Cold Death by Michael Fowler Page A

again.
    “Will you shut the fuck up moaning.” Billy Wallace leant forward and with the back of his gloved hand rubbed the condensation from his side of the windscreen. Though the lane-lined bushes hid their destination away from view he continued staring out along the uneven track. From an earlier reconnoitre Billy knew that the secluded bungalow they had been searching for lay less than a quarter of a mile away.
    This was the third parking spot they had chosen that afternoon, spending time in between going for a drive around so that they didn’t attract any unwarranted attention from the locals.
    Billy punched a thumb at the electric window switch and the smoked glass rolled down a fraction. Outside a continuous gale whistled through the trees nearby causing an unpleasant sound as resisting branches squeaked and creaked. In the last hour he had noticed that the weather had turned and was coming from the north; the wind had picked up fiercely and was whipping across the fields. He thumbed the window back up. Splodges of rain were beginning to scar the windscreen disturbing his view ahead. He wasn’t complaining though. This would mean that people wouldn’t be straying far from their homes. The last thing he needed was witnesses.
    They had driven the hour or so to Killin early that morning. At first he wasn’t sure he had heard the name right when he’d eventually beaten its location out of the mouth of Alistair McPherson four days ago, and he’d had to search it out in the road atlas. But when he had found the small village and confirmed the name it had made him smile.
    What an appropriate name for the place. Especially for what he had in mind for his next quarry.
    He and Rab had entered the picturesque village mid-morning; approaching the village by crossing the stone bridge which spanned the Falls of Dochart. As they had crossed Billy couldn’t help but feel that this was a case of déjà vu and for a few seconds it had puzzled him. Then he realised why as he stared across at the foaming stream which pounded between the huge grey rocks and boulders below him. He had seen this location so many times. It had featured in the 1950’s film, ‘The 39 Steps;’ one of his all-time favourite movies. How ironic that the film was about a fugitive on the run - and he should be here; though in his case he wasn’t an innocent man. It had brought about another twisted smile.
    They had checked out the place; driving up and down the main street. Rab had made a few enquiries about the man they were looking for; stating he was an ex-colleague, and that they were on a fishing trip and wanted to catch up with him. It had not taken long to find that the guy was a regular drinker in the bar of the Clachaig Hotel, located beside the falls. A quick visit there and the pair had left armed with the man’s address. That had been seven hours ago.
    Now they lay in wait, watching for the occupant to return to the white-washed bungalow in the middle of nowhere.
    Billy climbed out of the car, stretched and then relieved himself by the bushes that were keeping them hidden. He fastened his trousers and then glanced at his watch. “We’ll give it another hour,” he called back over his shoulder, “and then call it a day if they don’t return.” He stood there motionless, peering over the top of the brambles, feeling the breeze brush past his face, as his gaze settled on the rear of the premises.
    Billy was still there as dusk settled and he seemed unmoved by the sudden biting north easterly and slanting rain.
    Then his heart jolted. A light appeared in the entranceway followed by another in the right hand corner window. In the warm yellowing light he saw a human shadow inside passing across the room windows. He stood transfixed for several moments watching for more activity inside the bungalow; there appeared to be none. He stretched his gloves tighter over his hands; so tight that he could see the outline of his knuckles pushing against