Two cars were already there. He recognised them both. One belonged to Detective Inspector Petra Novak – the other to the person who had come to kill her.
McBride had not worked out what he planned to do when he reached his destination. All that had filled his mind was the need to arrive there. Quickly.
He was not sure if he was too late. The other car’s still there. Good sign, he assured himself. He looked up at the top floor of the block where Petra lived. A light was on in one of the rooms where the curtains were drawn. He reasoned it had to be the bedroom. The sitting room would be on the opposite side of the building, facing the panoramic views of the sea.
Bad sign, he thought. They should still be in the sitting room.
He ran from the car and into the block. Looked at the stairs and threw himself at them – two at a time. Christ. Third time today. Thank God for all the jogging.
When he reached the top landing and the door to Petra’s flat, he stopped momentarily to recover his breath. And think. He reasoned that he had two choices. Kick the door open and charge inside. Or knock and see if anyone answers. Then what?
He decided on the third option, the one he thought would be a waste of time. He pressed down on the door handle. Softly. Waited for it to lock out. It kept moving. Stopped at the bottom of its full length of possible travel. He pushed gently. The door eased open. He stepped inside on to an oatmeal carpet that ran the full length of a hall.
Music came from behind the door top left, the front-facing sitting room. Andrea Bocelli was duetting ‘Somos Novios’ with Christina Aguilera. Absurdly, he wondered why such an unlikely pair should join up. Anything for a buck.
McBride made his way slowly along the hall. Light shone from under the first door on his right, the bedroom. He stopped, listened. Silence. He nudged the bottom of the door with his toe. It swung open soundlessly. He pressed his back to the door. Stretched his neck and turned his head round its side. Peered with one eye into the room.
Petra Novak lay on the bed looking back at him, her brown eyes enlarging. Her mouth was wide open but there was no chance that she was about to shout out in surprise. The space between her lips was stuffed with something oyster coloured and McBride realised it was a pair of women’s knickers. Nor was there any possibility that she would move towards him. She was stretched out in the crucifix position, each wrist manacled by handcuffs attached to the ends of the metal bedstead. He gazed at her, mesmerised, an absurd desire to laugh starting to rise within him. It was the kind of situation he might have dreamed of in his more perverted moments. Then monochromatic images of the heroine in a silent movie flashed into his mind. The urge to laugh was overwhelming.
McBride put a finger to his lips, pointlessly requesting her to remain silent. When he realised the incongruity of the gesture, he shrugged his shoulders apologetically and smiled. She tried to smile back, just as convincingly as anyone can with a mouth stuffed full of ladies’ underwear. He wondered when she would work out that their inappropriate responses were a reaction to the fear they felt.
McBride was considering his next move when a voice spoke from the end of the passageway. It was soft, even, accentless and familiar.
He turned to face its owner. Anneke Meyer – or Mikel as she had been known before she changed her name – stood at the entrance to the sitting room. She had one hand raised, leaning against the door jamb. In the other, the one outstretched towards him, she held a pistol. Even from twenty feet McBride recognised it as a police-issue 9mm Glock 17.
‘And you told me you were too busy to see me,’ she mocked. ‘Small world, isn’t it? But then, I didn’t know you and our friend in the bedroom were an item. We might have had a cosy threesome.’
McBride shook his head slowly. ‘I came here for you, Anneke. I knew this is where I’d find you.’
She said nothing but inclined her head, inviting him to continue.
‘Big mistake sending the page from The Courier to me,’ McBride said, watching closely for her response.
She remained silent but nodded again, inviting him to continue.
‘You should have bought it in Dundee, not your local shop. It was the Perthshire edition you posted off. Like most people, it never occurred to you that a big regional paper like The Courier would have several different editions, did it? Six, in fact. Just your hard luck that the piece about your last victim that you sent me happened to be on page three, the one before the start of the local news pages. Tough shit too that the Dundee edition that day was carrying a piece on page four that a proud bookstore manager forced me to look at. Took a little while to click but, after that, it wasn’t too difficult … Who did I know in Perthshire? Who was a policeman’s daughter?’
The last comment provoked a startled reply. ‘You don’t know anything about my father.’ She almost spat the words.
‘No, but a very helpful reporter on De Telegraaf in Amsterdam with a long memory brought me up to speed,’ McBride said easily. ‘So this is all about revenge? Get the daughters of the men who shopped your dad? Why them? Why not the fathers?’
She stared back at him. He thought of the last time they had been together in a house. It was a concept he was unable to grasp. Now she loathed him. Maybe she always had. Venom consumed her face. ‘I lost a father – and mother. They should lose a daughter.’
‘Why so elaborately?’
She threw back her head and made a sound that was meant to be a laugh. ‘For fun. Police are stupid. Detectives no longer solve crimes. It is scientists – us. We supply them with the evidence. The fingerprints – the DNA. And we can use the same things to make them look foolish. Don’t you think that’s funny?’
‘I’m pissing myself,’ McBride said.
She gestured for him to come towards her. He complied, walking along the hallway as she backed into the sitting room, still extending the Glock in front of her. Inside the room, she waved her free hand in the direction of a low glass table positioned in front of a sofa. Two empty wine glasses and a bottle of wine with two inches left in it were the first things McBride saw. Then he noticed a white, folded cloth, the size of a handkerchief at one corner.
The woman he now knew as Mikel backed her way to the table and lifted the top of the material, throwing it back. Underneath were two condoms and a small hypodermic syringe.
‘Recognise anything?’ she asked, a note of triumph in her voice.
McBride did not reply.
She picked up a condom, swung it from side to side. ‘Yours, I think. One of a set of four, if I remember. Though there wasn’t much to get excited about in two of them.’ She replaced it on the cloth and, still holding the pistol, skillfully lifted the hypodermic and inserted the needle point into the latex sheath. She pulled back the plunger of the syringe, glancing down briefly to be sure the semen from the condom teat was being drawn up into the barrel of the hypodermic.
‘Maybe you’d like to be the one who injects this into the pussy of our friend next door,’ she taunted. ‘Or perhaps you would rather do it properly. Now, that could be interesting. I could judge your performance and give you marks out of ten. Either way, the clever detectives will imagine you were her visitor tonight.’
McBride sneered. ‘The presence of semen isn’t evidence of intercourse. You of all people should know that.’
‘Clever boy,’ Mikel said. She reached into a sports bag on the floor at the corner of the table and without taking her eyes off his face, extracted a large object that looked more like an instrument of terror rather than pleasure. She smiled at McBride’s expression of surprise as she waved a vibrator at him.
‘He’s called the Emperor, though Brutus sounds a bit more appropriate, wouldn’t you say?’ She jerked the dildo up and down several times. ‘That’s usually enough to open up any unwilling passage,’ she said. ‘If Petra’s mouth wasn’t so full she’d tell you how it felt.’
McBride said nothing.
She was enjoying herself.
‘In the unlikely event that
some plod still isn’t convinced, there’s always the wine glass.’
She pointed down at the table. ‘Familiar? The one on the left is the one you so enthusiastically handled when you paid your little visit out to Glencarse. Remember how many drinks you knocked back before joining me in bed? There’s something else,’ she said. She dug into her bag once more, this time removing a small, clear envelope used to carry forensic samples. Inside were half a dozen hairs.
‘You left two of them on the pillow and the other four on your lovely white “his” bathrobe. Towelling is a wonderful material for holding on to hairs, don’t you think? Place them in the right spot, though, and no one believes they didn’t get there naturally. Causes no end of confusion among the thicko cops. Leaving Bryan Gilzean’s hair on the hat that disposed of Lynne Ireland was a nice touch, don’t you think?’
She stopped speaking, allowing McBride to consider what she’d said. After a few moments she asked, ‘Anything else? Or is it all too complicated for the hotshot investigative reporter?’
‘So how did you track your victims down?’ McBride asked.
She shook her head pityingly. ‘You really do disappoint me, Campbell. You, of all people, should know what the interrogation of a few properly selected databases can produce – that and some innocently worded questions in a handful of phone calls to the right people. Satisfied now?’
‘One thing,’ McBride replied. ‘Why the “big one”? And why stop after it?’
Mikel looked at with him disgust. ‘You’re not really smart at all, are you? Petra’s two for the price of one – with her, I also get you. The daughter of Detective Chief Superintendent David Novak, the tutor on my father’s course at the police college, and you – a journalist. The same breed of parasite as the reporter who told the world about my father’s indiscretion. If it wasn’t for that bastard, my parents would still be alive. You’ll do nicely in his place. Why stop? Only half true, I’m afraid. Next week I leave for nine months’ study abroad at the University of San Diego. When I get back? Well, who knows …’
McBride dropped on to the sofa without asking permission. He folded his arms and looked across the room at the woman holding the gun.
‘So, how was Petra going to get it? A bullet in the head? Hardly my style.’
She gave him a pitying stare. ‘Nothing so crude.’
‘So, how?’
‘Just your style – “Shagger” McBride plays a sex game that goes wrong. The lovely Petra is handcuffed then choked for kicks. He should stop but doesn’t. She dies. His semen is all over her, his prints on the wine glass, his hair on the pillow in the bedroom and on the back of the sofa. Twenty years minimum, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Neat. So, what next?’
‘We play doctors and nurses.’
McBride raised an eyebrow.
‘We go next door and you perform your little trick with the hypodermic,’ she said. ‘Don’t suppose an athlete like yourself has ever used a needle before – unless, of course, it’s been to improve your performance on your little bicycle. The lovely detective inspector so invitingly stretched out on the bed probably hasn’t been on the wrong end of a needle either. She may even enjoy it. More than she did the Emperor, I imagine.’
McBride stared back at her, saying nothing.
She gave a short laugh and lifted the vibrator once more. Started to thrust it upwards several times. ‘No, sadly, our friend here didn’t go down too well or should I say “up” too well,’ Mikel sneered. ‘She should get out more. Meet more men. Get in some practice. Too much work and not enough play has made the delightful Petra a bit of a tight-ass.’ She laughed again. She was starting to sound manic.
McBride eyed her coldly. ‘You got a lot of pleasure out of it though, didn’t you?’ he said, watching closely for a reaction.
Mikel dropped her gaze, a rush of colour filling her cheeks. She started to speak but changed her mind. She waved the Glock. ‘Lift the syringe and lead the way into the bedroom,’ she said, trying to sound scornful. ‘Slowly.’
He picked the hypodermic from the table and moved towards the door. ‘Another thrill awaits you, doesn’t it?’ he asked – not a question, a taunt.
Mikel ignored him and pointed the gun in the direction of the bedroom. ‘Her too, perhaps,’ she said.
When they entered the room, McBride saw at once that Petra had been silently crying. Smudges of dampness trailed down both cheeks. Vivid rings of red encircled both wrists where she had struggled against the handcuffs. She had never looked more distressed – or more in need of protection. He wanted to take her in his arms. Instead, he moved to the edge of the bed and gently ran the back of his hand over a cheek. ‘Hi,’ he said inadequately. Then, ‘Not too easy getting to sleep with these things on, I bet.’
Petra’s eyes crinkled at the corners, the way they did when she smiled.
The short exchange seemed to enrage Mikel. She moved to the other side of the bed. ‘Get it over with,’ she instructed McBride.
Petra wriggled the lower half of her body in protest at what was about to happen. The movement angered the woman with the gun even more. She lifted her free hand and swung it backwards. Hard. It caught Petra full on the right side of her face, the blow smashing into the opposite cheek from the one McBride had caressed with the back of his hand a moment before.
McBride instinctively stepped towards Mikel, as though to strike her in retaliation.
‘Don’t even consider it,’ Mikel said. She lifted the pistol higher. ‘As they say on the T-shirts, just do it.’ She slid Petra’s skirt up over her waist, exposing the naked lower half of her body, and gestured with the gun for McBride to inject the semen.
He complied as gently as possible. When it was over, he briefly stroked Petra’s hair, doing his best to ease their shared awkwardness.
Mikel, who had watched the process intently, snapped at him, ‘How touching! Right, you’ve done it.’ She waved the Glock again, this time towards the sitting room. ‘And take the syringe with you.’
McBride did as he was told. And as he left, he turned towards the bed and smiled gently at Petra who was staring nervously at his retreating figure. ‘See you later,’ he said softly, convincing neither of them.
Back in the main room, he stood facing Mikel. ‘So, what now?’ he asked. ‘What do you have in mind now that I’ve messed up your grand plan?’
The question troubled her. For the first time since she had confronted him in the hallway after he had entered the flat, she appeared uncertain. The initiative had slipped from her. She remained silent. Thinking. Her eyes moved round the room.
McBride felt her hesitance. It did not give him the reassurance he might have imagined, or desired. With her carefully prepared scenario disrupted, Mikel would be unpredictable.
He cursed himself for not having phoned Superintendent Hackett before going in such haste to Monifieth.
The same thought appeared to occur at exactly the same moment in the mind of the woman standing opposite.
‘I guess you neglected to call for reinforcements, Campbell,’ she said. ‘They would have been here long before now if you had. Tut-tut. Not such a clever boy, after all.’ She shook her head in mock disgust and started to swing the Glock slowly backwards and forward.
McBride moved away from her and sat down on the sofa again.
She watched him closely but did not say anything. The tension between them started to reach deafening proportions.
McBride sat back. Put his hands behind his neck and rested his head in them. He had arrived at a strategy – a poor one but the only one he could think of.
‘Before you shoot, there’s something you need to know,’ he said. ‘Your father will be extremely disappointed with how you’ve turned out. Ashamed, even.’
The remark hit the target, slap in the middle.
Her eyes blazed and the nostrils he had once found so appealing widened. Her breasts lifted then dropped as she started to breath deeper. She took the three paces ac
ross the room she needed to be standing next to him at the side of the sofa. She did not speak but clenched her left fist, drew back her arm then punched him in the mouth with as much force as she could muster.
Blood sprang from McBride’s lower lip. He reached cautiously into his pocket, removed a handkerchief and dabbed gently on the wound. ‘You’re losing it, Anneke,’ he said. ‘Where’s all the control now?’
She did not reply but moved closer and stretched out her arm until the gun in her right hand was level with McBride’s head. Then she eased a further two inches forward until the barrel was pressing into his temple. It was the coldest feeling he’d ever experienced. Worse than the chill that was filling his stomach.
The colour drained from Mikel’s cheeks. ‘My father loved me,’ she said. ‘He adored me. And my mother.’ Her eyes flashed and what looked like tears began to well in them.
‘He was an honourable, loving man – no doubt about that,’ McBride said. ‘He proved it by what he did to protect you and your mother from what he thought was the shame he’d brought on the family. Wasn’t a lot of point though, was there? All he got for his trouble was a daughter who turned out to be a serial killer. That would make him real proud, wouldn’t it?’
His words instantly produced the effect he sought. Mikel’s face contorted. Her eyes swung from side to side then cast around the room. She stepped backwards, pulling the barrel of the Glock away from the side of McBride’s head and allowing the pistol to drop almost level with her side. She was confused, agitated – torn between the love she felt for her father, her hatred of McBride and the self-loathing that was beginning to overtake her.
He pushed on, aware of the risk but accepting it. ‘So what are you going to do now?’ he asked. ‘Problem you’ve got, as I see it, is how you wrap this up. Gunfire might alert the neighbours. You can always strangle Petra first, of course, then march me off for a firing squad somewhere quiet. ’Cept I might just object when you started the throttling bit. Or were you going to do that with one hand and hold the gun on me with the other? Even for a body combat instructor that might all be a bit tricky.’ McBride rested his head on the sofa back. Waited for her to answer. His eyes never left her face.
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