by Lin Anderson
Music floated up to her from the jazz club and a wave of warmth and voices met her as she descended the steps. She immediately decided to take a taxi home at the end of the night, or, if one wasn’t available, walk back to the flat, leaving her luggage until tomorrow.
Chrissy was hugging the bar, sitting determinedly across two stools. Rhona tapped her on the shoulder.
‘At last!’ Chrissy exclaimed, and waved at the barman, who poured a large glass of chilled white wine and brought it across. ‘I thought you’d never return from the frozen north.’
‘Well, here I am,’ Rhona said.
Chrissy was studying her with the intensity of a suspicious parent. ‘The evidence from Cairngorm arrived. It’s logged and stored.’
‘I did plan to get to you earlier …’
‘But you were attending four postmortems,’ Chrissy finished for her. ‘No wonder you need a drink,’ she added as Rhona savoured a mouthful. ‘How’s Bill? McNab texted me.’
Rhona told her.
‘Poor bugger.’ Chrissy’s words caught in her throat.
Silence fell as they both regained their composure.
‘So, how was your romantic weekend?’
Since she never discussed her love life, with Chrissy or anyone else, Rhona remained silent. Expecting this, Chrissy announced triumphantly, ‘McNab’s got a new lurve interest.’
‘Really?’ Rhona wondered if that had been the secret he’d been keeping.
‘Her name’s Ellie something or other. And –’ she paused for effect – ‘she’s a tattoo artist.’ Chrissy watched for Rhona’s reaction to this startling piece of news.
‘So that’s why he knew about Ragnar Lodbrok.’ Rhona voiced her thoughts out loud.
Chrissy immediately pounced on her words. ‘McNab’s got a tattoo?’ Her mouth fell open in amazement.
‘No. Well, I don’t think so.’ Rhona explained the background to her declaration.
Chrissy’s expression suggested she was considering the possibility that it might be true. ‘If he has, it’s a body one.’ She looked to Rhona. ‘Have you seen …’
‘I haven’t viewed McNab’s body. Not recently, anyway.’
‘Any chance—’
‘No,’ Rhona said firmly. ‘Even to allay your suspicions.’
‘Shame.’ Chrissy shrugged.
‘Use your army of spies,’ Rhona suggested. ‘You found out her name and what she does. I’m sure you can find out if she inked McNab.’
Chrissy smiled wickedly. ‘Good idea. Leave it with me.’
Rhona slid from the chair. ‘Keep my seat,’ she ordered.
Checking with the barman, she learned that Sean was in his room and was due on stage shortly. Sean, who was a partner in the jazz club, as well as a performer, had a small room in the bowels of the building, which served as an office and an occasional place to sleep over. McNab had hidden out there for a while during a previous investigation.
‘You made it back,’ Sean said with a smile, when she entered.
‘I got here before you. An early flight from Inverness. How was the road?’
‘Less exciting on the return journey. Still plenty of snow though. We were driving through tunnels of it in convoy.’ He gestured to her suitcase in the corner. ‘If you’re having a drink, I can drive you back later,’ he offered.
‘I’ll grab a taxi,’ she said.
He nodded, expecting that would be her answer. ‘I saw the news. A shame about the climbers. I’m glad the girl survived.’
‘So am I,’ Rhona said.
The door opened and a female head popped round. ‘Your audience awaits, boss,’ she said, throwing Rhona a wary look.
‘New staff?’ Rhona asked when the girl had disappeared.
‘Imogen’s a post-graduate student of archaeology, working nights to help pay the rent,’ Sean stated, meeting her eye, which, Rhona decided, didn’t mean much in the long history of their relationship.
‘I’ll pick up my case later,’ she said.
‘Sure.’
On entering the bar, Sean made straight for the stage. Before Rhona had succeeded in threading her way back through the crowd, the notes of his saxophone were already filling the air.
The place had filled up since she’d left Chrissy at the bar, although her friend and forensic assistant was doggedly hanging on to the extra seat. Rhona almost stopped short when she realized who was standing next to her.
The Norwegian detective’s head rose a full six inches above Chrissy’s and most of those around her. The two were having an animated conversation.
Chrissy, Rhona thought, can talk to anyone like a long-lost friend.
With the air of a detective acutely aware of his surroundings, Olsen turned, sensing Rhona’s approach. Noting her look of surprise at finding him there, he explained, ‘I called the lab. Your assistant told me to come here. I understand you stayed for all four PMs.’ He sounded impressed.
Rhona nodded, not sure where this was headed as Olsen stepped aside so that she might resume her seat.
‘We were discussing McNab,’ Chrissy said. ‘I thought Alvis should know about him.’
‘What about him, exactly?’ Rhona said.
‘That’s he’s a Byronic hero with all the faults,’ Chrissy said with a straight face. ‘And that he saved my unborn baby from a bullet.’
Rhona glanced at Olsen, wondering what on earth he must make of that pronouncement.
He told her. ‘From the little time I’ve spent with Detective Sergeant McNab, I’m inclined to agree with Chrissy’s description.’
‘We think he’s recently got himself a tattoo,’ Chrissy told him, a twinkle in her eye.
‘You think he has,’ Rhona countered.
‘I understood he was recently injured,’ Olsen said. ‘I assumed he was in pain from that … which is why he seemed to find the car seat uncomfortable.’
‘He’s had his back inked!’ Chrissy beamed. ‘God, I hope he didn’t have her name tattooed on it. His girlfriends never last long enough for that.’
Chrissy’s mobile suddenly vibrated across the bar counter. She swiftly answered and after a few yes responses, hung up.
‘That’s me off. I want to see wee Michael before he goes to bed.’ She turned to Olsen. ‘Nice meeting you, Alvis. I’ll leave you in Dr MacLeod’s capable hands.’ With that, Chrissy was off, leaving Rhona with the impression she had been set up. For what exactly, she had no idea.
36
Cairngorm, 2 January
A glance outside established just how late it was. The swiftly approaching darkness had rendered the car park full of shadows. The cafe, where he still sat, was verging on empty and there was little doubt that the staff were growing impatient at the stragglers, keen as they were to clean up and get home themselves.
The girl had sat on and on, sometimes on her mobile, sometimes, it seemed, just lost in thought. What she intended to do, he had no idea. Whatever it was, she would have to do it soon. Most of the vehicles had left the car park. Her van now stood alone on the left-hand flank overlooking the lower ski slopes, where the tows had ceased to run.
He’d remained as hidden as it was possible to be in the room, having no wish to leave before she did, because by now he would be in plain view as he made for the exit. He cursed a little under his breath. He should have gone outside earlier when the cafe had been busier. The warmth had made him stay, plus his need to watch her every move.
A number of scenarios had presented themselves as he’d waited. Now it was dark at least one of them had grown more attractive. In her injured state, it wouldn’t be too difficult to intercept her as she walked to the van. The vehicle was isolated now, with very few people about. He felt his heart quicken in anticipation. Once he had her inside, he could simply drive off. Leaving the hired car here wouldn’t be a problem. The details he’d given the company had been false, and it wasn’t as if he’d stolen it.
She was getting to her feet. At last. He watched her hobble towar
ds the door. This was going to be easy. He waited until she’d exited before he followed.
37
‘We came to Scotland often,’ Olsen was telling her. ‘Marita was a keen walker and a better climber than me.’
‘You’ve climbed on Cairngorm?’ Rhona said.
He nodded. ‘We used to bring the camper van across on the ferry from Stavanger to Aberdeen. The campsite by Loch Morlich was a favourite, although we weren’t often winter tourists.’
‘I wondered when you spoke of Loch A’an whether you knew it personally?’
‘We walked there once. Quite magical and so beautifully remote.’
‘Do you still climb?’
He shook his head abruptly and Rhona wondered if she’d hit a nerve. ‘I’m no longer fit enough,’ he said as he refilled her glass. ‘The conditions on the mountain yesterday must have been difficult.’
‘They were, but I was well taken care of.’
It had seemed churlish not to accept Olsen’s request that they share a meal, after Chrissy’s departure. It was either that or head home to order a takeaway. It had been a long day, and Rhona would have preferred to shower and change before eating, but the wine she’d drunk had served to remind her how hungry she was.
Ashton Lane offered numerous eating places, although many were full. By luck, there had been a cancellation in the upstairs bar in the Ubiquitous Chip, which is where they now sat, Olsen’s tall figure dominating the confined corner space.
The meal complete, Olsen had finally revealed his real reason for the dinner date over coffee, when he’d asked Rhona how aware she was of child trafficking in Europe.
‘Only from the news,’ she answered honestly.
‘Until recently, we suspected that refugee children were being brought into Norway via our northern border with Russia. A group of Sami people discovered the frozen remains of two children, neither of whom could be identified, although evidence pointed to them coming originally from Syria.’ He paused. ‘Since then, we believe the trade has shifted.’
‘This is connected to your interest in the crashed plane and its occupants?’ Rhona asked.
He indicated it was. ‘Like much police work, assembling sufficient data to be sure of anything is difficult. The web of an organized crime syndicate is complex and intricate and for the most part well hidden. Cocaine smuggling is core business, cybercrime increasing dramatically, and the current wars bordering the Mediterranean have offered more opportunities in trafficking, in particular unaccompanied minors.’
‘Have you spoken to McNab about the young Syrian girl from the Delta Club?’ Rhona said.
‘I have.’ He appeared to hesitate. ‘I understand Detective Sergeant McNab was recently demoted from inspector. May I ask why?’
Rhona had been wondering where all this had been leading. The earlier joking with Chrissy about McNab had seemed harmless enough, but not now.
‘Why are you asking me this?’ she said.
Olsen sat back in the chair, perhaps reading her antagonism. ‘I can’t ask him directly,’ he said.
‘McNab would tell you straight out if you did,’ Rhona told him.
Olsen contemplated her reply for a moment, then said, ‘At a guess, I’d say he doesn’t like authority.’
‘And I’d say authority doesn’t like him,’ Rhona countered.
‘But, like Chrissy, you trust him?’
‘With my life,’ Rhona said firmly.
Olsen gave a half-smile as though she’d confirmed some unasked question and left it at that.
Dumping her case in the hall, Rhona registered how chilly the flat was, suggesting she’d forgotten to set the central heating timer before she’d left for the north. Which was probably why the flat was also glaringly empty. Her cat, Tom, was nowhere to be found, which meant her neighbour had taken pity on his lonely frozen presence and rather than just feed and water him, had obviously taken him in with her over Hogmanay.
I make a shite parent, Rhona thought, even for a cat.
Hanging up her jacket, she sat to pull off her boots, only now spotting the postcard that lay on the floor near the front door. Picking it up, she registered the location, somewhere in Thailand, and knew before she turned it over who it was from. The message was short. Just a ‘Hi’ from her son’s latest stopover on his wander round the world. At the sight of his scrawled signature, Rhona felt a pang of – what? Loss, guilt or relief that he was okay, and still keeping in touch, although always from a distance.
Now, under the shower, she turned the nozzle to a beat and positioned her head under it.
My son, she thought, is like my own birth mother, who had been a gypsy at heart, and also a non-parent, having left Rhona in the more than capable hands of her sister and her husband. Who were wonderful parents. Being adopted had never concerned Rhona. Her childhood had been happy. She believed Liam felt the same about his adoptive parents. And yet, he’d felt the need to seek her out, the pull to blood stronger than the fear of meeting the missing parent. The one who had given him away.
And I didn’t deal well with it.
It had been Sean who’d become the intermediary between mother and teenage son, using his Irish charm and humour to ease the awkwardness of their meetings. Back then, Sean had been staying here in the flat with her. An arrangement that hadn’t lasted long.
Her time as a prospective teenage mother had been short-lived too. Edward Stuart, her older lover at the time, hadn’t wanted them tied down by a child, with Rhona mid-degree and he on the cusp of a promising law career. He’d tried at first to persuade her to have an abortion. Rhona had reacted angrily at that, so he’d backed off. Although, in the end, she’d succumbed to his entreaties to consider adoption.
I was the same age then as Liam is now. Too young to be a parent.
Although there had been a moment as they’d taken her baby boy away when she would have screamingly held on to him. It was that memory which haunted her. Not constantly, but on occasions, such as tonight.
Guilt has a long shelf life, as does regret.
At this point, she suddenly recalled Olsen’s expression when she’d quizzed him on whether he still enjoyed climbing.
He’d spoken abruptly to shut down that topic of conversation, but his face had registered an emotion much like the one that played with her now. A haunting regret. Maybe even guilt.
Everyone had their secrets.
38
His room looked out over Great Western Road. Sealed windows prevented the infiltration of traffic noise, but the constant stream of headlights told of a Glasgow not yet, if ever, destined for sleep. Much like himself.
Sleep had never been his friend, but with Marita beside him, it had grown easier to embrace. When she was away from him, his old habits had returned. With a vengeance. Winter nights and their extended darkness wakened his brain, setting in motion numerous trains of thought which met, collided or repelled one another.
The long bright nights of summer in Norway were no better, merely suggesting there was no requirement to sleep. Shutting down then had been even harder. No matter how thick the blinds or curtains, northern daylight was avid in its search for a chink. A way to penetrate the fragile darkness and find its prey.
As a child, Olsen hadn’t suffered from his own lack of sleep, although I’m sure my mother and father did. Being on duty with a child twenty-four hours a day, when you were dropping from exhaustion yourself, must have been a nightmare. Especially when his father, a fisherman, had been away at sea.
Although, I was not, my mother told me, a fractious child because of it.
When Marita and he had been trying for a baby, he’d warned her what his genes might produce. She’d smiled and informed him, since he didn’t require any sleep, that she would put him in charge of their offspring at night.
Something I would have welcomed.
Olsen turned his mind to why he was here, although in essence the two were linked. The trip he’d made to the north of Norway to view the smal
l frozen bodies that had lain on their northernmost border had begun this investigation.
And had landed him here in Scotland.
It seemed inevitable that he would have come back to the country of his wife’s birth, but he’d systematically avoided it until now. The proper plan for return had been to visit one of her favourite spots like Loch Lomond, the closest stretch of water to her birthplace, or the wildness of Cairngorm, a place close to her heart.
He’d managed to persuade himself that that was only possible during the summer months when there was no snow on the ground. That excuse had succeeded in keeping him away up to now, but then fate had intervened.
And brought me here, at the wrong time, and to the wrong location.
Leaving the thick, lined curtains open, Olsen lay down on the bed, his body weary, his mind active, processing the day’s events and the personnel he’d met. Detective Inspector Wilson he’d liked immediately. He recalled the officer’s open manner, his thoughtful responses, his interest in what Olsen had to say. In contrast, DI Wilson’s superior officer, DCI Sutherland, hadn’t made a good impression. Olsen had met high-ranking officers like him before, in Norway, Sweden and Denmark. Often outwardly efficient, but definitely self-serving. Everything was about them and the status they’d achieved in the force. In contrast, he suspected DI Wilson wouldn’t seek to climb any higher, because the job he did now was the one he liked and did best.
Olsen’s mind now went to the third of the trio. He’d messed up with Detective Sergeant McNab at first. He recalled their initial confrontation occasioned by his visit to the detective’s flat. DS Michael McNab had been on his radar before he’d set foot in Scotland. The Delta case had flagged him up and what little Olsen had known then had suggested that the detective might be the ally he needed here, if he could recruit him as such.
And he is the only one I’ve told of my suspicions.
That in itself had been a revelation, especially after their initial meeting. But I was right to. He’d almost done the same with Dr MacLeod, but had held back. Why, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps to test McNab’s agreement that he wouldn’t reveal it to anyone else?