McBride breathed on his numb hands to warm them, stamping his feet. Then he went into the hospital reception. The girl at the desk told him Tobias Leitner was out of surgery and doing well, but visitors’ hours didn’t start until ten. McBride flashed his badge and looked severe and a moment later was in the lift on his way to the third floor.
The hothouse atmosphere almost put him to sleep before he got there. Cold air condensed on his skin and clothes, dampening them. Padding down the long corridor towards the postsurgical unit, he yawned, pushing his fingers back through his fringe. He’d stopped off at home for a shower and a change of clothes, but he hadn’t checked a mirror. He hadn’t thought about it yet, but suddenly he wanted to be presentable.
Leitner’s room was guarded. McBride saw a couple of Zvi’s men and came to a halt in the corridor until they recognised him and stood down. He nodded to them, cautiously friendly. After a moment they returned the gesture, one of them reaching to push open the door for him. Well, they’d walked through the same fire the night before. They looked almost as weary as McBride felt.
Not so, Agent Leitner. Propped on pillows, smiling and chatting to a young male nurse who looked ready to die for him, Leitner was apparently prince of postsurgery. The unit was one of the hospital’s few modern ones; through the glass walls that divided its cubicles, McBride could see a small squadron of staff checking out the new arrival, making sure their aristocratic charge was safe.
He could see the attraction. Leitner wore his bandages like a sash of honour. He looked like an exotic general in his desert tent, wounded but still in command. McBride felt—for the first time since he was sixteen or so—a flicker of shyness. Then Leitner saw him, and his bright grin burned off his imperious air like sunshine on Edinburgh mist. “McBride!” he said. “Are you all right? What are you doing here?”
“Well, I was passing. I thought I’d stop off and check you were okay.”
“I am. I’ve had… Oh, wait one moment.” He turned to the nurse still standing by his bed.
“Peter. My friend could use some coffee. Could you possibly…” McBride cringed. He waited for Peter to inform this beautiful foreign despot this was an NHS hospital, and the nursing staff were not waiters. But the boy only nodded and headed for the door, almost bowing on his way out.
“I’ve had surgery to remove the bullet, and a transfusion,” Leitner went on, indicating a chair by the bed. “And…you know, McBride, I think I still look healthier than you. Sit down. What the hell have you been doing?”
McBride considered. He had a whole range of lies and smoke screens prepared to cover up his work on Sim Carlyle. But he was very tired. Sitting by Leitner’s side felt like coming to rest. The nurse brought his coffee in and set it respectfully on the bedside table. It was just from the vending machine, but the lad had put it on a tray and from somewhere or other had produced a digestive biscuit. “Thanks,” McBride said, sternly repressing a chuckle. “I’ve been out all night on a case. Bloke called Carlyle. Just a wee junkie and dealer, but he’s running a trafficking ring—women and kids from Romania, mostly, for the sex trade. I’ve…” McBride hesitated. For the hundredth time since he’d surfaced from the Grassmarket that morning, he checked his coat’s inside pocket for the digital photo cards his snitch had handed him. He’d only had time to glance at them on his laptop before he came out, but he knew they would do. Carlyle with the captain of the cargo liner, a cluster of bewildered-looking women clinging to one another in the background. Carlyle handing cash to a customs official on the Leith docks. “I’ve got enough on him now.”
“And…that’s what you did last night, after helping fight off a Hamas death squad?”
“Is that who they were? Yeah, I saw you safe here, and…”
“Your boss must be more negligent and stupid than I thought.”
McBride frowned. Leitner was watching him with a dark-eyed displeasure that made him glad not to be its target. It was strange, to have someone indignant for him. “Well, she’s all that. But to be fair to her, she didn’t know about Carlyle. She took me off the case last week, and I just…”
“You carried on anyway.”
“Yes. I was so close. Leitner, why…” Leaning forward, McBride rested his elbows on his knees. He clenched his hands together until the knuckles whitened. “Why did you stop a bullet for me last night? You don’t even know me.”
A warm touch found his shoulder. McBride tried to look up but found he couldn’t pull his gaze off the scuffed lino floor. His throat was tight and sore, his eyes oddly hot. “Why?” Leitner asked. His voice was very gentle. “Didn’t you want me to?”
“Well, you could have chosen better men to save.”
“Listen, McBride.” The touch tightened briefly, then lifted away, leaving a cool patch.
“I’m only on secondment to the Israeli police. You’ve probably heard that I normally work for Mossad. A few months ago in Jerusalem, the West Bank, my team was sent to rescue some hostages. No negotiation—we don’t negotiate—just a clean sweep-through. And my partner—”
“The one you called out for last night. Avrom. Avi.”
“Yes. My partner and my lover. He was shot. It was…the work of a moment. I didn’t believe in it, for many weeks. Perhaps not even until last night, when I saw you at gunpoint, and…I couldn’t bear to see another good man go down.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” The word lover hit McBride on the rebound, like a ricochet. He sat up.
“Oh. You were…together?” Awful, McBride, he admonished. So awkward. He felt as if his hands and feet were too big for him. “I am sorry,” he repeated lamely. “But it’s still no reason to jump in front of a bullet for a stranger. And I’m…very far from good.”
“If it’s any consolation, I only meant to push you out of the way.”
“Well, next time just shout.”
“All right. As for your goodness or otherwise…”
McBride never found out what he had been going to say. He was looking at McBride with an unearned affection, as if somehow he was good enough—good enough for Leitner, anyway. Those strange appreciative fires—damped down by the hospital neon, but unsettling as hell—were back. McBride jumped hard as the door clicked, admitting Lila Stone on a cold breeze.
“Oh. Detective Inspector. May I ask what you’re doing here?”
At what point had Leitner taken his hand? McBride had rested his on the blanket. He couldn’t remember when Leitner’s had come down to cover it. Leitner was watching Lila with interest, as if he couldn’t quite work out her species. Unhurriedly he lifted his hand. “The DI was good enough to call in on his way to work, Superintendent. How are you this morning?”
McBride turned. She hadn’t sounded at all like herself. Now he came to look, she didn’t look well either. Brittle and nervous. “Well, that’s what I came to find out—how you are, that is, Agent Leitner. McBride, as you know, I gave you and your team this morning off, in consequence of last night’s…”
“Cock-up?” Leitner suggested innocently from his bed, and McBride repressed a snort. Nothing wrong with the English at all. “Who will conduct the investigative meeting? One of my people or yours?”
Lila seemed to deflate. “Both,” she said bitterly. “My immediate superior and a General Sharot from the Israeli embassy. It’s scheduled for ten o’clock this morning. I have to ask you some preliminary questions.” She glanced around as if looking for something to conduct her fear and shame away. Her gaze fastened on McBride. “I’ll need you there,” she snapped. “You’re a state, Detective Inspector! I swear, if I find out you’ve been pulling unauthorised night shifts after Sim Carlyle… That case is in hand. It no longer concerns you at all.”
McBride got to his feet. He almost didn’t like to do it to her. She looked ready to shatter and fall into unwieldy bits as it was. Twelve hours was fast for the Lothian commissioners to set up a preliminary meet. Something being taken very seriously indeed. “Is it solved, then?” he asked her. “Your Ca
rlyle case? Did we bring the bastard in?”
“What? No, of course not. That case is still ongoing, as you very well know, and I can’t discuss it in front of—”
“Aye. Right.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat. “It’s just that these might help.” Dispassionately he dumped the small plastic bag containing the digital photo cards into her reflexively outstretched hands. Then he limped to the door. His knee still hurt, and he was exhausted. If he didn’t have to be on call until ten, he could go home and catch up on some kip, and maybe have time to think about why he felt closer to an Israeli stranger than to Andrew Barclay, Libby or anyone else in his chilly world. Why, for God’s sake, he would give almost anything to be back in a shoot-out again, with death closing in and the stranger’s arm locked round his waist…
He paused in the doorway to meet the stranger’s smile, his amused brown gaze. “What do they call you, then?” he asked. “If it’s not Leitner or your rank?”
“Tobias. Toby for short, and for friends. And you?”
“James.”
“James?” The smile became subtly wicked. “I heard your partner call you Jimmy, when he thought you were dead.”
“Aye. Well, he’ll be dead the next time. It’s just James.”
* * *
The flat was quiet. Empty and cold. For once McBride wouldn’t have minded the wail of free-form jazz beyond the party wall—his sax-playing neighbour, in endless rehearsal for the Fringe. Daytime hours at home, the rest of the world about its business, made him desolate. And perversely he was wide-awake. The look on Lila’s face as he’d given her the evidence bag, the mix of apprehension and disbelief, kept coming back to him. It should have been a good moment. He’d anticipated taking a good deal of pleasure from it.
But what the hell was he going to do now? Lila wasn’t likely to reinstate him because he’d proved her wrong. Quite the bloody opposite. Wondering if he’d cut off his nose to spite his face, McBride slung his coat onto the sofa and thought about an early-morning nip of Cutty, just enough to drive the cold from his bones and maybe knock him out enough to sleep.
Or he could turn the time to good account and wrap up Grace’s presents. That was a better idea. She wouldn’t be here on the day, but he could make a stocking of the little things and give it to Libby to hang on her bed the way she liked.
He noticed the answer phone was flashing. He hated the thing and ignored it when he could, but this morning the prospect of a human voice was not displeasing. For a second his brain toyed irrationally with the notion that Tobias Leitner—Toby—might have somehow got his number. Climbed out of bed, gunshot wound and all, and found a hospital payphone. Smiling at his stupidity, McBride played the message back.
He didn’t understand it.
Yet it was clear enough and very short: “Get back the evidence, and keep your mouth shut, or you’ll never see her again.” He sat on the arm of the sofa, unaware his knees had given. There were plenty of possibilities. A wrong number was the best of them. See who? Maybe someone had abducted Lila, again the best possible option. Why was there cobwebby scarlet mist in front of his eyes?
The phone rang. McBride picked up straightaway. He waited in silence. He knew exactly how to deal with kidnappers. Disorient them by nonresponse, the first in a series of moves you could use to prolong the call and get a trace on it. It was instinct, that was all. He was a professional, rigid-backed copper, waiting in dry-mouthed patience to hear what he must do.
“Is…is that you?”
Libby. His spine melted. He leaned one elbow on the phone table, resting his brow on the other hand. “Aye. Sorry, Libs. You all right?” She didn’t sound it, but that could be anything—her car broken down or a row with the brat over school.
“Jimmy, tell me she’s with you.”
“Keep your mouth shut, or you’ll never see her again.”
“Libby,” he said. “She’ll be truant from the school again.”
“No. She never got there.” Libby’s voice seemed to be finding him through panes of glass: he heard them shatter. “Jimmy, check her room. She might have got your keys again. Check the street, the hallway. Tell me she’s fucking well there!”
The door to Grace’s room was open. Her little bedroom, though better decorated than the rest of the flat, allowed no place to hide. McBride could see into every corner from here. “Wait a bit,” he muttered and lurched to his feet, setting the receiver down.
He stumbled into the communal hall and slipped halfway down one flight of steps on the oilcloth before he could catch himself. His nosy old bitch of a downstairs neighbour was there on the instant—the first time in his tenancy McBride had been grateful to see her. “Mrs. Calvi, have you seen my Grace? Has she been here?” If you don’t know, you interfering old bat, no one will.
But she didn’t. Grace hadn’t. And as for knowing, McBride knew perfectly well for himself. He turned—feeling his tired, aching body like a lead suit around him, making him lumber when he had to fly—and began the long trip back to the phone.
“Libby,” he said when he got there. “Have you told anyone?”
“Only you. The school called me. I’m just gonna call Amanda—then my mother. She might’ve gone there…”
“No. Don’t. Don’t call anyone.”
“What?”
“Call the school back and say she’s come home sick. No—I’ll do that. And not a word to anybody else, do you hear me?”
A terrible silence from the receiver. Then a thin voice, a ghost voice, so unlike his round, real Libby’s that McBride wanted to run from it, run and hide himself forever: “This is something to do with you, isn’t it? You and your fucking work. Somebody’s snatched my girl because of you!”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. But you have to promise—”
“Oh, I promise. Here’s what else I promise. You have that child home by dark—whatever it takes, you miserable, irresponsible, feckless bloody sot—or I’ll find you. With a knife between your ribs. Do you hear me?”
The line clicked and went dead.
* * *
Darkness fell at four, and Grace was not found. Libby didn’t carry through on her threat. She was too busy weeping, silently, curled up in a chair in the living room of the Corstophine house, face buried on her knees. McBride stood over her, fists clenching and unclenching in the pockets of his coat.
He had gone to the school first. No trouble there—all the staff knew Grace’s dad was a policeman. If he said she had flu and needed a few days off, they had no questions. He had kept his tone light, his voice steady. He had walked along the route from the bus stop to the school gates, looking for anything—scuffs on the pavement, a dislodged hair clip—and finding nothing. Then he had called in on Libby’s mother and Amanda Campbell in turn, doing a creditable impression of a man calling in on the off chance. Grandma fell for it, not noticing he checked the gravel on her driveway on his way out, glanced at her gate and fence for any trace of frantic nail scratches, for a caught hair or fibre. When he had done the same at Amanda’s house, her keen, kindly face had creased immediately with concern, and he had backed away from her, saying he was late for a meeting.
Which had been true: he’d sat, blind and deaf, through the preliminary investigative session at Harle Street. The Israeli general had asked him brief, concise questions, requiring only monosyllables by way of reply. “Were there metal detectors set up at the venue? Do you believe it was safe?” No and no, and Lila Stone’s basilisk gaze deflecting off him harmlessly, and he had been out and home, where another message had been waiting.
“Libby,” he said. “Can you listen to me?” He waited until she nodded, a tiny movement of her tangled hair. “I have to keep going as normal. I have to make it look good.”
“Make it look good, copper.”
“I have to get the evidence back on a case I’ve been working, and I have to recant everything I’ve said about it. They’re giving me twenty-four hours to do that. Then they’re go
nna call again and tell me when and where to hand it over. And then we get Grace back.”
Libby stopped crying. She lifted her head. McBride looked at her pretty face, blurred with grief. She said, calmly, “This is over Sim Carlyle, isn’t it? He’s got her.”
“Didn’t we warn you, copper? Didn’t we say this would follow you home?”
“I don’t know.” Cold fire sprang up in Libby’s eyes, and he amended shakily, “Yes, it’s about Carlyle. But I don’t know who’s holding Grace. All I’m saying is…we have to do as they say. Wait, and not tell anyone. He’s…” A stone lodged in McBride’s throat. It had been there all day, but suddenly he felt it, unbearably massive and hot. He struggled not to choke on it. “He’s ruthless. We can’t mess round with him, Libs. He will hurt her if we don’t play dice.”
Libby got up. She walked, spine erect, across the living room and into the hall, where she pulled open the front door. McBride was bemused for a second: had she heard a knock that he hadn’t? But only winter night lay beyond, a black rectangle streaked with the season’s first snow. That would please Grace, McBride thought—she’d been making controversial deals with God for a white Christmas for weeks. He realised Libby was holding open the door for him to leave. “All right,” she said softly as he went to stand beside her. “You go and play dice, Jimmy. Get out of this house, and don’t ever come back to it until you’ve got my daughter.”
Chapter Seven
McBride spent the night looking out into Fettes Row. The tall Georgian windows had alcoves deep enough to sit in. He pulled the phone to the limit of its extension cable, placed it before him and leaned against the alcove wall.
Once or twice, despite everything, he dozed. His tired brain immediately tried to start dream cycles for him, and in these everything was instantly solved: he heard Grace turning her filched set of keys in the door, and there she was, shamefaced, looking to him to forgive her crimes, intercede for her with Libby.
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