by Lin Anderson
He nodded, then repeated his assertion. ‘I saw him take the cocaine from the hiding place on Cathkin Braes on Sunday night.’
‘When the area was thick with police officers?’
He shot her an angry look. ‘They’d mostly gone by midnight. Any left were inside the tent.’
That was true. Too true to be comfortable.
Janice tried to remember when she’d last seen McNab up there, then stopped herself. This was ridiculous. McNab didn’t remove a stash of cocaine. The guy was making it up.
His cheeks and forehead were slick with sweat, his eyeballs darting about. He was obviously shitting himself, but he was here and prepared to make a statement that would put him and McNab under scrutiny.
‘Would you like a mug of tea, Mr Munro?’
‘Why?’ he said suspiciously.
‘We usually offer people tea when they’re making a statement.’
‘I’d rather have coffee,’ he said grudgingly.
Janice nodded and stood up. ‘I’ll fetch paper and a pen, and a cup of coffee.’
He sat back, looking relieved. Mission accomplished, he wiped his forehead of sweat.
Janice exited and shut the door, her hand trembling. McNab had disappeared, leaving a trail of unanswered questions in his wake. Now this?
She calmed herself. Remember the rule of the detective. Everyone was lying until proved otherwise. A small voice questioned whether that included McNab.
‘Okay,’ Chrissy said. ‘This is how we play it. I sign the evidence bags that came from McNab’s. I do the standard tests. We keep everything in house, until he’s back and we can speak to him and find out what happened.’
‘What about the cocaine?’
‘I test it against the trace samples we took from Cathkin Braes.’
It was what Rhona had intended doing herself. ‘And if it’s a match?’
‘McNab’s not using,’ Chrissy said. ‘But the daft bitch he was screwing probably is, which is why we have to find her.’
Rhona explained about her conversation with DS Clark.
Chrissy shook her head. ‘I’ll speak to Janice. It’s better if I look for Lolita unofficially. That way we keep the relationship under wraps.’ She shook her head. ‘This is all your fault, boss. If you’d taken McNab up on his offer the night of the party, Iona would never have got her claws into him.’
Rhona opened her mouth to protest, but Chrissy had already deposited her mug and was on her way out. The door shut with a bang.
Rhona glanced skywards. ‘Where the hell are you, McNab?’
46
McNab pulled into the petrol station. According to the sign this was the last chance to fill up before he hit the wasteland. McNab didn’t like wide open spaces, nor the scent of things growing. The mean streets of Glasgow, even the area round the Union bar, were sweet in comparison to what lay around him.
Mountains, emptiness and silence.
Still stiff from the long drive, and his overnight sleep on the back seat, he eased himself out of the car, filled up and went to the kiosk, taking out the pay-as-you-go mobile and checking it as he entered.
‘No signal here, pal,’ a Glasgow voice informed him from behind the counter. ‘The mountains,’ he added by way of explanation.
‘No signal? Anywhere?’ McNab said, aghast.
‘Hit and miss most of the time. Where you headed?’
‘West,’ McNab said.
‘It gets better when you hit the coast.’
McNab gathered a selection of snacks and a bottle of Irn Bru and paid for them along with the petrol.
‘Hope you booked a bed ahead. It’s busy this time of year with tourists.’
The word busy didn’t work for McNab, not surrounded by emptiness.
‘How long before I meet the sea?’
‘Three hours, give or take a caravan or two.’
Jesus, three more hours of this.
‘Don’t bother with the sat nav. It’ll send you the wrong way,’ his advisor threw after him in a sarcastic voice as he departed.
McNab started up the engine and drove away. In the rear mirror, the Glaswegian who’d bizarrely departed the city to live in this wilderness watched him leave.
McNab turned on the car radio. The result was a hiss of indecipherable words, regardless of which station he sought. So no radio reception either. McNab didn’t do music plugged into his ears, so he would have to travel in silence.
As a result his brain replayed the scenario that had brought him here.
He’d initially failed the entry test to the game, then received a message via his mobile, declaring him a player. That had suggested the puppetmaster had been aware of his identity. Not only that, he’d also got hold of McNab’s number.
McNab thought back to the trashed flat and the suspicion that his mobile had been compromised. Maybe he’d been wrong about Iona. Maybe she hadn’t been stalking him because of the cocaine stash. Maybe she had something to do with Stonewarrior.
He briefly considered that possibility, but didn’t wear it. Nothing she’d said or done suggested any link with the game. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t sold his number on to whoever sought it.
Another possible explanation was that there was a mole at the police station, maybe even in the Tech department. Personnel were vetted for both the force and the support staff, but it needed a techie to play the game, and what better if you played it from the inside?
Iona, Ollie, Big Davy. How many more people couldn’t he trust?
An image of Rhona came to mind. He’d asked her to forensically examine the flat without an explanation. What would she do when she found out what he’d tried to clean up, as she undoubtedly would? If she suspected a crime had been committed, it was her professional duty to report it. Her first instinct, he thought, would be to try to talk to him. He glanced down at the silent mobile. And that wasn’t a possibility until the twenty-four hours were up.
As for DS Clark, he’d dumped her in more shit than had been spread about his flat. His sergeant, McNab was certain, would try to protect him as long as she could. Something he didn’t deserve.
The road had narrowed to a single track, weaving through an expanse of bog, interspersed with rocky outcrops and stagnant pools. Ahead of him, a camper van trundled, obviously in no hurry. McNab put his foot on the brake, cursing. Stuck behind a tourist would see a three-hour journey extend to four.
He blasted the horn.
His demand bore fruit, sending the van into the next passing place to allow him to overtake. McNab signalled his thanks by raising his hand. A young male watched McNab sail past.
Ten minutes later he emerged from the valley, and the pay-as-you-go on the passenger seat lit up a possible signal. The puppetmaster’s instructions had been clear. Any communication from McNab en route to their meeting place and he would forfeit the game. Since he had a trace on McNab’s mobile, he would know if it was being used. McNab had chosen to believe him, and left his mobile with Sean. But he wasn’t fool enough not to have a back-up.
At that moment the ‘no signal’ message appeared again on the screen. Some back-up.
The sun had moved behind the mountain range, casting the road valley in deep shadow. McNab shivered and took his eye briefly from the road to switch off the air conditioner. Checking the rear-view mirror, he caught a glimpse of the camper he’d passed a while back, coming up behind him at high speed.
So he had pissed the driver off and now it was his turn to be tail-gated.
McNab contemplated the fast-approaching passing place, then decided against it. If the driver of the shagging wagon wanted a rally, who was he to deny him?
McNab put his foot down. The car sprang forward, like a horse kicked in the flank, leaving camper boy way behind. McNab smiled. Maybe single-track roads weren’t so boring after all.
But his challenger wasn’t giving up that easily, and whatever was under the camper’s bonnet had plenty of horsepower. Plus, it was obvious by the way he took corners that he
was familiar with the road. This wasn’t going to be a one-horse race.
The road had left the bog and now wound its way through a ravine. To the right a fall of scree ended in a riverbed. To the left rose a wall of rock. McNab took the first two corners too wide, and got a brief glimpse of how far he had to fall, should he make a mistake third time round.
‘Don’t be a stupid bastard for once,’ he told himself. This wasn’t the place for a race, especially against someone who was familiar with the terrain.
First passing place, and he was in it.
Two bends later, one appeared. McNab braked and began to draw in, happy to acknowledge defeat by giving the thumbs-up to his erstwhile racing companion. He never got the chance.
The camper van hit his boot straight on, thrusting it forward. McNab felt the snap as his neck whiplashed back and forth in quick succession. Before he could gather his wits, the van hit again. McNab, stunned by the impact, lost control of the wheel and the car took an abrupt turn to the right. He’d been travelling at twenty, the van much faster. Their combined speed sent him hurtling towards the bank of scree. McNab hit the brakes, while simultaneously pulling on the handbrake. There was a sickening screech as the car tried to obey. Smoke rose in nauseous waves as the wheels grabbed frantically at the tarmac. The car slithered onwards, albeit slower.
The van had blasted into reverse and was coming at him again.
It hit the passenger door this time, causing McNab’s head to strike the side window with a crack. He had to get out of the car before the bastard sent him over the edge. Eyes watering from the impact, McNab managed to release the seatbelt and scrabbled with the door.
It flew open and he fell out, the back of his head taking the impact this time.
A figure appeared to block McNab’s watery view of the sky.
His last thought before blackness overtook him … who the fuck was this guy?
47
He pocketed the mobile and removed everything from the boot and the glove compartment. Then he set about pushing the car over the edge. The bank was steep enough for it to go alone once it was on the move. But he had to be swift. There was little traffic on this road, but it was the tourist season and someone would eventually come along.
The car resisted at first, its chassis twisted by the impact, but his strength was more than enough to get it going. Sweat erupted all over his body, making his hands slippery. He wiped them on his jeans and gave one last concentrated effort as a cloud of midges arrived in search of his salt and blood.
With a grunt it went over. There were no boulders to block its path, only the sliding scree to aid its descent. It slithered downwards, bending small saplings in its wake, speeding up as it reached halfway. He heard the splash as it rolled into the river. The water soon found it, rearing up and over the bonnet and roof.
He stood for a brief moment, acknowledging his success, then turned back to the van. He did a quick check for damage. The grille he’d fitted to the front had borne the most impact. It looked none the worse for it. He climbed into the driver’s seat, took a swift look behind him, did a three-point turn and headed back the way he had come.
48
Janice read the statement one more time. It was ridiculous, and implausible, but nevertheless it had to be checked. She was sure, if she could speak to McNab, that he would be able to blow it out of the water. She imagined the look he would give her. Quailed under its imagined scorn.
She laid the paper down on McNab’s desk beside the report on the familial connection. This would all be sorted out when McNab reappeared. Meanwhile, they would carry on as normal. She contemplated calling Dr MacLeod, but was unwilling to divulge this new development. She tried to imagine why Steve Munro had made such an accusation. Fear seemed foremost in his mind, which suggested he may have been leaned on. If he had been the anonymous tip-off, as he’d claimed, why divulge his identity now?
No matter which way she looked at it, it was not good news for the DI. She made a decision and slipped the statement into the desk drawer. The report she would make a point of dealing with. Maybe even have something concrete when McNab reappeared, as he would surely do tomorrow.
Janice checked the phone number of the nursing home. She would give them a call and arrange to speak to Angus Patterson, assuming he was still capable of talking at all.
Rhona stood for a moment to admire the front garden. Margaret had always been a keen gardener, as evidenced by the display on show. Rhona, on the other hand, was an expert at killing houseplants. When Sean and she had lived together, he had cultivated a selection of herbs in a kitchen window box. Parsley, rocket, thyme and rosemary. She knew the names, could even distinguish between them. Unfortunately, the plants rebelled when Sean left. The thyme had lasted the longest, but even it chose to go eventually. Death being preferable to living with her.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought and led to other thoughts of death. Margaret had survived breast cancer, only to see it return. The second prognosis was good, but Bill had decided that, this time round, they would face the surgery and chemo together. Margaret had tried to discourage him from taking leave, believing he was better concentrating on a case than fussing round her, but she’d eventually relented.
Rhona pushed open the gate and walked up the path to the front door. She hadn’t warned Bill she was coming, because she hadn’t been sure she would carry it through. She pressed the bell before she could change her mind.
It was Margaret who opened the door. Rhona tried not to examine her for signs of illness, but as a scientist that was verging on the impossible. It took a couple of seconds to assure herself that Margaret looked tanned and well. Her hair was cut close to her head, but it looked glossy and she hadn’t lost any weight since the last time they’d met.
‘Rhona. What a nice surprise. Come through. We’re in the back garden. I’ve got Bill spraying the tomatoes. Blasted greenfly gets worse with the better weather.’
He was in the greenhouse, doing as instructed. DI Bill Wilson, her friend and mentor. At the sight of his tall figure, Rhona realized with a jolt how much she had missed him.
He turned and, seeing her arrival, swiftly abandoned the greenfly spray and came to greet her.
As she had studied Margaret, Bill now subjected Rhona to the same scrutiny. Intuition was simply psychology in action, Magnus liked to say. One look would tell Bill that she was here for more than just a social visit, despite her attempts to appear otherwise.
It seemed Margaret had already sussed that out. ‘I’ll fetch some tea.’
Bill waved Rhona towards the path that ran between the lawn and the flower beds.
They strolled along it for some moments before he spoke. ‘How’s he doing?’
‘Struggling a bit, I think.’
Bill nodded. ‘Everyone does when handed more power and responsibility.’ He stopped to study her. ‘Want to tell me more?’
Rhona gave Bill a brief résumé about Iona and the mess at the flat.
‘You think this girl was a plant?’
‘I think she may have been. The holdall of cocaine hasn’t been located. We assumed the gang had taken it. Maybe they hadn’t.’
‘And she was set the task of finding out?’
Rhona nodded.
‘And this game that’s being played out online?’ Bill said.
‘You’ve been following it?’
‘Trust McNab to get that for his first case as DI.’ Bill gave a wry smile. ‘He hates computers.’
‘Almost as much as he hates psychologists.’ Rhona paused. ‘The internet interest has made it even more difficult for him. Sutherland’s on his back a lot and …’
‘And?’ Bill said.
‘Apparently McNab tried engaging with the game, and failed. He left the Tech department in a fury. Next we know he marches out of the police station. Nobody’s been able to get hold of him since.’
Bill waved her to a seat. They settled there, looking back across the green expanse of lawn at the
house. Rhona spotted Margaret checking on them from the French windows and deciding the time for tea had not yet come.
‘Tell me everything you have on the case.’
It took twenty minutes. When Rhona eventually reached the familial matches to DNA found at the scene of crime, Bill stopped her and asked her to repeat the names.
‘Angus Patterson and Isabel Kearney.’
‘They’re brother and sister. Angus was a lot older than Isabel.’
‘You knew them?’
Bill nodded. ‘Angus was a housebreaker and petty criminal. Disappeared off the radar a while back.‘
‘He’s in a nursing home, suffering from dementia. Isabel Kearney—’
‘Took her own life in prison. The man she stabbed was her husband, Derek Kearney. Kearney had no previous convictions, so wouldn’t be on the database, but he was a bastard. Raped her at knifepoint, God knows how many times. She would never press charges, because of the boy.’
‘She had a child?’
‘Josh. He was fourteen when it happened. We thought at the time it might have been Josh who stabbed Derek, but Isabel always insisted it was her and her DNA was all over the knife.’
Rhona waited, knowing there was more.
‘Shortly after she died, the boy disappeared from care. We never found him.’ He paused. ‘It was McNab’s first case as DS.’
49
Josh Kearney was born at midnight on a kitchen floor that swam with his mother’s blood. It was a speedy birth brought on by a punch to the stomach. Derek Kearney had returned from a visit to the pub and took umbrage when Isabel felt less than keen to have sex. Derek had always made a point of hitting Isabel where the bruises would not be seen. Her pregnancy had made this more challenging, because her belly had become a focus of attention. Thus he had taken to fucking her anally, so as not to arouse suspicion.
It was not often she resisted. In this case she had, and bore the brunt of his anger and frustration. He’d left almost immediately afterwards, realizing that she had gone into labour, something he had no wish to view or take part in.
The birth was swift and occurred before the ambulance arrived. They found Isabel lying on the floor, the baby, cord uncut, resting in her arms. Josh was bloody and bruised, like his mother, but alive.