by Lin Anderson
‘No home delivery tonight?’ he queried.
‘I fancied eating in style,’ McNab said, indicating a nearby booth, one of the few that were unoccupied.
‘Of course.’ Marco waved him in. ‘What are you having?’
‘The usual, and a bottle of red wine,’ McNab said, deciding that was preferable to hitting the whisky.
‘I could recommend one?’ Marco offered.
‘Good idea,’ McNab agreed.
McNab laid his mobile on the table out of habit. Not so long ago he would have been looking forward to a text or a call from Ellie. Maybe making one himself. Neither was likely tonight.
The four girls at the neighbouring table were acknowledging his presence. McNab wondered if they’d heard Marco announce him as a detective and hoped they hadn’t. They were chatting amongst themselves, throwing him encouraging looks.
McNab smiled back, which caused an explosion of giggles, suggesting much wine had been consumed there already.
Marco arrived with the pizza and a serious-looking bottle of red wearing a gold label.
‘From my region. The French think they can make good wine.’ He made a poof sound of dismissal. ‘Italian is better.’
McNab waited as the bottle was opened and a glass poured, then tasted it with a flourish, which was obviously required. It wasn’t whisky, but it would do.
He now set about his meal, glad that he had come here rather than go back to an empty flat. Glad too that he had never brought Ellie in here or he would have had to endure questions from Marco about where she was now.
Maybe that’s why I never did. So when it was over, which it most surely would be, I didn’t have to explain.
He was on his second espresso when the mobile did ring. Startled, McNab checked the screen to discover Ollie’s name.
‘You said you were coming by?’
‘Sorry, I got caught up in stuff.’ McNab waited. When Ollie didn’t respond, he said, ‘I’m at Marco’s having a pizza. Will it wait until tomorrow?’
‘It’s about the guy you took the photograph of on Sanday. The one you thought you recognized?’
Months ago now, so McNab took a moment to remember what Ollie was talking about. ‘Oh, yeah. Any luck with that?’
‘I found him.’
‘And?’ McNab waited. When he’d been introduced to DI Erling Flett’s live-in lover, Rory, it had been at the annual bonfire on Cata Sands on Sanday. McNab had had no wish to attend, but Rhona had persuaded him, plus there had been free food and drink, and their investigation complete, they were heading home next day.
But there had been something about that bloke, McNab remembered. Something familiar.
‘His real name is Dean Watters …’ Ollie said.
That name didn’t ring a bell. ‘So not Rory, then?’
‘No. Shall I send you details?’
‘Anything bad in there?’ he checked.
‘A few priors, some years back.’
‘Okay, send them through. And, Ollie, I have a laptop here I want you to take a look at.’
‘Drop it by tomorrow.’
Ollie rang off, and shortly afterwards McNab heard a ping as an email downloaded. He refilled his wine glass and contemplated opening it.
Did he really care who Detective Inspector Erling Flett was shacked up with? Did it even matter if the Scouser who called himself Rory wasn’t who he said he was? Flett wouldn’t be the first police officer who’d found himself in a relationship with someone less than desirable.
I can vouch for that.
McNab pocketed the mobile. It would keep, whatever it was. He was unlikely ever to be back in Orkney. In fact he would do his best never to return. So why the fuck should he care? Back when he’d asked Ollie, the super recognizer, to check out the said Rory, he was still messed up by what had happened on his trip to Sanday.
But that was then, and this was now.
There was an explosion of laughter at the neighbouring table as more wine arrived. The girls were making a night of it.
McNab checked his own bottle to discover it was verging on empty.
Maybe he ought to buy another? Take it home with him.
Or else find someone to share it with?
21
The evening air was moist and warm, an earlier heavy shower now rising in steam from the trees and thick undergrowth that encircled the university hill.
Emerging from the shadowy cloisters, Rhona stood for a moment, seeking her favourite landmarks – the golden dome of the nearby Sikh temple and the skeleton beauty of Glasgow’s last giant crane – before turning towards the gate and the path that dropped steeply downhill towards the River Kelvin.
Stopping on the bridge, Rhona gazed down at the water, rushing brown and swollen with the recent rain. August had been warm and humid, with occasional downpours of torrential rain, reminding the city’s inhabitants that, although it was considered summer, they were still living in Scotland.
The discovery of the fibre, she acknowledged as she walked on, had altered her perception of the crime scene. True, PPE suits could be bought freely online, as could many of the items required for forensic work, but there was no escaping the fact that if a PPE suit had been used in whatever capacity, it suggested forensic awareness.
Offenders wise to the DNA trail had been known to try and destroy evidence, or even plant it to incriminate others. What they rarely appreciated was how difficult it was to do that successfully. Nor how advanced the techniques available to the police now were.
The easiest thing was to hide the body. No body, no evidence that a crime has been committed. People disappeared all the time and were never found. Some didn’t want to be, others were dead. The male in the tunnel could have lain undiscovered for months, maybe longer, but he hadn’t really been hidden.
He was there to be found, like the mess at the funeral parlour.
At that moment, Rhona was startled out of her reverie by the swift approach of a bicycle, its rider head down and seemingly oblivious to her presence on the path. Realizing they were on a collision course, Rhona stepped out of the way, but not quite quickly enough. The rider, suddenly catching sight of her, swerved abruptly, the bike hit the verge and he was catapulted off onto the grass.
Rhona went swiftly to his side.
‘Are you okay?’
He groaned a little and pulled himself up. ‘My fault entirely. I was going too fast and not paying attention.’ He gave her the onceover. ‘I hope I didn’t hurt you?’
Rhona assured him he hadn’t.
‘Good.’ He pulled up the bike and shot her a wide blue-eyed smile from beneath the helmet. Catching her amused look, he quickly removed the said helmet to display a head of dark curly hair to match the stubble on his chin.
‘You often walk through the park,’ he stated as though suddenly recognizing her.
Rhona nodded. ‘I work nearby.’
‘Ah.’ He was trying to push his bike onto the path and Rhona got the impression the front wheel was no longer in the correct position.
‘Your wheel’s buckled.’
‘I believe it is.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘More hurry, less speed.’ He nodded ahead. ‘Looks like we’re both on foot now.’
They walked together for a bit, their brief conversation being about the park and their mutual affection, like most Glaswegians, for the nearby Art Gallery and Museum. Five minutes later they had parted company, the man heading towards Sauchiehall Street, Rhona climbing the hill towards home.
As she approached her building, she spotted a piece of paper stuck under her car’s windscreen wiper. Assuming a flyer of some sort, she pulled it free, only to discover it was a note urging her to check the pressure on a front tyre.
On closer inspection, her good Samaritan, whoever it was, was proved right. The tyre was virtually flat. Rhona opened up the boot and brought round the pump, and blew it up again. Chances were she had a slow puncture. If it was down again by tomorrow morning, she would take it roun
d to the garage and have them take a look.
On her way upstairs, she pondered who had left the note. It could of course be someone living in her building. She knew most of them by sight and would offer a hello, if passing on the stair, but there had been a big turnover in the flats over recent times and only she and Mrs Harper were long-stay residents.
And thank goodness for Mrs Harper, Rhona thought as she opened the front door. Without her, Tom the cat would be seriously neglected. It was Mrs Harper who supplied his food and affection when Rhona was away on a job, although Sean had been known to step in too, when required.
The aforementioned Tom made no appearance on her entry. Moving into the kitchen, Rhona wondered if he’d taken advantage of the window she often left open for him and accessed the roof for a wander about. Calling his name through the window, she listened for his answering meow. When there was none she checked the rest of the flat for him.
The spare room, Sean’s domain, was strewn with clothes but empty of his saxophone, suggesting he was already at the jazz club. Rhona stood for a moment, catching his scent in the air. They weren’t operating as a couple any more and Sean only stayed over on occasion, yet he was a benign presence in the flat when she allowed him to be.
What is it with the two of us? Rhona thought.
She imagined the Irishman’s response to such a question. Can’t live with me, can’t live without … he would no doubt say with his characteristic Irish charm.
Rhona dismissed such a thought and double-checked among the pile of clothes for the curled body of the cat. If Tom wasn’t here, on her bed or anywhere equally comfortable in the sitting room, he must be on the roof.
Rhona returned to the kitchen to put the kettle on, then heading for the shower, she swiftly undressed and stepped under the hot spray.
Like a walk in the park, the beat of the water on her head usually helped the thinking process, but instead of contemplating the day’s events at the lab, she found herself revisiting her collision with the fast-moving cyclist.
The man who’d nearly knocked her down had introduced himself as Conor Williams who was carrying out research at the sleep clinic at the university. Rhona had given him her own name, omitting her professional title, but indicating she worked at the same university. Revealing she had anything to do with the police or forensics usually resulted in a conversation she didn’t seek.
Conor had then surprised her by asking how many hours’ uninterrupted sleep she got a night.
‘Never enough,’ she’d replied with a laugh.
‘I’ll get less too, with my bike off the road,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll have to get up earlier and walk to work.’
After that, they’d discussed his frequent visits to the Art Gallery, a favourite place of his, and Rhona had related how her father had taken her there as a child and she’d loved it ever since. That discussion over, she’d caught him checking her left hand for, she assumed, a ring.
Did people still do that?
Then, as he’d suddenly announced he was heading in a different direction from her, Rhona had had the distinct impression he was about to ask if he might have her number. She would probably have turned him down, but she was still a little put out when he walked away without asking for it.
I must be losing my knack, she’d thought at that point.
Fifteen minutes later, she’d ordered a pizza and was awaiting its delivery when she heard a sharp meow as Tom squeezed through the open window and presented himself to her in a flourish of leg rubbing. The affectionate welcome was, however, short-lived. Merely seconds later, he headed to his dish in the hope that some fresh titbit had been added, and when that proved untrue, he deserted her for the window seat to survey his domain through the glass.
He spends a lot more time sooking up to Sean than me, Rhona acknowledged. And since the cat had stayed at Sean’s flat when she’d been away on the Norwegian case, Rhona had gained the impression that Tom was merely putting up with her until he could get back there, and to Sean’s cooking.
Opening her door shortly afterwards to the delivery boy, Rhona was presented with a warm and fragrant pizza box, and a wine bottle bag.
‘I didn’t order wine,’ Rhona said, puzzled.
‘It was outside your door when I arrived. I take it you’re Rhona?’ He showed her the gift tag with her name on it. When she nodded, he grinned. ‘Looks like you’ve got an admirer.’
Her hunger greater than her curiosity, Rhona left the wine in the bag and started on the pizza. Three slices later, she lifted out the bottle to find it was an expensive-looking red, wearing a winner’s label.
Rhona immediately checked her mobile, in case there had been a text from Sean, the red-wine connoisseur, warning her of its imminent arrival. It was the sort of thing he would do.
But why not sign it? And why was it left outside the door?
She couldn’t answer the first question, but the second was easier. With the shower running, she could easily have missed the doorbell.
Rhona examined her name again, then a thought occurred and she fished in her bag for the note she’d found on her windscreen to compare them. She was no expert, but the handwriting looked similar.
Maybe the delivery boy was right and I do have an admirer other than Sean.
Rhona fetched the corkscrew. She wasn’t a big fan of red, despite Sean’s continued efforts to educate her palette, but she could always try.
22
She was running from something or someone, but had no idea who. Suddenly the thick undergrowth parted and she saw the tree.
Ugly, obscenely so, its trunk warped and raw as though it bled. Stunted, twisted branches reached out to her like mangled limbs.
Then came the smell. One she knew too well. A hand caught her in its deathlike grip and suddenly she was below ground, looking up into the web of branches, earth falling into her open mouth.
‘Rhona.’ Sean’s voice came from far away as the paralysis gripped her limbs.
‘Rhona. It’s okay.’
Her eyes, finally released from the stranglehold of the nightmare, sprang open to find him looking worriedly down at her.
‘I thought I came in quietly, but I must have disturbed you,’ he said.
‘I was in a wood.’ Rhona immediately recalled the vividness of the scene. ‘There was a dead body.’
‘That sounds like a normal day for you.’ He was making light of her fear, trying, Rhona knew, to reassure her.
‘Apart from the bit where I was being buried alive.’
Even as she said it, the stagnant taste of earth was back in her mouth, the suffocating smell of death in her nostrils.
Rhona dragged herself up in bed, seeking solace in the familiar-shaped shadows of her bedroom. She wasn’t prone to nightmares, even after copious amounts of alcohol, and she had drunk only half the bottle of red wine.
‘What time is it?’ she said.
‘Around three.’ Sean looked at her. ‘If you’re okay, I could go back to my room?’
Rhona didn’t want that. ‘No. Stay,’ she said.
Sean pulled back the duvet and slid in beside her.
His hair, brushing her cheek, smelt of wet night air, and for a horrible moment she was back in that wood.
‘You’re shivering.’ Sean pulled her to him, enveloping her in his radiant warmth.
‘Did you send me a bottle of wine earlier?’ Rhona checked.
‘You mean that rather nice vintage on the kitchen table?’
‘It was left outside the door. The gift tag just said “Rhona”.’
Sean drew back to catch her eye. ‘A secret admirer. Should I be jealous?’
‘I don’t like red wine, remember?’ Rhona said, pulling him to her.
23
McNab’s face was like fury. ‘Claire called me first thing, terrified. Fucking press banging on her front door.’
‘Any idea who contacted them?’ Rhona said.
‘Claire and the boyfriend knew about the breakin, pl
us Mr Marshall. She swears no one else did and I believe her,’ McNab said.
‘You’ve questioned the boyfriend?’
‘First thing. He’s like the male equivalent of Claire. They’re well matched. I’d swear he wasn’t lying. As for her boss, he’s got publicity, sure, but the kind that’ll fuck his family business.’ McNab shook his head. ‘We are being played by the fucker who left that body in the tunnel.’
Rhona had arrived for the strategy meeting to find the room already packed. She was due to be called on to say her piece, but at that moment DI Wilson had been leading the fray. She’d spotted McNab nearby with Janice, his face like thunder. And had soon learned the reason.
The tunnel body had been prominent in the morning headlines. Unfortunately, so too had the matching story of the breakin at Marshall’s funeral parlour, along with the feature of the bread and the wine.
Rhona, like McNab, couldn’t imagine that Claire had contacted the press. If they eliminated Mr Marshall and the boyfriend from the leak, that left the possibility that a police insider had given the story to the newspapers – or that the perpetrator had.
‘Who else knew about the funeral parlour incident?’ Rhona said.
‘I was convinced the boss gave me that job to keep me grounded. The only other person I spoke to about it was Janice. Then, of course, Pirie.’
Rhona ignored McNab’s belligerent tone. There was no way Magnus would reveal anything to the press and he knew it.
Bill was calling the meeting to order again. As the noise died down, a photograph of the victim appeared on the screen, identified now as Andrew Jackson, a male model, working for a Glasgow agency. Last seen at a photo shoot in the afternoon prior to his body being discovered.
It seemed Chrissy had been right when she’d suggested he wasn’t a typical Urbex.
Details of possible entry points to the tunnel followed, none of which were well covered by CCTV, so no luck yet on how or why he’d gone down there.
As Bill signalled to her, Rhona rose and made her way to the front, knowing that what she was about to say would probably confuse matters still further.
‘The autopsy was inconclusive. The pathologist found no evidence of foul play,’ Rhona explained. ‘A puncture mark was located on the left thigh, but Toxicology revealed nothing through the standard tests we requested. That doesn’t of course mean that he didn’t ingest poison in some form.’