But Folkestone didn’t seem to find this puzzling at all, which shouldn’t have surprised Bolt either. Like most people who valued their own opinions, he had an answer to everything. ‘He’s all those things, DCS Bolt, and he’s also a perfectionist. But at the same time he’s also, in layman’s terms, a control freak. He controls his victims; he controls the scene of the crime by leaving behind virtually no evidence; he even thinks he controls the police inquiry by being the one who chooses when and where he strikes. That makes him much harder to catch than what we’d call a normal killer. But it also makes him prone to mistakes. I don’t believe he was expecting Amanda Rowan to turn up and, when she did, he had to think fast. He decided to kill her, but when she proved a harder proposition than he was expecting, it seems he couldn’t handle the affront of her disturbing his crime. Rather than give up, as his perfectionist instincts would have told him to do, he became extremely reckless in his efforts to kill her. He still wanted to retain control, even though he no longer did. And this may well be how you catch him.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He might be a perfectionist, but he’s clearly got a streak of recklessness. You need to take advantage of that. Push his buttons. Encourage him to make contact with you, and explain why he’s committing these crimes. He’s a narcissist and he clearly loves the notoriety. It’ll also make him think he’s in control once again.’

It sounded like a daft idea to Bolt. Anyone as careful as The Disciple wasn’t going to respond to such an obvious ploy. Mo looked sceptical too.

Folkestone gave an expansive shrug. ‘I can see you don’t agree, but I think it’s got to be worth a try. What have you got to lose?’

Which Bolt had to admit was a fair point. ‘We’ll consider it, Doctor,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Thanks, as always, for your time.’

‘How is Amanda Rowan, by the way?’ asked Folkestone as the three of them shook hands. ‘Has she recovered from her ordeal?’

‘She’s a very resilient lady,’ said Bolt, remembering that Folkestone had been the one who’d agreed to her decision to go to Scotland and rent a house. ‘She’s doing well.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. She’s a very lucky woman.’

‘Well, it depends on your version of luck, doesn’t it? She’s lost her husband, found out he’s having an affair, had her home turned into a charnel house, and been slashed with a knife by a man who came very close to killing her. That’s definitely the kind of luck I could do without.’

‘But she’s alive, DCS Bolt,’ said Folkestone. ‘She’s alive. And it seems, with The Disciple, that’s a first. I imagine it must be irritating him immensely.’

‘You don’t think he’ll try to locate her, though, do you?’

Folkestone smiled broadly. ‘Reckless he may be, but not that reckless. And I’m sure you’ve got her tucked away safe and sound.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Bolt, heading for the door.

Seventeen

Today

GLENN SCOPELAND, BETTER known to those who knew him as Scope, sat in the minibus watching the river flow by towards the stone, three-arched bridge that spanned the small Highland town of Tayleigh. He looked at his watch. It was gone five. In less than an hour it would be dark, and there was no sign of the family of canoeists he was here to pick up. Jock, the owner of the canoe hire company, had given him two mobile contact numbers for the group, and he called them each in turn.

It didn’t surprise him when they both went straight to message. Reception was patchy on this stretch of the river at the best of times. He left two separate messages asking to be called back as soon as possible, then settled back in the seat to wait. He didn’t think there’d be any problem with them. Customers were often late. The scenery was gorgeous and they often just dawdled. The river wasn’t particularly high at the moment – it had been a fairly dry summer and autumn so far, so it was unlikely there’d been any capsizing. He decided to give it fifteen minutes, then he’d call Jock and see what he wanted him to do.

Scope had worked for Jock for a few months now, ever since he’d arrived in Scotland. The work was irregular and poorly paid, but he enjoyed it, and he got on well with Jock, which in the end counted more than most things. Scope had some money set aside, so for the moment at least he didn’t have to worry.

By his own admission, he was something of a drifter. Ever since he’d left the army more than ten years earlier, he’d held down a variety of jobs – never anything too serious, or for too long – and he’d moved round, both in the UK and Europe. His wife, Jennifer, had divorced him when he was still in the army. Things had been a bit of a mess domestically and his daughter, Mary Ann, had ended up going off the rails. She’d died of a drugs overdose, aged barely eighteen, and then Jennifer had died in a car crash that might have been an accident but was, thought Scope, probably suicide, six months later. Now he was the last member of his immediate family still alive. Sometimes that made him feel guilty. Other times, it made him rail against the injustices of the world. But up here in the lonely wilds of Scotland, he was finally coming to terms with his loss, and his place in the world. In truth, this was the first time he’d been even mildly content in a long time. He’d even begun to enjoy his own company, now that he’d escaped a past that in recent years had become increasingly violent.

Four years ago, he’d gone after the men he believed were responsible for the death of his daughter, starting with the dealer who’d sold her the fatal dose of unusually pure heroin, and working his way up the chain until he’d finally reached the corrupt businessman who’d grown rich by importing the drugs direct from Turkey and Afghanistan. Scope had killed the businessman and his two bodyguards with a lot less emotion than he’d been expecting, which worried him. He didn’t consider himself a bad man, and yet he’d done bad things.

And just when he was hoping that his killing days were behind him, he’d received a call six months ago from his wife’s sister, begging him for help in looking for her kidnapped son. Scope wasn’t a detective, but it seemed he had a knack for finding people, because he’d rescued his nephew and killed the kidnappers, somehow avoiding the attention of the authorities in the process. It was after this that he’d decided to get well away from civilization, while his luck still held, and now all he wanted to do was clear his head and try to work towards some kind of future.

He looked at his watch again. 5.15. Frowning, he got out of the minibus and walked the few steps down to the narrow strip of shingle, which was the usual exit point for the canoes at the end of the day trips, and looked back up the river. It ran straight, wide and shallow for about a quarter of a mile into Tayleigh, but there was still no sign of his family of canoeists. The sun was coming down fast and the light fading. Scope couldn’t imagine that anything was wrong, but he still didn’t like it.

Pulling out the mobile, he called the office landline.

The phone rang for more than two minutes but there was no answer, which struck him as odd. If Jock was out, he’d have left the answering machine on. He always did that, never wanting to miss out on a potential booking, and the office was attached to the cottage where he’d lived for the best part of thirty years, so he couldn’t be in there. There was also a speaker attached to one of the outside walls, which amplified the ringing, so even if he was down by the canoe put-in point, he’d have heard it.

For the first time, Scope began to feel concerned. Had something bad happened to the canoeists, and had Jock gone to their aid? But, if so, surely he’d have called. After all, he wasn’t in the best shape.