Chapter 8

Pembroke was back on the island, and for once, he felt clear-headed. In a moment of madness—or perhaps clarity—he had decided not to bring any alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs with him. This time, he wanted his mind to be sharp, free from the haze that had clouded so many years of his life.

As the days passed, he realized just how much sharper he felt. Fresher than he’d been in years, his thoughts more focused. He didn’t feel like a dying man at all.

He spent hours assessing the house’s potential, inspecting its locked doors, fiddling with the electronic locks, and tracing the power supply through the walls. The secure perimeter, the basement—everything hinted at possibilities.

Beyond the house, he strolled through its twenty windswept acres, braving the biting gusts that rattled the few stubborn trees. Just that and a small abandoned stone wall was all that marked the land other than the house.

There was only one way in or out of the island: the little quay where his boat was moored. Most days, he took the boat out, learning to navigate the waters surrounding the island. He tested it in the dark, pushing himself to master its controls even when visibility was nearly nonexistent.

In the evenings, he read voraciously, a habit he hadn’t indulged in years. Books replaced the endless parade of porn and trashy movies. He skipped through Lolita, devoured The Story of O, and lingered over a true crime book about unsolved kidnappings.

The idea had already taken root and was now blossoming. Why not? Why couldn’t he pull it off? He had gotten away with so much already: rapes, robberies, frauds, assaults. The times he’d been caught were so rare that statistically, he should get away with it if he planned properly.

The island, he realized, was perfect. The isolation, the secure walls, the locked doors. It had everything he needed.

He had already, impulsively, taken a first step. Following his meeting with all three McAllisters back in Edinburgh, he had woken up the next morning, But Pembroke wasn’t just theorizing anymore. He had already taken a first step.

Following his meeting with the three McAllisters back in Edinburgh, he had woken up the next morning, restless. Pondering his next move, he decided, on a whim, to visit a large retailer.

“I’m looking for a GPS tracker,” he had told the clerk, scratching his double chin. “It’s for my dog. We’re going hiking in the Highlands, and he tends to wander.”

The clerk was cheerful, helpful. Pembroke left with a tiny, cheap tracker that fit in the palm of his hand. It had been almost too easy.

By early afternoon, he had arrived at the McAllisters’ residence. Gerry’s Porsche gleamed in the driveway. Pembroke, adjusted his dark glasses, pulled the brim of his baseball cap low, and smoothed his sports jacket. He carried a plain cardboard package, the perfect prop for his role as a delivery driver.

He approached the car casually, rehearsing his excuse in case anyone questioned him. But before he reached it, the front door opened.

Out stepped Kate McAllister, earbuds in place, dressed in tight running pants and a snug top. She glanced at him briefly—dismissively—and set off on her run without a second thought.

Pembroke bit his lip, suppressing a smile. She hadn’t recognized him. The dark glasses and absence of the facial bandages had done their job. To her, he was just a fat, middle-aged delivery man, someone too insignificant to notice.

He watched her jog away, his gaze lingering on her ass, which just added to his motivation. He crouched near the Porsche, pretending to check the package in his hands. A quick movement, and the tracker was secured to the inside of the wheel well. Pembroke straightened, brushing off his jacket. It had been almost laughably simple.

Pembroke smiled to himself as he took a break from reading about kidnappers in France and how they were caught, trying to avoid their mistakes. The McAllisters had no idea they were being tracked.

On the other hand, he was a known quantity, a registered sex offender, and if little Maddie reported him, he was in serious trouble if recognised. Well, life was not without risks. A man like him would never get a woman in his life without taking any, and his life was, if he still believed his doctors, about to end soon anyway, so why not go out with a bang?

---------- After nearly a week Pembroke decided to re enter civilisation and he took his boat back to the mainland, navigating the choppy waters with growing confidence.

Once docked, he lingered for a moment, staring at his phone. Turning it on filled him with trepidation. Would there be messages from the police? A barrage of missed calls from his probation officer? He doubted it, but still, the thought gnawed at him. He pressed the power button.

The phone buzzed to life, but there were no messages. Not even his probation officer seemed to care anymore. Perhaps the man had finally given up on him—on a terminally ill dropout who had lived on the streets in London, flitting in and out of jail like a moth drawn to flame.

Scrolling through news apps, he found no mention of any sexual assault in Edinburgh, nothing linking to the area where he’d been with Maddie. Everything seemed quiet.

Pembroke checked his tracker app to see where the McAllisters were. The small dot on the map showed they were at a picnic site near Ben Nevis. He smirked, imagining them sitting together, enjoying their blissful ignorance.

The thought of climbing Ben Nevis himself was laughable. He might be feeling sharper and healthier after his time on the island, but scaling a mountain was out of the question. He’d wait. They would move eventually, likely to a more accessible location, and when they did, he’d be ready.

With that thought settled, he rented a car and drove to a quiet pub on the edge of town. It was the kind of place where nobody cared who you were or what you were doing, as long as you didn’t cause trouble.

Inside, he chose a corner table away from the main bar, ordered a pint and a hot meal, and settled in. He pulled out his notebook, flipping to the page where he’d scrawled his plans. His eyes skimmed the list of items he’d carefully compiled over the past few days: Heavy-duty chains Nylon ropes (in varying lengths, for versatility) Padlocks (keyed alike, to keep things simple) Collapsible metal cages (flat-packable and sturdy enough to contain any resistance) Hooks (ceiling-mountable, for suspension and restraint) Anchors and a power drill Bondage restraints (ankles, wrists, neck, ankle spreaders, single sleeve for arms) Gags and blindfolds Carabiners These were the important items and Pembroke quickly went online and ordered them all, pleased that they would arrive soon. Other items were a little more specialist. Neck collars that could be shocked remotely were ordered from a retailer in Germany.

Pembroke reflected on everything else. The house was self-sufficient in its water supply, with a rainwater reservoir providing water for washing, showers, and the toilet. There was a filtration for drinking water, but Pembroke preferred to bring in gallons and gallons of drinking water.

He had stocked up on basic medicines—nothing elaborate, just enough to keep things manageable. If his prisoner got too ill, seeing a doctor was out of the question. Not that he’d care; with his own terminal condition, he had little sympathy for a younger female’s ailments. It was that same cold practicality that made him order another item: a roll of heavy-duty metal netting. If things went wrong, he needed a way to ensure no trace was left behind. Weighted with rocks and tied securely, the net would take a body straight to the bottom of the sea, out of sight and out of mind.

“Would you like anything else?” asked the pretty barmaid, smiling as she approached his table. “Seems you’re doing quite the online shopping,” she added with a playful grin, glancing at the screen of his phone.

“Another pint, please,” he replied smoothly, his voice calm, almost warm. He smirked as he perved over her ass in her tight black pants as she walked away. “Maybe you might end up in that net yourself, you sexy bitch” he mouthed to himself.

Next, he turned to a shopping experience he found marginally more pleasant, though he was even more cautious to conceal it. Browsing through female clothing, he started with the distasteful yet practical task of purchasing sleeping bags—just in case the prisoner became too cold. He had no interest in buying shoes, trousers, or sweaters; those items were unnecessary. If the prisoner was too cold, then they should not be outside. If they were too cold inside, they would, probably, still survive. He was not going to the trouble of kidnapping a girl to look at her in a hoodie.