member of Parliament.

There was also one board covered with Obituaries of former pupils from their years. Fiona had found this a little morbid, but also very sad. It was constantly surrounded by groups of people chatting and pointing at the pictures.

There were also tears from some who were surprised and shocked to find that an old friend was no longer with them and wouldn't be coming this evening.

Outside the school in the carpark, McKenzie had summoned a quick meeting of his team and the three members of the armed support team. As requested, apart from one, the rest were in civvies. Wishart had thought long and hard about whether there should be any detectable police presence there that evening, but had in the end decided – after talking with the organisers – that they didn't want to alarm anyone unduly. They had agreed a compromise: one visible armed police officer, sitting outside the school in a police car belonging to the armed response team. He was still there, looking ominous, and not welcome at that point in this impromptu meeting.

His presence there was mentioned at the start of the evening in the opening address from the stage in the hall, and had been excused as a necessary precaution for all public meetings taking place in Edinburgh at that time, due to the heightened state of security alert as a result of the Queen's state visit.

Everyone had bought it and seemed unconcerned. However, if the serial killer was amongst them, it was hoped that the armed presence would be a strong deterrent.

"So, has anyone got anything? Any leads? Any thoughts?" he asked the team.

To any passer-by, McKenzie knew they would appear just like a bunch of friends having a drink and smoke outside in the fresh air. They wouldn't warrant a second glance.

No one had anything. Yet.

"Everyone's talking about the video, but as you would expect, no one is aware of who it is or that there was a second death as well. So far, it's an unfortunate suicide. Possibly a school pupil who chose the day to make a statement to everyone attending here tonight. Or possibly just a coincidence." Wishart said.

"Okay, but keep digging. Try to find out casually if anyone had any thoughts about the best or worst teachers in 1993. Or before. Or even after. Any thoughts about Blake or Weir. Or even McRae would be good. Positives or negatives. Grudges, misdemeanours, anything that makes them stand out. And if so, any other names that could be connected with them."

McKenzie knew he was preaching to the converted, and eggs and sucking came to mind, so with no new thoughts coming forward, he was about to dismiss them, when Lynch spoke.

"I was speaking with McLeish just before I left home tonight. We're both still really bothered about something. Not only how did the killer get the body into the school, but how did the killer get them _to_ the school. And the cross. You can't just turn up outside the school in a car, offload two people, and a cross, and not raise any suspicions from passers-by. And even before you get the victims to the school, how do you stop others seeing them in the car?"

"A blacked-out car, or a van?" Anderson suggested.

"Yep, something like that. And when did the killer bring them? At the same time, or one at a time?"

McKenzie nodded. He'd been thinking about this already.

"Great thoughts. I've already got Dean looking at CCTV feeds. I'll ask him to expand his search to vans or large cars acting suspiciously or caught repetitively in the neighbourhood of the school. The question is when should he look at? What time frame? Until we can narrow down a timeframe it's probably too much to ask for. At the moment it's only Dean, and he's focussing on the area around Weir's flat in Leith. This is madness. We need more people on this."

Everyone nodded.

"Okay, point noted. Something we need to progress further. For now, everyone get back in there. Mingle. Listen. Discover. Got it?"

He was just about to clap his hands together, but thought better of it. Instead he smiled at them all.

Everyone headed back inside.

"Fiona? Fiona Lewis? Is that you?"

A man's voice. Strangely familiar. It immediately tickled the memory banks, but it didn't trigger anything fast enough before she turned around and found herself face-to-face with Barry Quinn.

She smiled, and laughed out loud, a little nervously. Another blast from the past. This one perhaps not the most welcome of all.

"Fiona McKenzie, now." She smiled. "Barry, how are you?"

She saw his eyes scan down, taking in Little Bump, and for a brief moment she registered what she could only think was a disappointment in his eyes.

Which was true. Barry couldn't believe how attractive Fiona still looked, but in the smallest instant of time possible, as soon as he saw how large Fiona was at the front, he knew that his outrageous fantasy of possibly snogging Fiona on the dance floor and having a quick 'feel-up' as they used to call it as teenagers, had gone from being not only extremely, _incredibly_ unlikely to just plain impossible.

He couldn't climb over _that_ to get near her, even if he tried.

"Congratulations!" Barry exclaimed, the disappointment in his voice ruining all his attempts to sound enthusiastically surprised.

"Thank you." Fiona smiled, acknowledging his acknowledgment.

"So... how have you been? How's life treated you since school?" Barry asked, moving on, and surprising himself with the sincerity with which he transitioned into the normal mode of questioning for that evening. 'Okay, so Plan A's not happening,' he said to himself, 'but I do actually want to know about her life.'

"Good. University. At Durham. Then some years in London working as an editor in a publishing house in London. Then I moved back up to Edinburgh and started working in a publishing house here. I still do it, sort of freelance."

"Wow. You always loved to read. You were the local book worm!" Barry remembered.

"A few years back I got married, and now we're just about to have Little Bump."

"Boy or girl?"

"It'll be a surprise. We prefer it that way. And you?"

Barry hesitated. This was the bit he was dreading. He had nothing impressive to say.

"I always loved Edinburgh, and could never really face moving away, so I just stayed. I married Irene Gillespie. Do you remember her?"

"Wow. Yes. Congratulations! She was a real catch."

She seemed genuinely happy for him.

Barry felt a warmth inside himself. He'd had this conversation several times this evening so far and everyone always lit up when he talked of Irene, several quite honestly saying that she was a real catch and joking that he'd obviously been punching above his weight.

"Kids?" she asked, her hand stroking the surface of her own huge bump.

"Two... " Barry replied, before launching into an explanation of who his children were. He spoke with genuine pride for them, and even showed Fiona some photos on his phone.

Barry talked of his life since school. Irene. His job. His house. This time all a little more positively than he'd ever described them before.

A sudden feeling of guilt descended upon him. It dawned on him then just stupid he was, and also what a dishonest bastard he was, for fantasising like he had about trying to snog Fiona tonight. Irene had been brilliant to him. And this was how he'd treated her.

"And where is Irene?" Fiona asked.

"Good question," Barry replied, scanning the room urgently.

"Oh, there she is... I think that's her. Over there, talking to Paul Bentford." Fiona pointed across the room.

A sudden quiver of panic shot through Barry as he turned and saw Irene and Paul together. It looked like he was just about to lead her to the dance floor, in response to the band just starting up.

"Fiona, sorry, I'd better go... " Barry started to excuse himself.

What happened next both surprised and pleased Barry.

Fiona reached out and touched him on his arm. At the same time, she leant forward and kissed him gently on the side of the cheek.

"It was a pleasure to see you again, Barry. Good luck! You're a very lucky man. You've been one of the successful ones, obviously. Say 'Hi' to Irene for me."

Barry paused.

Smiled.

And grew up.

He'd been an ungrateful hypocritical, disrespectful prat.

Seconds later he was heading over to Irene to save his marriage, a curious mix of fear and anger surging within him.

Irene Quinn was his, and there's was no way that Paul Bentford was going to cop a quick feel with his wife on the dance floor!

Chapter 17

The New Portobello High School

Saturday

21.15

Willy Thomson hovered on the edge of the dance floor, scanning the faces of everyone to see if there was anyone who he might call a friend. Or for Scott Davies.

He'd recognised quite a few people, but no one that he had anything in common with. He'd also noticed that most people chose not to see him. He'd seen the recognition in their eyes that he existed, but as soon as they clocked him, their eyes diverted in the other direction, or looked through him to an imaginary point beyond.

The only positive to be taken from it all was that people remembered him. Obviously, he'd made an impression on them all those years before, and that impression still remained today.

Surely that was a good thing?

He'd taught them to respect him then, and obviously they still did.

At school, Will had not been the school bully.

There had been a strict pecking order, where a lesser bully looked up to the one above. Typically, the older bullies in the years above were highest in the ranking, but Willy had been different.

Even in his second year of secondary school, with still another two years to go before he could legally leave, and with four years of pupils above him, Willy had been considered the third bully in the school.

People were scared of him.

He was a rough fighter.

And unlike the animal kingdom where most animals didn't fight battles which they might lose in case they got injured and could die from an infection of their wounds, Willy was different. Willy simply 'didn't give a fuck'.

He often fought even when he knew he would lose. Just for the kudos of trying.

For a perverted sense of entertainment.

And to gain respect.

Willy had been fighting all his life.

Life was a battle, after all.

Survival of the fittest.

Before coming this evening, Willy had wondered if he might see Grant Patterson tonight. Or Scott Davies.

Grant had been the No. 1 school bully. Scott had been the second.

Standing on the edge, watching everyone else dance and have fun, Willy was excited.

He was looking for Scott Davies for a reason.

According to the pictures on one of the boards on the edge of the hall – it was a list of former pupils who had kicked the bucket since leaving school – Grant Patterson was now dead. He'd died several years back. There was a newspaper article pinned up, saying he was found dead full of bullet holes. Shot dead in connection with some drug stuff.

Willy had smiled when he'd read that. It meant that he'd just gone up the pecking order. He was now the No 2 Bully.

And if Scott Davies was not around, - maybe if he'd been killed too – then that would make him No 1!

Willy couldn't see him even though he'd been looking.

As he stood scanning the crowd, Will started to feel really edgy. It was the anticipation. He didn't like it.

He needed something to take the edge of it.

His fingers nervously felt the packet in his pocket, which was calling his name.

He'd wanted to keep it till later, to take just before he did what he'd really come here to do this evening.

Maybe he should take it now though. A quick visit to the toilets.

A quick snort.

Then he'd feel brilliant.

And if he did meet Scott Davies, perhaps, he'd take care of him tonight too.

Yeah, that was a good plan.

Willy nodded to himself, smiled, and turned to go and find the bogs.

Almost immediately he bumped into a tall, well-built man in a casual suit standing behind him. Willy was forced to look up into his face to see who it was. A set of perfect white teeth and a tanned face greeted him back.

"Good grief! It's Wee Willy!" the man said.

Willy's fists clenched. No bastard ever called him Wee Willy and got away with it. Wille's willy wasn't wee. It was massive... At school people had stopped daring to call him that, thanks to the lessons he'd dealt out to anyone who had.

Looking up at this guy in front of him though, Willy wondered if he'd be able to give this guy a kicking or not. He wasn't only tall, but he was obviously very fit.

"You don't recognise me, do you, wee Willy?"

"Dinnae call me that, pal."

"Or what?" the man smiled back.

"I'll _do_ you."

The man laughed.

"You and whose army?"

Willy's mind froze. The expression the man had used immediately recalled memories.

"I wondered if you'd remember that, _Wee_ Willy."

"Dinna CALL me that, ya bampot!" Willy threatened again, squaring his shoulders and trying to be as tall as possible. "And no, I canna remember who the hell you are. Should I?"

"Scott Davies."

Willy froze.

"What? Scott Davies? Ye canna be. He wis small and fat!"

"Yes, about twenty-five years ago. People grow up. Well, not everyone. You didn't, did you, _Wee_ Willy?"

"Scott? What happened to you? You're massive!" Willy asked, now genuinely in awe of how one person could change so much. He looked nothing like the Scott Davies he'd remembered.

"Fancy a drink, Wee Willy? Do you want to go to the bar?" Scott asked, surprising Willy altogether.

"Aye... actually, aye, that wid be braw."

They left the noisy hall and the dance music playing over the speakers and made their way to the bar in one of the rooms at the back.

"Vodka, whisky or beer? Or all three?" Scott asked.

"All three, if you're serious!" Willy laughed.

"In one glass, or three?"

Willy thought about it for a second.

"One. It's a party, isn't it?"

"Ah... so it's Mad Wee Willy, then. Not just 'Wee'."

Willy hesitated.

"I was just joking. Gees a beer."

_"Please_?"

"Aye, please."

Scott got two beers and then moved across the bar area to a table and sat down.

"Did you hear about Grant?" Willy asked, lifting up the beer and 'cheersing' Scott's bottle by banging it on the bottom.

"Yep. What a waste. Stupid bastard. So, how are you Willy, what are you up to?"

"You know, surviving. Apart from that, nothing special. And you? Are you still up to no good? I haven't heard about you in years. I thought you might have gone inside, or something."

"You thought I'd been sent down. To jail?"

"Aye."

"Far from it. I thought you knew... "

"Knew what?"

"I left school, gave up pissing around, and decided to make a go of my life. No more messing around, or hanging around with neds like you."

"I'm no a ned."

"Course you are. But's it's still possible to change. If I managed to, so can you!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I gave up being a loser, and became a winner."

"How?" Willy laughed. "Life ain't that simple, mate."

"I never said it was simple, Willy. I just said I did it."

"So, what was this big thing you did then? How did you ' _change_ ' your life?" Willy asked, mimicking two big inverted commas in the air when he said the word change.

"My dad convinced me that I needed to get a trade. You and me obviously weren't the brains of the school back then, but that didn't mean we were stupid, did it? It just meant we weren't good at school stuff. So I left, got an apprenticeship and became a plumber. Then after working for other plumbers for years, I realised that instead of working for others, it would be better if I could get others working for me. So I quit, set up 'Portobello Plumbers' and I've never looked back!"

"What?" Willy's jaw dropped. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You OWN PORTOBELLO PLUMBING?"

"Yes."

"But that's massive. You're bloody everywhere... I was in Glasgow last year, and I saw the adverts everywhere... !"

"Yep. We've got forty shops and plumbing centres across Scotland and the North of England. And we're expanding south."

"You must be bloody minted!" Willy couldn't believe his ears.

"I am." Scott replied, without blinking, or smiling.

Just a simple acknowledgement of the truth.

"Shit... that's amazing."

"Why, Willy? Why's it amazing?"

"Because... "

"Because you and I were no-hopers? Stupid-wee-bastards that everyone else had given up on? Listen to me, Willy,... " Scott said, leaning forward and resting his hand upon Willy's. "In this life, you can have anything you want. Anything. If you work hard, are willing to learn, and you're no afraid to take some gambles along the way. As long as you don't stop believing in yourself, you can do anything you want."

Willy was silent. Something amazing had happened to Scott Davies. The guy oozed power and charisma and wealth. And with his hand resting lightly on his, Willy felt a strange, intense intimacy that was really unsettling him to his core. Scott was speaking not to Willy, but right into him. Messing with his mind. Stirring up the emotions deep inside him.

Challenging him.

"Willy, I know what you're thinking. But don't think like that. No man is a loser. He loses ONLY if he wants to. One man, any man, no matter what background he comes from, can change the world. Think of all the world's greatest leaders. They were just simple men, from simple backgrounds. Then they rose, became better versions of themselves, and became leaders of men. They changed, and became great. And so can you, Willy. So can _you_!"

Willy shivered. He pulled his hand away from under Scott's, and stood up.

He suddenly felt really uncomfortable.

"What are you doing? Are you gay or something?"

Scott laughed.

"See that woman over there at the bar, surrounded by those men? That's my wife. She was Miss Scotland five years ago. Now she's the mother of my two children."

"Wow... " Willy uttered, glancing across at the most lovely woman he'd ever seen.

"Okay, Willy, it was nice to see you." Scott said, pushing back in his chair, standing up and taking another drink of the beer. He put it back down on the table. The bottle was only half-empty.

"You going?" Willy replied, suddenly feeling that he didn't want Scot to leave.

"Got to. Sorry. I need to do the rounds and talk with a few others. Listen, I wanted to see you tonight, Willy. I remember you. And I wanted to say something to you. Everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone. And no one is ever too old to learn. I believe that. I'm recruiting for my apprenticeship scheme. It's a special scheme to give back to the community. I'm offering a second chance to people who have the balls to take their life and turn it around. Who believe in themselves."

"What are you saying? I don't understand!" Willy shook his head, suddenly feeling under pressure.

"You still think you're a loser Willy. Always have, and still do. But I think there's something more in you than that. You just need a good break and some support and encouragement. I've got a team of people who can help you become more than you are. If you want."

"Become what?"

"A plumber. Get a trade, Willy. Learn to work with your hands and your brain. And then take charge of your own future!"

Scott was holding out his hand. He was offering him a business card.

"Think about it, Willy. And if you're willing to make a fresh start, willing to learn and willing to work HARD, then call this number. Someone will take care of you, and you won't regret it."

Willy took the card and stared at it.

His hands were shaking.

"Okay, well, I've said my piece, Willy. The rest is up to you. I wish you well!"

And with that, Scott smiled, turned and walked away towards Miss Scotland, who'd broken off from those lusting around her, and was now waiting attentively for her husband to join her.

Willy just stood there, gawping after them, his jaw wide open.

A moment later, the crowds of ex-pupils closed around Scott and his wife and and they were gone.

When Willy sat back down in his chair, he was shaking.

He tried to swallow but found he couldn't.

Ten minutes later, he was still just sitting here.

Emotionally a wreck. Feeling vulnerable. Overpowered. And challenged.

The past ten minutes had been the most intense in his life.

Wee Willy had just been offered a chance to become Big Willy.

To shake off his past life, and reach for a new life in the future.

For the first time in his life, Willy was really scared.

Chapter 18

The New Portobello High School

Saturday

21.45

"Hi Everybody!" the voice boomed from the stage at the end of the hall. "Can I ask one of the stewards at the back to round up everyone from the bar and the foyer and bring them in here? It's time for a few wee speeches. And then, afterwards, we'll introduce the surprise band for this evening, and we'll start rocking the rest of the night away!"

The hall immediately started to fill up with the people from the bar, and soon all eyes were on the speaker on the stage.

"My name is Sofia Waterson. I'm head of the organising committee for this evening. It's been years in planning, but it's paid off. I can't believe we've got so many ex-pupils back here from 1991-1993 all at the same time. I hope you're all meeting up with old friends, and having a great time!"

"Okay, so before I invite the organising committee up on stage for a quick round of applause, I do want to acknowledge the incredible sponsorship we received for this evening which actually all came from the generosity of one man. He's an ex-pupil of the school who's become a great success. You can see on the posters and the advertising that its all come from Ben Venue Capital Assets, and originally the owner had agreed to come up here and make a speech to you all and announce the surprise band for this evening, but earlier this evening he changed his mind. He said, and I quote, ' _This event is not about any one person, it's about everyone here. About the school and the pupils_.' So, he's chosen to remain anonymous and not take any credit for this evening. Frankly, I've been blown away by his generosity. Not only has he agreed to cover ALL costs for this evening, but he's also agreed to pay for another event next year, for all the pupils from 1994 to 1996! Now, one last thing about the generosity of this man which I know _is_ going to blow you away and make you cheer wildly and give him a huge round of applause – whoever he really is \- is that once the band starts playing, it's going to be an open bar. In other words, drinks will be on the house!"

There was suddenly a huge cheer and as predicted, a wild round of applause.

At the back of the hall, Stuart Nisbet joined in with everyone else.

"Okay, but before you rush back to the bar, I also want to say thanks to the organising committee, now assembled in front of you. You might recognise a few friends and familiar faces."

Sofia gestured to a line of people who'd made their way quietly up on to the stage. She then ran through a few names, noting their responsibilities and asking for a token show of appreciation. Several rounds of applause ensued.

"Okay, now I would like to invite one of our old teachers up on to the stage to say a few words and introduce the band. We did ask the Headmaster from 1991- 1993 to come and say something this evening but he couldn't make it. He sends his regards. Instead, I'd like to hand you over to Jason McIntosh, who you know taught maths to most of us."

She gestured to a man in front of the stage and he walked up a few wooden steps and took to the microphone.

"Wow. I can't believe tonight. What a fantastic event. Personally, I'm finding it all a bit emotional. So many faces that I've recognised. But they're not just faces. They're success stories. I am so proud to have taught at Portobello High School. In my opinion, probably the best Secondary School in the whole of Scotland!"

There was a spontaneous outburst of cheers and massive applause.

When it died down, Jason went on to give an emotional speech about the opportunities that the old school had given everyone, how it had helped change and form lives, turning children into valuable members of society. Creating happiness. Creating opportunities. Creating successful people with the right attitudes in today's society.

The speech touched all those who listened, and many of those in the audience found themselves with wet eyes, and tears rolling down their cheeks.

Everyone who listened to Jason speak, agreed with everything he said.

Everyone apart from one person.

Willy Thomson stood at the back of the hall, nursing a whisky, and seething with anger and hate.

The bastard on the stage in front was top of Willy's list for a doing. Before Willy had come, he'd made a mental list of three names as candidates for the main activity Willy had enthusiastically planned for later this evening.

Although there were a lot of former teachers milling around, two of the teachers he'd marked for personal revenge didn't seem to have turned up.

Only one had.

And he was now standing on the stage in front of him.

Spouting drivel and talking a right pile of shite.

But as he listened to him drone, Willy's anger was conflicted.

He was confused.

He was glad to see Jason McIntosh, and relished the opportunity which he now had to definitely take revenge and to kill the bastard later that evening.

However, since talking to Scott, his mind had been all over the place.

Scott had offered him help.

A new future.

An opportunity which Willy instinctively knew would never come again.

Willy had a shit life.

But Scott's words and offer had really inspired him.

As Willy watched and listened to Jason McIntosh continue to talk, his mind went round and round.

_"Do I kill the bastard and get the ultimate street cred I deserve, or do I let the bastard live and accept the help Scott offered_?"

The whisky didn't help make his thinking much clearer, either. For a moment he considered stopping with the drink. But the words 'free' resounded in his mind.

For Willy this was turning into a truly amazing night of opportunity.

An opportunity of a new life, as much drink as he could swallow, and the chance to kill one of the teachers who Willy blamed more than all the others for being personally responsible for Willy's especially fucked up life!

"Okay, that's enough from me. Now I know it's the moment a lot of you've been waiting for... " Jason began to round his speech of. "I was going to do it myself, but then I just saw Loudon Galloway standing down there... who was Head Boy in 1993! Let me invite him up here to introduce the band... "

There was a small moment of confusion as the running order of the speeches was changed, and the 'big announcement' was delayed once again, but then within a few seconds, the old Head Boy of Portobello High School in 1993 was up on stage and everyone was cheering.

Sadly, the years had not been good to Loudon Galloway. Once a fit, handsome man popular with everyone in the year, and voted for as much for his looks as his personality, the man on stage was now fat, bald, and so drunk he could hardly speak.

He managed to say a few almost unintelligible words, before mentioning the name of a band which everyone immediately recognised.

"RunRig!"

Everyone went wild.

How on earth the school Reunion committee had managed to book what was one of the biggest bands in Scotland in 1993 and was still popular today, was incredible.

A moment later, the band burst out onto the stage, picked up their waiting instruments, and everyone went crazy.

An already good evening had just got ten times better!

\-------------------------

Stuart Nisbet smiled to himself. He'd done the right thing. Three times.

From the way everyone had reacted, calling on a few personal favours and pulling a few strings in order to book RunRig had obviously been the right thing to do.

That was the first thing.

The second decision had been a long time coming, actually.

He'd called up his two girlfriends and suggested they shouldn't see each other anymore.

Stuart knew they weren't real girlfriends. He had been interested in just one thing from them, and in return, they had wanted just one thing from him.

Originally, he had imagined turning up here tonight with both of them on his arms, each of them looking stunning, and wearing clothes which showed of all the assets they had.

Stuart was after all, an expert asset manager.

Somehow however, that plan now just seemed totally superficial. And wrong. So Stuart had axed it. And them.

The third decision was even better.

When he'd originally approached the organising committee and offered to sponsor the Reunion Ball, it was because he'd wanted to get as much publicity as possible for himself. For a long time, he'd dreamt about standing on the stage and bragging about how his company had been the only sponsor for the evening, and how his personal success had enabled him to splash the cash in order to make everyone else happy. The whole thing had been about him, and his plan to show off. To tell the world how great he was.

Earlier that afternoon though, everything had changed.

Everything.

Now, he knew that his original plan had been wrong.

None of this was about him.

And making it about him would be pointless. Wrong. Stupid.

Something _had_ changed in Stuart earlier that afternoon. Something fundamental.

Exactly what, he didn't know.

Who he had changed to, he didn't recognise.

Who he would become, was exciting, but unknown.

Stuart knew that he'd been lucky in life. But instead of rubbing other people's noses in his personal success, how much better would it be if he used his success to help others?

Earlier that day, Stuart had realised that the pursuit of _wealth_ did not make anyone happy. It was the hard work en route which did. It was the journey, not the destination.

Stuart also realised that although he had so much, he also had so little.

If he offered to share what he had, perhaps he could persuade others to share with him, some of what they had?

His thoughts were not yet perfectly formed, he admitted to himself, but they were... _interesting_.

The others around him, most of whom were very poor, seemed to be a lot happier than he was. Almost everything that he wanted and still lacked, they had. So how could he boast that _he_ had so much, when in comparison, he felt he had so little?

He had nothing to show off to them.

They on the other hand had a lot to show off to him.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

A woman's voice. Soft and gentle.

Stuart turned to his right, and was met by two beautiful green eyes, level with his own.

"You probably don't remember me, Stuart, but I remember you. You owe me 50p."

Stuart laughed, and screwed his face up in an obvious effort to try and remember the name of his creditor.

"And that's not to mention the interest, which I think probably comes to about £3000, at the extortionate rate of interest which you agreed to." Her eyes twinkled when she laughed.

"Sonya?"

"No!" the woman hit him playfully on his arm. "Marie McDonald. I sat in front of you in the German class in second year, and you were always flicking rubber bands into my hair. And you borrowed 50p one day to catch the No 5 bus into town, but never paid it back."

Slowly recognition dawned on Stuart. A faint memory of a rather spotty, gangly girl about thirteen years old, with the same infectious laugh.

"Marie?" Stuart turned around to face her full on, his body language now transformed.

For a second he considered reaching for his wallet and pulling out the pretentious wad of notes he always carried, and offering to make a settlement on the money he owed her. But he stopped short of doing it, remembering that such ostentatious behaviour was now consigned to his former self.

"Wow. You've changed. A lot." Stuart stumbled. "And I mean for the better."

"For the better? So, you mean I was a horrible toad before, small and ugly... ?"

"No, I mean, that... " Stuart started to dig a hole for himself, then decided to go for it. "Actually, yes, I do mean that. The last I can remember of you in German class, you were small and toad-like... " he said, smiling, "but now... wow... you've turned into a beautiful princess. Presumably because some handsome prince, now your husband, has kissed you?"

Marie blushed slightly, and Stuart found her reaction strangely endearing.

"I don't believe in fairy tales. At least, not ones like that."

"So, there's no husband or kids?" Stuart asked, rather forwardly.

"No. Not yet. But I do have about ninety children."

Marie watched the reaction on his face, and laughed again.

"It's a long story." She added.

"I'd like to hear it. Can I get you a drink from the bar? And perhaps we could sit down in the Chill-Out Zone next door away from the band. I used to love this music, but for some reason, just now I'd rather listen to Marie McDonald than them."

It was a little bit forward, Stuart knew, but it came out before he could stop himself.

Marie's eye twinkled again in the disco lights which were now sweeping the dance-floor, and for a moment Stuart saw a rush of thoughts pass through her mind. A moment's hesitation.

Followed by a nod.

And a smile.

"But you're paying. After all, you owe me £3000."

Chapter 19

The Dungeon

Saturday

22.45

Mark McRae staggered to his feet and held out his hands in obedience to the commands just issued to him. The Indian stood in front of him, threatening Mark with the cattle prod.

"I'm going to put this blindfold back on you. The other guy doesn't need it anymore and you can have it again. Then I'll unshackle you from the pipes, and we're going to go for a walk. If you try anything, I'll use this and then bring you back here, and leave you alone for a week. Do you understand me?"

The Indian's voice was deep, and as he listened to every word he said, Mark desperately tried to place it. Surely he knew the man? Why on earth would a stranger be treating him like this?

Try as he might though, Mark couldn't place it.

Mark took a few steps forward and then stumbled. He felt so weak.

"Water... " he tried to utter, hoping that his captor would take some form of pity on him, and let him drink something.

"What did you say? Did you just try to speak with me?" the Indian bellowed.

Mark was desperate for water, but the imminent threat of the cattle prod being used again drove him to shake his head instead. Silently. With no further effort to speak.

"Just in case, I'm going to put a gag in your mouth." The Indian said, then pulled a cloth out a pocket, and forced it roughly into Mark's mouth.

Then, a moment later, the blindfold was once again thrust onto his head and the world went black. He felt a tug on his hands as the chain around his wrists was yanked several times, and Mark realised that he was free from the pipe, although the handcuffs still held his wrists tightly together.

He felt a push from behind, and he stumbled forward, a powerful hand catching him by the elbow just as he worried he would fall forward onto his face.

"Watch out for the steps. You'll go up them slowly, and I'll guide you forward. It's about a ten-minute walk, and then we'll have some more stairs. You won't make a sound. If you try to talk, cough, or even fart, I'll stick this cattle prod so far up your backside, I'll fry your kidneys from the inside out. Do you get me?"

Mark nodded.

Then he started to inch his way forward towards the ladder.

Fear once again started to course its way through his veins.

A cold, silent fear that engulfed him and amplified itself with every step he took.

A few days before he'd watched the other two leave, just like this.

Neither had come back.

\-------------------------

McKenzie watched his wife with admiration as he saw her mingle with the other old pupils of the school.

She seemed to have many friends, and those she spoke with seemed genuinely pleased to see her again.

McKenzie also couldn't keep his eyes of Little Bump. It was growing every day, and standing on the side of the dance floor, watching Fiona stroking her stomach, McKenzie felt incredibly proud and happy.

The past few months with Fiona had been brilliant.

A man could not have a better wife than her, and he knew it.

He was a very lucky man.

Unfortunately however, their investigations this evening were not being so 'lucky'. They were all drawing a blank.

Conversations about old teachers, and the antics that everyone used to get up to in school were all over the place. His team were finding it easy to drop Weir's or Blake's names into a conversation and fish for results, but so far, no one had volunteered any information or reason which could for one second, suggest a motive for an ex-pupil - or another teacher - to want to kill them.

Both teachers had been popular. Well liked. And seemingly very good at their jobs.

So far, the main reason for the team being here was drawing a huge blank.

McKenzie was beginning to feel like nothing was going to happen this evening. He was even tempted to let everyone relax and have a drink.

That thought was crushed, however, the moment he set eyes on Willy Thomson who'd just walked into the back of the main hall.

Slimy and as gormless looking as usual, McKenzie recognised him immediately. Willy and McKenzie had form together. He'd been one of McKenzie's first arrests, and they'd hated each other ever since.

Too late, Willy saw McKenzie approaching.

"So, William Thomson. What brings you to the ball tonight?"

"Went to Porty, didn't I? Got a right to be here."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. William Thomson defending his right to be in a school? Without stealing anything?"

Almost as an afterthought McKenzie raised his eyebrows to question Willy.

"No. Ain't stolen nowt. I just wanted to be back at the school. See my mates an stuff."

"William, I'm sorry to have to break the news to you, but as far I can recall, you _'ain't got no mates_!'"

"Listen, Detective Superindependent McKenzie, or whatever you call yourself nowadays, I ain't done nothing, so back off. Leave me alone to enjoy the night, okay?"

McKenzie studied him for a second.

"Who were your favourite teachers at school, Willy?" McKenzie asked.

"Didn't have any. I weren't anyone's teacher's pet."

"Okay, so which teachers did you like the least. Even hate, maybe?"

"All of them."

"Any of them in particular?"

"Why?"

"Nope. They were all the same. Bastards all of them. They were all so full of themselves, and none o'them could teach for shit."

"In _your_ opinion."

"Exactly."

"It's nothing personal, William Thomson, but you must admit that wherever you go, trouble is not far behind. So, I just want to say this to you, and I want you to listen hard. If there's any trouble tonight, if there's any fighting, if anyone's hurt, and particularly if any of the _teachers_ are _hurt_ , I'll be looking for you. You understand?"

Willy Thomson stared at DCI McKenzie.

It was almost as if he _knew_.

But how?

How did he know what Willy had been wanting to do tonight?

"See you, you've got me all wrong, DCI Bloody Pie-in-the-sky McKenzie! I've gone straight, I have. I'm getting myself a trade. And I'm gonna get rich. So bloody leave me alone and go find some real criminals!"

Willy had said the words without realising it, but once they were out, they excited him.

It seemed that tonight, the bloody universe was conspiring against him, trying to steer him onto a new track, forcing him down the path of the straight and narrow.

Obviously, any plans he'd had for sticking an old teacher later tonight would have to be put on ice for now. McKenzie would be after him in a second if anything bad happened. Plus, since he'd bumped into Scott Davies, he'd been unable to think of anything else except what they'd talked about.

It was quite exciting really. Tonight was the night that Willy Thomson's life was going to change.

Maybe in a few years he'd be able to come back to the next school Reunion and turn up in a fast car... a big red one... just like those that everyone else had brought with them tonight.

Willy Thomson smiled at the thought.

Yep, the future was looking so bright, he needed sun glasses!

\-------------------------

Saturday

22.55

McKenzie's phone buzzed in his pocket, and after checking the caller display, he apologised to Fiona and the couple she'd just introduced him to, and hurried outside into the foyer.

"Guv, hi, it's DI Dean. You told me to call you on your mobile if I got anything."

"Fraser, it's almost eleven? Are you still at it?"

"Yes, Guv."

"It's appreciated. Thanks. So, what have you got then?" McKenzie was impressed, and grateful. The man had been watching CCTV images for hours, and should have knocked off ages ago.

"A white van. Seen twice at the school today on the road outside, and also passing through a traffic light at a junction in Leith about five minutes before you said you left the flat. I can't get it any closer to you in Leith at the moment, but I thought it might be worth mentioning, because the same van was reported stolen about two weeks ago."

"Interesting." McKenzie pondered the news for a second. "And yesterday or Thursday?"

"Nothing, Guv. As soon as I got the match for today, I double-checked for the past few days. I couldn't find any reports of that van in the vicinity of the school in the past few days. I've picked it up a couple of times in Portobello,... "

"But since that's the main road in and out of Edinburgh, that doesn't mean too much."

"Yes, I was just about to say that."

"And what do we know about the owner who reported it missing?"

"Definitely not a suspect. An older man, about sixty-three years old. He's been freaking out about the loss of his van, and the impact it's had on his small business. He called to report the van missing within hours of it being stolen, as soon he noticed it had gone."

"Okay, good. Keep trying to tie that van closer to the flat in Leith, any closer sightings if possible... and also keep looking for any other vehicles, just in case the van has nothing to do with it. And last thing, put an alert out on that van, and if anyone spots it, or any automatic alerts come through from the ANPR system, let me know."

"Will do, Guv."

"Good work, DI Dean. Thanks!"

\-------------------------

Saturday

23.05

Barry Quinn sat at the bar, getting drunk.

He hadn't seen Irene in over an hour. The last he'd seen of her was when she'd disappeared onto the dance floor with Paul Bentford. His first instinct had been to go over to them, warn Paul off and then grab his wife.

_His_ wife.

But as he'd stepped onto the dance floor, he'd hesitated. Something held him back.

What would he gain by forcibly preventing anything between Irene and Paul? If she wanted to be with _him_ , rather than himself, then he should let her.

Surely it was better to find out now, than continue to live a lie.

So, instead, perhaps rather stupidly, he'd let Paul put his arm around his wife and guide her into the mass of frolicking party goers.

Standing on the side, he'd watched them dance together.

Not once had Irene looked around to see where her husband was.

Then, when the dance had finished, she'd stayed for another.

Barry had felt a mixture of emotions as he'd seen Paul wrap his arm around Irene and pull her a little closer.

Forlornly Barry had hoped that Irene would push him away and establish a safer distance between them.

Instead she'd thrown her head backwards and laughed, loving the moment.

Faster and faster they had danced.

And then it had happened.

Paul had leant forward and kissed Irene on her cheek.

It was only a small kiss, but after he had withdrawn, Irene had looked up at Paul, adoringly, then after a moment, she'd had moved towards him and kissed him on the cheek back.

It was as if someone had stuck a spear in Barry's heart.

He couldn't quite believe it.

He'd stared, at first in disbelief, then in acceptance.

Then the realisation dawned on him that he deserved it.

After all, he'd been fantasising about doing the same with Fiona Lewis.

He couldn't watch any more.

He'd turned around and left the hall.

At first, he'd left the building and gone for a walk to cool down, calm down and think about what he'd seen.

Then he'd returned to the school, headed to the bar, and lined up a series of drinks.

Sometimes it is only when you've lost something, or someone, that you realise what you truly had.

Too late, Barry Quinn had found out exactly how much Irene had meant to him, and just how good their life together had been - until then.

It was funny how things worked out.

All the time he'd been a success, he'd thought himself a failure.

Then, just as he realised how much of a success he actually was, his life had collapsed around him, and he'd become the failure he'd always been scared of being.

\-------------------------

Saturday

23.10

Marie and Stuart edged their way slowly along the side of the dance hall, looking at the tables of memorabilia and the displays of posters and pictures stuck to the vertical boards which lined its perimeter.

The lighting was subdued now, so Stuart used the torch function on his mobile to cast some light on the information they read together.

They'd been chatting and dancing together for over an hour, and in truth, they were getting on really well.

Surprisingly well.

Neither wanted to say it, but both felt it.

There was the spark of a connection between them.

They were enjoying each other's company.

"It's really strange, looking at all these photographs, and so-called memorabilia. How can they be 'memorabilia' when to me it's all just like yesterday? Where have all the years gone? How can this have happened to us?" Stuart mused, as he stood side by side with Marie and they edged along the displays.

"Sometimes I think that too. My memories of school are so vivid, but then I think of the years in between and all the things I've done since then, and I realise that time _has_ passed. And the years have just flown by."

"True. So, I would love to hear all about what you've done since... " Stuart's voice trailed off, and his facial expression changed dramatically.

An intense show of sadness had just swept away the smile which Marie was quickly falling in love with.

"Stuart, what's the matter?" she asked, then followed his gaze to the board and what he was looking at. It was the section that talked about former pupils who had died and were not coming tonight.

"Maggie Sutherland. She's dead." Stuart said, pointing to the photograph of a lovely young woman on the board.

"I remember her... she was in Crighton House, I think. She's dead... ? How?"

Marie bent forward studying the photograph. "What a shame... "

Stuart stood up straight, his eyes narrowing.

"Marie, do you mind if I have a moment to myself? I think I'd just like to step outside and get a breath of fresh air."

"Certainly. No problem." She replied, looking at him, concerned. "Are you okay?"

"It's a bit of a shock. That's all." He turned to Marie and smiled at her. A beautiful smile. Reaching out, he touched her gently on the shoulder. "I just need a few moments. But please don't go away. How about we meet in the bar in ten minutes?"

Marie nodded and gave a quick fleeting smile in return.

When Stuart turned and left, Marie glanced back at the board, wondering if there was any more information about why she'd died.

There was none.

Just then, two voices called her name from behind her. She turned round to find two girls on her right, and a man on her left all vying for her attention.

"Marie McDonald? Where on earth have you been all these years?"

\-------------------------

Saturday

23.15

As the group of people in front of them moved away from the boards on the side of the hall, McKenzie and Wishart moved into the gap to take their place.

"I'm sorry that we've messed up your school Reunion, Shona. I know you were coming anyway. Same for Sergeant Anderson. I hope that you are at least managing to have some decent conversations with friends?"

"Yes, it's a bit of a pain not being able to drink all the free champagne which is being handed out at the bar, but hey, I guess that's the way the cookie crumbles."

"One of the great perks of the job." McKenzie nodded, sarcastically.

"Anyway, Guv, this is what I wanted to show you. This is the Remembrance Board, which shows the pupils and teachers who have passed away and couldn't make it today. I've taken some snaps, so we car share them with the team later, but I thought it might help the work that McLeish is doing in identifying any previous deaths amongst the past pupils etc." Wishart gestured at the board.

"Absolutely, I saw this already, and I noted that it doesn't really give much information on the 'why' some of them died. A couple died of cancer in relatively quick succession, and one in a car accident, but the rest are a bit vague."

"Do you want me to do some digging? Get some more details if possible?"

McKenzie nodded.

"Did you know any of them? Were you close to anyone of them?" he asked Wishart.

She pointed to a picture of one of the boys.

"I fancied him, I have to admit. We were close for a few weeks. It was a very fleeting thing. We were only fourteen. But you never forget...

"Your first kiss?"

Wishart nodded, now silent, and biting her tongue.

"I'm sorry."

"He had cancer. And a wife and two teenagers."

McKenzie never said anything. He just nodded silently.

They turned their backs to the board and faced the revellers.

"So, Shona, did you come here alone tonight? Or were you meant to meet up with friends?" McKenzie asked DS Wishart.

"My partner hates Reunions. He refused to come. So I arranged to come with two of the girls. They're over there, Karen and Sally." Wishart pointed to two girls dancing with two men near the stage.

"Oops, just got a message... " McKenzie pulled out his mobile. "Two messages from Dean."

The first message was good news.

"I've got more CCTV of the van actually in Weir's street in Leith."

The second was even better.

"Call me. We've found the van!"

Chapter 20

The Dungeon

Saturday

23.25

Mark had fallen twice, each time heavily.

He'd almost definitely broken a couple of fingers on his left hand, and the pain swept over him in waves.

"Move!" the voice commanded from behind, a hand on his shoulder urging him forward.

Twice he'd felt the cattle prod in his back, but thankfully each time it had just been to urge him on, and he'd not been subject to the electricity shooting through his body.

Mark was trying his best to comply with the instructions issued.

"Bend down a little... move forward, turn to your left, turn to your right. Slowly, lift up your feet... there's a pipe there, step over it carefully... straighten up."

Mark was exhausted, ravished with thirst beyond belief. Before now, Mark had never been truly thirsty in his life. Not like this.

His tongue was swollen, his eyelids half-closed, his throat so dry that it felt like it was made of wood.

They'd been walking for about ten minutes now, slowly, negotiating a range of unseen hurdles.

Even though Mark wore a blindfold, he could tell that they were still in pitch black. There was no extraneous light trying to fight its way through an edge, or no faint glow beyond the darkness of the cloth.

With his eyes-blindfolded, and sitting in the dark for what must have been days, his other senses had become acute. He'd never realised how sensitive human skin was... he could feel the slightest variations in heat and cold across his body, and whenever a drop of water fell from above onto his skin, he'd feel it crashing against his body.

His hearing was now amazing. Like a bat, he could sense when objects where near or far, and all around him he could hear water dripping from the ceiling, or the occasional scurrying of an animal somewhere around them.

Mark knew he had to be in some sort of tunnel, or narrow corridor. He could hear the echoes of their movements reverberating off the walls on either side of them, and occasionally directly in front, just before he guessed they would have to turn a corner.

"Stop!" the voice had commanded.

Immediate obedience, Barry paused, awaiting his next instruction, and forming a shape in mid-air like the game of statues which they'd played as children growing up.

For a few minutes they did not move, listening or waiting for something to happen, Mark didn't know what.

"Okay. Carry on. _Quietly_." His captor commanded. The voice was once more accompanied by the tip of the cattle-prod, but again without any charge being applied.

Mark's brain was racing. Why the brutality before, but not now?

Then it dawned on him.

His captor was worried that someone might hear them!

Perhaps, if Mark somehow made enough noise, someone would hear it.

Maybe, if he kicked the next pipe, as loud as possible?

This was his chance!

It was a risk. If he was wrong, if it didn't work, then with absolute certainty the cattle prod would be applied at its maximum setting.

Mark knew it.

"But without the risk of pain, there could be no gain!"

The thought rushed through his brain, appearing from out of nowhere, either mocking himself or encouraging him, Mark was not sure either way.

It took a few seconds to make the decision, to risk everything for the slightest possibility of being heard, and rescued, but once he'd made it, Mark felt a wave of adrenaline course through his body.

He primed himself, ready to kick the next pipe they passed.

It would be all or nothing.

Perhaps the last chance he might have.

Slowly he let the tension and energy build up within him.

Any.

Second.

Now...

\-------------------------

Saturday

23.35

Outside the school Stuart had taken some time remembering Maggie Sutherland. The announcement on the board hadn't said why or how she'd died, but Stuart would find out, and send some flowers to her grave, wherever it was.

Stuart couldn't believe she was gone.

Over the years he'd thought a lot about her. In Afghanistan his thoughts about her had bordered on obsession, but in Afghanistan an obsession like that had been healthy. It had kept many a man sane: pick an emotional moment with a woman - or a man – and replay that moment in your mind over and over again. Perhaps each time, twisting the reality of the memory slightly, morphing it from one truth to another, evolving the reality from a kiss, to a full-blown phantasy sex session that last not seconds, but hours.

In Afghanistan, where details had been missing, they'd had months to imagine every single new pixel, fitting each of them together, perfectly.

More than one wet dream had ensued. Sleep and dreams had become a man's best friend.

For Stuart, Maggie Sutherland had been his mental pin-up, the girl-at-home whom one day he would track down and marry.

In reality, it never happened.

He'd survived Afghanistan.

He'd returned to the UK.

Met first one girl. Then another.

And the insecurities which had surrounded him around Maggie at school, had once again kept him from finding or calling her.

Tonight though, he had promised himself that he'd tell her the truth.

How he'd felt about her.

He knew that the reality would be that she'd be married, with children, but he was still going to find a moment, and tell her just how he'd felt.

And to thank her personally for helping him survive Afghanistan.

Without the memory of her, he would not have made it, of that he was sure.

Discovering as he had just done, that she was dead... several years ago, without him knowing, rocked him to the core.

Whatever had killed her, she had died without knowing just how important she'd been to him.

He cursed himself for not having done anything about it sooner.

And now... it was too late.

Maggie Sutherland was gone.

\-------------------------

Saturday

23.45

Fiona McKenzie rested a hand upon her husband's shoulder, and as he turned she planted a huge kiss on his lips.

For most of the evening, their conversations had only been short and sweet as their two ships had passed on the dance floor, or in the bar.

McKenzie had done his best to keep her hydrated and her glass topped up with water, but she understood that he was on duty tonight and although she missed him, she was not mad.

She was a policeman's wife and she had long ago learned to accept it.

Along with all the inconveniences that came with the job.

The past few years had been difficult, but they had come through them together, and now they were stronger than ever.

Of that she was sure.

In less than six weeks, they would be having a baby together, and Fiona McKenzie could not be happier.

She was enjoying every single second of her pregnancy.

A couple of times this evening she had cast a glance over to her husband as he'd been talking to others, and she loved the feeling of pride that surged within her.

He was a good-looking man, commanded respected from all those around him, and was doing an important job.

"Did you see the year photos?" Fiona whispered in his ear so he could hear her above the last few songs from RunRig.

"Nope... you want me to guess which one is you?" McKenzie laughed, nodding at Anderson and breaking away from him, their conversation now over.

Fiona took his hand, and guided him towards the last of the boards nearest the stage, right under one of the stacks of speakers which was blasting away at full volume.

"That one, top right, in the middle. That's our year photograph from 1996. We were in 6th year then. The final prom. That was the last time we all saw each other before we left school. It was taken a few days after the school had officially finished. Guess which one I am!"

McKenzie edged along a little more and peered closely at the photograph.

There were three rows of pupils, almost all about 18 years old, dressed to the nines, and looking the most glamorous they ever had, at that age.

McKenzie whistled a few times, playfully, and Fiona punched his arm.

"What? What's the matter? I'm whistling at you... "

"Which one is me?"

"That one?" McKenzie asserted, only the tone in his voice giving away the uncertainty. The other girl in the photograph he'd been looking at was quite similar.

"No... " he corrected himself quickly. "THAT ONE!"

Fiona smiled.

"Correct."

"Wow... you're so much thinner. You look just like a school-girl... "

"I _WAS_ a school-girl, idiot. Although technically, when that photo was taken, I'd finished with school, and I was eighteen!"

"Legal jail-bait, then."

"Is that appropriate? DCI McKenzie?"

"Legal is the key word there, darling."

Fiona was standing in the front row, on the right, wearing a bright red ball gown. Perhaps a little over-the-top for today's standards, but nevertheless very nice.

"How come I've never seen this photo before? You look lovely in it!" McKenzie asked, genuinely surprised.

"I think I've got it somewhere, probably buried in one of my many tins in the attic."

"Shame you haven't got it on the wall somewhere... "

McKenzie's phone buzzed.

"Sorry... " he apologised, looking at the screen and seeing it was Dean returning his call They were playing phone ping-pong.

He kissed Fiona, stroked Little Bump, and excused himself out into the foyer where he could hear what DI might want to tell him.

"We found the van."

"Brilliant! Well done... "

"Not so well done, Guv. It's a burning wreck down in Seafield. An anonymous phone call. By the time we got there it was already too far gone. I reckon it's been burning for an hour or two. Only the bottom rear back-end and part of the rear tyre seems to have survived in any way, but even that's pretty much melted. We're just waiting for it to cool down now, so we can load it onto the back of a van and take it away for forensics."

"Blast!" McKenzie swore and absorbed what he'd just learnt.

His mind was racing.

"Are you there now?" McKenzie asked.

"Yes, Guv."

"Make sure you pay due diligence to checking out for possible footprints or anything else that forensics might find at the scene. Don't let the pick-up people trample over the scene until forensics have had their moment."

"I'm all over it, Guv." Dean replied. "I mean, I'm not all over it, and I'll stop anyone else too. I get what you mean."

McKenzie smiled.

"So, what does this tell us then?" he asked Dean.

"I'm trying to get a trace on the caller, but my guess is that it won't tell us anything. The question is, was it a passer-by or the killer, rubbing our nose in it?"

"Exactly. Is that part of the game he's playing with us. And did he know we'd identified the van, or is he just clever and not taking any chances?"

"I'm guessing he probably cleaned the van before he burnt it. I wouldn't hold out much hope that it'll tell us much."

"Okay. You're probably right, but just go through the process properly, okay? And then as soon as you've got it sorted and handed over, go home and get some sleep."

\-------------------------

Sunday

00.05

Iain Small was drunk. He'd had an amazing evening, spent mostly at the bar. His wife had been on the dance-floor, but both were content, chatting with their friends, and occasionally bumping into and catching up with some they'd not seen since the last school prom.

Iain had been looking forward to the evening, and he was loving it. It made him feel even more warm and fuzzy about his old school days than before, if that were at all possible.

Thanks to the amazing wisdom of his wife Debbie, he'd not turned up in a Corvette, and had just come to the renunion as he was: plain old Iain Small.

He was happy with who he was. Loved life.

What was there not to love?

Iain didn't need the world. He just needed his mates, Debbie, and a good social life, and he had them all.

He was sorted.

However, when just past the stroke of midnight, a space cleared at the bar and from afar he saw Marie McDonald, he drunkenly almost fell off his chair.

Wow!

Marie had been one of the girls he'd always fancied at school, and seeing her now... she was even more gorgeous than he'd remembered.

She seemed to be alone, at least for the moment, and remembering that the last time opportunity had knocked like this was almost a life-time ago at the last school prom, he stood up, excused himself from his mates, and wandered over towards her.

She saw him coming, and incredibly, she smiled.

"Iain Small!"

"Marie!"

They stood in front of each other for a few moments, not saying anything, then Iain went first.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

She laughed.

It was a very direct, honest, and probably alcohol-inspired question, but it deserved an answer.

"Yes, I am. And you?"

"Actually, yes I am Marie. Very!"

Just then a tall handsome man appeared by Marie's side.

"Blast... !" Iain said under his breath.

He shook his drunken head, and then stood tall, his mind made up. He was going to go for it.

"Listen mate, sorry to disturb you, but would you mind giving me ten seconds alone with Marie. There's something I need to tell her, privately. Then I've got to go back to my rugby team, over there... " he said pointing, "and get on with the rest of my life. My _happy_ life."

Stuart Nisbet looked at Marie, who smiled back, and passed him both the drinks she'd just ordered for them.

"I'll be a few minutes, and I'll come find you." She reassured him.

"Handsome man," Iain said, watching Stuart wander away. "Anyway, Marie, the thing is... you see. I'm drunk. And there's something I want to tell you now that I wanted to tell you twenty years ago, but didn't. Because I was a spotty coward, with no self-confidence."

Marie said nothing but continued smiling, in spite of the smell of alcohol drifting over from Iain.

"The thing is Marie, I think you're gorgeous. I always did. And at school I always wanted to ask you out. And I dreamt of one day kissing you."

Iain Small blinked and smiled to himself.

He looked deeply into her eyes, and for a moment lost track of what he was going to say next.

"Anyway," he continued. "Now I've done it. I've told you. So there."

Marie hadn't looked away yet. She was still smiling.

"Anyway, that's it. I'm going now. I'm happily married to my wife Debbie, and I only told you that just now, because I wanted you to know that at school, we all thought you were lovely. And sometimes, in life, people should just be a bit more honest and tell people what they think. I'm sorry for disturbing you, Marie. And now I'll let you get back to your husband."

Iain nodded, and was just about to turn and go back to his mates and his drink, mission accomplished, when Marie put out a hand, touched him gently on the cheek, lent forward and kissed him softly on the lips. Quite quickly. And only once.

"Thank you Iain Small. I really appreciate that."

It took a few seconds for Iain to recover, but when he did, he just smiled and said, "This has been a BRILLIANT night! The best ever!"

Then he turned and went back to his drinks and his friends.

The happiest man in the world!
Chapter 21

Somewhere

Sunday

00.07

Mark had resigned himself to his fate. Previously primed, ready to act, and anticipating the moment he would be able to finally act and do something that could act towards his own salvation, his spirit had finally been smashed when his captor had informed him, "Good, we're almost there."

Mark could hear the slight easing of tension in the Indian's voice. Whatever risk his captor had been worried about, was now gone.

Once more his captor was back on a solid footing, and was in total control.

"Wait here. Do not move."

His captor stepped past him.

Mark could hear him fumbling with something just ahead of him, followed by a slight scraping sound, and a draft of fresh air being sucked down the passageway they'd just negotiated.

Mark felt the captor reach out and pull on both of his hands. Urging him on.

"Forward. Step up and over. Don't fall."

For a second Mark hesitated.

Where were they?

Why had his captor gone to all this trouble to get him here, wherever here was?

If they were close to the final destination, how _final_ was it?

Was the Indian going to set him free? At long last?

Or was it more final than that?

"Hurry up!" The Indian commanded. Not in a raised voice. But more quietly than normal.

Mark sensed that perhaps all opportunity had not passed altogether.

If the Indian was speaking quietly, perhaps if Mark could just scream for one final time, just loud enough to be heard by whoever the Indian might be worried about.

Surprised by his own resilience, Mark struggled to summon up the courage and the strength to scream for just one more time, hoping that enough sound may escape past the rag gagging his mouth.

Perhaps the last opportunity he may have to save his life.

_"MOVE_!" the Indian commanded, this time louder.

Mark hesitated.

And then screamed.

As loud as he could.

Only to discover that his swollen, dry throat no longer had the power to make any form of sound.

Instead, he felt a muscle tear in his throat, and he started to gag.

"MOVE!" the Indian commanded again, this time pushing the cattle prod into his side, with the power turned on.

Pain surged through Mark's torso, and he dropped to his knees, a white searing light exploding at the front of his skull, blinding him momentarily, in spite of the blindfold.

"That was the lowest setting. Stand up and move, or the next one will be half power, in your testicles."

Mark began to cry, but no tears emerged.

Slowly, he struggled to his feet, and one by one he moved them forwards towards his final destination.

\-------------------------

Sunday

00.08

Sofia Waterson, head of the organising committee for the Reunion once again took to the stage, now quite merry but thankfully still understandable.

"Wow! Please, join me in a final massive, MASSIVE, round of applause for Runrig. I still can't quite believe that we managed to book them for this evening. Perhaps you would also like to thank the evening's sponsor, Ben Venue Capital Assets - and it's generous if not slightly mysterious owner- for everything: the entertainment, the FREE alcohol and drinks, and the surprise gift each and every attendee will receive before they leave this evening!"

There was a loud and drunken roar of approval and applause, that needed quelling by Sofia before she could carry on.

"Okay, so, that's it with the live music, but we still have another hour to go before ' _Carriages_ ' at 1 a.m., so I'm going to hand over to the DJ now, who I believe is going to play a fantastic selection of music from our schooldays. Including, I am assured, a few slow dances. So find your partners, cuddle up, go wild... but most importantly, have fun!"

The lights then dimmed, the DJ started playing hits from the nineties, and the energy in the hall went up another level.

Everyone was having the time of their life.

Except for Willy Thomson.

He stood at the back of the hall, looking on, watching everyone else, surprisingly sober, but very edgy.

Willy Thomson was confused.

He knew that this evening his life stood at a cross-roads, and that he had been given an opportunity that he could ill afford to turn down.

No one had ever given him an opportunity before.

Ever.

And there was a certain irony in that the opportunity had been given to him in the school.

Not to take the opportunity would be madness.

But taking it would set him on a new path that he'd never ventured down before.

It would also mean abandoning his plans for killing one of the teachers.

Willy knew that if he wanted to, he was ready to commit that ultimate act.

He'd selected Jason McIntosh to die, and he was worried that if he didn't go through with it, he'd leave the school this evening feeling even more of a failure than he did now.

Willy didn't like this feeling.

The packet of cocaine in his pocket was burning holes in his trousers, and he kept fingering it to assure himself that if he needed it, instant relief would be there.

So far, he'd managed to prevent himself disappearing into a toilet cubicle and sniffing the lot, and he was actually quite surprised by his ability to resist the temptation.

Willy knew though, that if he did take the coke too soon before killing the maths teacher, then it might wear off. If he was going to kill the bastard, and take the coke, he had to time it right.

On the other hand, if he was going to 'renounce' his bad ways, and embark on a new path, taking the coke would not help.

As soon as he took it, he'd lose his self-resolve, and next thing he knew he'd be doing something he might regret later on.

Faced with what was probably the first really important choice that Willy had to make in his life, he discovered that making choices was proving far more difficult than he would have expected.

Willy tried to weigh it up...

Getting a trade, a real education, would be difficult. It would be a struggle. The rewards would be there...but only after a long time.

Killing someone and carrying on his life of violence would be easy.

There was no challenge, and the self-gratification would be immediate.

But... perhaps easy wasn't right?

Willy was really struggling.

Knowing what to do, and summing up the resolve and the courage to decide, was difficult.

Then he remembered his conversation with DCI McKenzie and the warning, and he made his choice.

Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he was grateful for the helping hand of the law.

Decision made.

Willy Thomson was going straight.

\-------------------------

Sunday

00.15

Barry Quinn stood outside in the car park, staring at the Boxster.

How the hell was he going to get it home now?

He was drunk, and he couldn't drive.

If he left it here, it would be stolen.

Or at least keyed by some ned.

He wanted to go home now, and escape.

Where Irene was, he had no idea. He hadn't seen her in ages, and no doubt she'd gone off somewhere with Paul Bentford.

He really missed her.

And thinking of her with another man made him realise how much he actually loved her.

If only he hadn't been such a prat.

If only...

"Barry? Where have you been? I was getting really worried about you!"

Barry turned around to face his wife, tears hovering on the edge of his eyelids.

He said nothing.

"What's the matter? Are you drunk?" she asked, reaching out with her hand, and stroking his cheek lovingly.

"I saw you. With Paul." He said.

"Who?"

"Paul Bentford. On the dance floor. I saw it all."

"What are you talking about? You saw us on the dance floor... dancing? So what?"

"I saw him kiss you... "

Irene was shaking her head slightly and frowning.

"What... "

"On the cheek. And then you kissed him back. And then you disappeared off together somewhere."

Irene's face went blank. She looked confused. Blinked.

Then laughed.

"Barry, are you jealous? Do you think that I got off with Paul Bentford?"

She laughed again, and then stepped forward, kissing him solidly on the lips.

"You're such a prat, Barry! Sometimes I can't understand why I love you so much, but I do!"

"But I saw you kissing!"

"Idiot. He kissed me. Said how lucky I was to be with you. Said I looked lovely, and congratulated me on my life and how much we'd achieved together, and thanked me for the advice I gave him a long time ago to ask Sandra Roper out. He did. They went out. And got married. Thanks to me, _apparently_."

"What? You never told me that?"

"Why should I have? It was never important."

"So why did you _kiss_ him then?"

"His wife is pregnant again. A big surprise. It's going to be a girl, and he wanted to call it Irene. As a token of gratitude. So I kissed him... ON THE CHEEK. And then he took me over to meet Sandra and we had a drink together, me and Sandra and dished the dirt on our husbands and had a good old chin-wag!"

Barry stood silently, staring at his wife.

The tears began to roll down the side of his cheeks.

"I thought you'd gone off with Paul... "

"Why? You idiot. I love you. Always have. Always will."

She stepped forward and hugged him and then kissed him passionately.

Barry wrapped his arms around her, tightly, and pulled her close.

"I'm such a complete and utter prat," he said, and then began to sob into her shoulder.

"I never argue with my husband, Barry. If you say you're an idiot, then I must agree!"

\-------------------------

Sunday

00.30

Marie McDonald and Stuart Nisbet stood on the edge of the dance-floor, talking.

About life.

About everything.

For two people who'd just met, they were getting on surprisingly well.

Stuart seemed very interested in learning as much about Marie as possible. He asked questions, and listened attentively to her answers. Then asked more questions.

Marie was an attractive woman. In her experience, when men started to express an interest in her, they generally spoke a lot about themselves.

In contrast, Stuart was in no hurry to talk about himself.

It was refreshing to meet a man, obviously capable, and strikingly good looking, who did not seem to want to impress himself upon her at all.

Stuart also had the knack of getting her to talk about things that she didn't want to discuss.

He was able to dig, without her feeling uncomfortable.

Soon, against all her intentions for this evening, she was talking about her children and her fundraising activities.

At one point, she got so passionate and worked up about the challenges she faced in caring for her little ones, that she began to cry.

Stuart had offered her a fresh handkerchief to wipe away her tears.

Who did that anymore?

Seriously, who was this guy?

With about thirty minutes to go before the evening was due to draw to a close, the DJ started to play slow dances.

It happened very naturally, and without any awkwardness.

Stuart smiled at her, gestured to the dance floor with his left hand, and stepped slightly to the side, as if to let her go past, should she accept.

Without thinking about it, she smiled back, and walked onto the dance floor, gently scooping up his hand in hers as she went.

He held her close.

Not just for one dance, but two.

Neither person seemed in a hurry to go anywhere.

Chapter 22

Somewhere

Sunday

00.35

Mark McRae fell to the floor, landing heavily on his chest, and banging his head badly. He immediately knew that his scalp had split and was bleeding, but Mark had other problems.

The Indian had just turned up the power on the cattle prod and hit him with it on its maximum setting.

A fire was burning down his right side, leaving him in excruciating agony. For a moment Mark passed out, all his senses seeming to stop.

When they returned, it was with a vengeance.

He was lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

It was dark, but his blindfold had been removed.

He tried to move his hands, but found them bound tightly to some heavy objects on either side of his body. Likewise, his feet were also similarly immobilised, with the ropes around his ankles cutting sharply into his skin.

It took him a moment to realise it, but the gag from his mouth had been removed.

He tried to move his jaw, but found it difficult to do.

Neither was he able to speak, even though he tried.

His mouth was so dry, no sound came out.

As the clouds of unconsciousness lifted, the darkness around him became more manageable and he was slowly able to make out his surroundings.

"Recognise the place?" the Indian asked, stepping forward from somewhere behind him, and now towering directly above Mark's head.

Mark's eye started to dart around the room, a feeling of dread welling up within him.

The room was empty now, with all the tables and chairs removed, except for a few solid structures which were rooted to the floor, and to which he was now pinioned and spread-eagled on the ground.

The strenuous climb which he'd been subjected to, struggling up four flights of stairs, blindfolded, exhausted, and in pain, now also made perfect sense.

Mark closed his eyes and remembered one of the last times he'd been here before. Standing in front of a class-room full of students, congratulating them on their exam marks and wishing them well at university.

For the first time in days, Mark knew exactly where he was.

\-------------------------

Sunday

00.45

McKenzie had gathered everyone together at the back of the hall.

The School Reunion Ball was just about to finish, but before it did, he wanted to have a status check with everyone on duty.

No one had anything much to say or report, except that everyone in the hall and the bar seemed to be having a wonderful time.

"Keep an eye out for Willy Thomson. Most of you know him, and he's here this evening. He's the only concern I've had so far." McKenzie offered, before instructing them all to keep extra vigilant until everyone was off the premises.

Nothing had happened yet, but that wasn't to say something bad would happen in the next hour.

"One last thing, before you go. I've sent you all a photo of one of the boards in the hall, which shows photos of some of the pupils and staff who've died and didn't make it tonight. If you didn't see the message yet, please look now, and then check the board, and if you can, in the remaining time or with your friends or contacts later, try to find out what you can about the causes of death for those where it's not listed on the board? Just in case there's anything significant there."

\-------------------------

Sunday

01.00

Sofia Waterson climbed slowly back onto the stage, this time being helped by her husband.

The music had stopped and the lights had gone up.

The fun was coming to an end.

"I'm drunk!" Sofia announced to the hall, which was now full of everyone who had come this evening.

"I'm drunk. I've had a wonderful time. I hope you have too!" she laughed aloud, and everyone replied immediately with a raucous roar of _'Yes!'_

"Let's do this again, shall we? In ten years?" she asked.

_"YESSSSS!"_ was the answer.

"Okay, I'm not going to make a big speech. But seriously, it's been great seeing everyone here tonight. Portobello High is a brilliant school. I think we all miss it. I'm very proud I came here, and I always will be! So, on behalf of all of us, I want to say thanks to all the teachers we ever had, and to everyone who helped get us through the school, who cared for us, and helped us start our lives."

There were now tears in her eyes, and she was obviously struggling with her words.

"Okay, enough. There's going to be one more song, and then we're going to ring the school bell for the last time. After that, and we're getting kicked out. Get home safe and sound. AND STAY IN TOUCH!"

She waived to everyone, then almost tripped coming down the stairs from the stage.

The lights dimmed a little, and incredibly RunRig came back on stage.

They picked up their instruments and slowly began to play 'For Auld Lang Syne'.

A chill went through the hall. An emotional moment that touched everyone that was there.

The ex-pupils of Portobello High School joined hands, began to dance and to sing, and to a man and woman, by the time the song came to an end, there was not a single dry eye in the hall.

The hugs, the kisses, the tears, and the ' _I love you_ 's' lasted another thirty minutes, but slowly the hall emptied out and the Reunion came to an end.

Standing outside in the car park, small groups of ex-pupils lingered and clung on, not wanting to go home.

Some not remembering where home was.

\-------------------------

Saturday

01.00 a.m.

Mark's eyes opened again. He must have fainted with the pain, or the dehydration. Or both. Just for a second, a fleeting second, he wondered if the Indian had left, but as soon as he moved his head to look for him, the voice spoke.

"I'm still here. And we're almost ready." It said.

"First, I'm going to give you a little drink of water. I think you need it."

Mark couldn't believe his ears. If the Indian cared enough to give him a drink, perhaps there was still hope.

He felt a hand at the back of his head, lifting it up, raising it towards a plastic cup which had appeared in front of his face.

"Drink. Very slowly. You need to lubricate your throat. It might hurt."

Mark tried to take a sip, but most of the first mouthful just ran out down his chin.

It had nowhere to go.

"Slowly." The Indian said. "Let the first few mouthfuls sit in your mouth and be absorbed."

Mark obeyed.

It took a few moments, but then Mark felt the muscles in his neck slowly beginning to respond, and with incredible relief he felt the cold water beginning to trickle down the back of his mouth and down his throat.

The Indian urged him to drink some more, and then warned, "Do not attempt to talk or scream. If you do, I will cover your mouth and put the cattle prod on your testicles. I'll make sure no one hears you scream. Do you understand?"

Mark nodded.

Then drank some more.

Slowly.

He coughed a few times involuntarily, but the amazing, wonderful thing was, he could!

The Indian seemed pleased.

"Good. Now I need to fix your tooth. Open wide."

Mark was confused. He felt a momentary surge of panic.

"What tooth?"

The Indian raised the cattle prod in front of his face, and Mark immediately froze.

"Open your mouth. I'm going to put in a frame to keep your cheeks away from the tooth."

For a moment Mark hesitated. What was going on?

Then he saw the cattle prod in front of him again, and felt it prod against his nether regions.

He immediately opened his jaw as wide as it would go.

"Good boy." The Indian said, and quickly pushed a cold metal frame inside his mouth.

It felt massive.

Nothing like any dentist had ever used before.

Mark tried to shake his head.

"Ah, good point. I need to keep your head still, so you don't hurt yourself." The Indian laughed. "I forgot. How stupid of me."

Mark felt something being placed across his forehead.

A leather or plastic belt?

The Indian was reaching behind his head, fiddling with something.

Slowly the belt began to tighten, and Mark felt his head pulled backwards, forcing him back on to the floor, and a frame of some sort that cut into the back of his neck. Mark tried to move his head, but found he couldn't.

He tried to speak, forgetting about the cattle prod, but found that now he could only make childish sounds.

"Last warning, Mr McRae. Next time you make a sound, I'll blow your balls off!"

Mark wanted to scream. The panic was becoming like a blinding white light which clouded his vision, and threatened to drive him insane.

His hands and arms were beginning to shake. If he'd had enough fluids in him he'd no doubt have wet himself, but there was nothing left within him to come out.

"We're almost there, now." The Indian whispered, close to his ear.

"First, I'll just adjust this so I can get better access... "

Mark felt the Indian's cold fingers on the side of his cheeks - it felt like he was wearing rubber gloves \- then he felt a weird vibration as the contraption in his mouth seemed to expand, forcing his jaw open wider.

"Aahhhh... ," Mark uttered, involuntarily. It hurt like hell.

Somewhere behind his head, Mark heard the Indian fiddling with something, then a sigh, an exhaling of air.

"Done. Now we're ready." The Indian informed him through the pain.

"Ah... sorry, apart from one thing."

The Indian picked something up from the floor and then came around to the front of Mark from behind. He knelt on the floor above Mark's prostrate body, leant across toward him, and then started to write something on Mark's forehead with a soft pen.

Rocking backwards on to his heels, the man in the Indian mask surveyed his handy work and nodded.

"Good. I think that's clear enough."

The Indian laughed.

"Now, it's time," he nodded. "Oh, but, first, perhaps you want to know what I wrote on your head?"

Mark blinked.

The Indian leant forward and whispered into Mark's left ear.

"It says, ' _Remember me_?' "

\---------------

Having uttered the words, the Indian sat back and studied Mark's eyes for recognition of what he'd just said.

Sure enough, it only took a few seconds.

As the man who was pinned on the floor in front of him and at his mercy, realised the meaning of the words, the blood drained from his face, and in spite of the metal contraption in his mouth, he managed to scream for the very first, and last, time.

The look of terror on Mark McRae's face instantly made all the preparation for this worthwhile.

The Indian smiled.

Then he removed the tops from the two glass bottles on the floor beside him and picked them.

Laughing aloud, the Indian leant forward and began to simultaneously pour the contents of both bottles down the back of Mark McRae's throat.

### End of Book One

### To continue with the story and find out the answer to the following questions, please now download Book Two.

In Book Two, you will find answers to the following questions:

1: Who is(are) the killer(s)?

2: What is the big twist in the story that will make you catch your breath and keep you up all night?

3: Who is next to die?

4: Which popular character from 'I Spy, I Saw Her Die' comes back to help save the day?

5: Does McKenzie live or die?

Oops, I almost gave it away...

To discover what happens next, read Book Two!

If you have any comments, please contact the author at:- iancpirvine@hotmail.co.uk

To connect with Ian C.P. Irvine on Twitter, connect with Ian at @IancpIrvine

To keep up to date with other news, events and ebook releases, please visit the website at: www.iancpirvine.com or http://www.free-ebook.co.uk/

