Follow the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  Everyone had a button to press, and he suspected Dr MacLeod was DS McNab’s button.

  His mind lost in thought, he didn’t initially register the drone of his mobile. Glancing at the screen and recognizing the caller, he answered.

  Hjerngaard’s voice sounded hoarse, as though he’d been rudely woken from sleep. Checking his watch, Olsen registered it was an hour later than this in Stavanger. A time most people would be in their beds.

  ‘Harald,’ Olsen said. ‘You’re up late.’

  ‘So are you,’ Harald’s voice crackled across the line. ‘But then that’s normal.’ The line went silent for a moment, and Olsen thought he’d lost the connection. Then it returned, this time more clearly. ‘We have what you asked for.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Who should I send it to, apart from yourself?’

  Olsen gave him the email address.

  Ringing off, he wondered how late DS McNab stayed up of a night and how often he checked his email.

  She was asleep now, only the top of her head showing above the duvet. McNab eased the cover back enough for him to slip out, and padded towards his clothes. Lifting the pile, he exited the bedroom before putting them on. His intention hadn’t been to spend the night, but then he rarely managed to match any good intentions he had.

  Lying awake after their encounter, he’d heard her drift into sleep, curled as she was in the crook of his arm. Once her breathing changed, he’d slipped free, then waited until she adjusted herself into what he thought was her normal sleeping position before extracting himself from the bed.

  In minutes, he was outside in the cold night air, the warmth and comfort of her bed fast fading from memory. Beginning his walk back to the car, he checked his phone to find an email ostensibly from Olsen, via someone called Hjerngaard. McNab halted in his walk to read it. So, Olsen had done what he said he would. McNab allowed himself a moment’s grudging appreciation of the detective’s thoroughness. Maybe they would get on after all.

  A car swept by in the sleeting snow, kicking up a mess of slush from the kerb to soak his trousers. Swearing in a distinctly audible fashion, he gave the finger to the disappearing vehicle, hoping it would be seen in the driving mirror. As he did so, he noted a female figure across the road, huddled in a doorway, and it wasn’t hard to guess what she was about. Ellie’s flat, being close to the Ink Parlour, was not in the most salubrious part of town. When he’d pointed this out to her, she’d given him a look that would have floored larger men than him.

  Despite the weather, the woman was wearing an outfit more suited to going clubbing, although that definitely wasn’t her intention.

  She signalled across to him in a manner that displayed the wealth of her wares.

  If a prostitute (whether male or female) who for the purposes of prostitution loiters in a public place, solicits in a public place or in any other place so as to be seen from a public place, or importunes any person in a public place, they shall be guilty of an offence.

  But who the hell would make life worse for a woman doing just that in such weather? As he dismissed the possibility of doling out a warning, a big four-by-four swept past on his side of the road. Spotting the woman, it did an abrupt U-turn. She immediately stepped towards the car, and now McNab saw her face clearly, and recognized it.

  He shouted her name as he sprang across the road, but Ursula Gorecki didn’t respond to his call. Barely waiting for her to climb inside, the vehicle took off again. This time McNab saw the driver, who made a decided attempt to mow him down in his getaway. Springing for the pavement, McNab found himself on his knees in the slush, his brush with death less annoying than the soaking that had followed it.

  Expressing a litany of curses that would have made Billy Connolly blush, he slithered to his feet and immediately sought the tailgate of the fast-retreating SUV.

  It seemed they’d been wrong. If Brodie had made the trip to Aberdeen with Amena, he was no longer in the Granite City. As the rear of the vehicle swept out of sight behind a curtain of sleet, McNab made an effort to read the number plate, wishing he had a fraction of Ollie’s ability to recall numbers as well as faces.

  39

  Cairngorm, a little earlier

  He’d tailed the van down the hill. Luckily for him there was only one route as far as the roundabout at the entrance to Aviemore, and with the hill verging on empty, little traffic on the road.

  His anger at being thwarted in the car park was played out by his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and the rapid beat of the pulse at his forehead. A guy he recognized from the TV reports as Annieska’s boyfriend had arrived in the distinctive Cairngorm Mountain Rescue Land Rover, and was obviously who the girl had been waiting for. As he’d followed her out of the cafe, the Land Rover had appeared from nowhere and drawn alongside her.

  That’s who she was on the phone to, he’d decided. No doubt tearfully asking for help.

  Realizing what was about to happen, he’d backed off and immediately headed for the hired car, as the boyfriend, who he was beginning to hate with the same degree as the girl, parked the Land Rover and helped her into the van.

  So, here he was, back in Aviemore, outside Macdui’s, trying to figure out his next move. The van had turned into the car park at the Cairngorm Hotel, and it looked like that was where she planned to stay the night. The crowds that had filled Aviemore for Hogmanay had dwindled, many visitors heading back south once the road had opened again. Music still drifted out of Macdui’s, and was matched from the bar of the Cairngorm Hotel. The celebrations for the New Year had depleted, but weren’t yet entirely over.

  Irritated by his own indecision, he got out and, locking the car, headed into Macdui’s. If Annieska was on duty, he might, through her, discover what the girl planned to do.

  Once inside, he took up residence in his usual place, scanning the room for the familiar blonde head. Locating her behind the bar, he gave her a friendly wave.

  ‘I thought you’d gone?’ she said as she approached.

  ‘I decided to stay a bit longer and enjoy Aviemore without the tourists.’

  She’d smiled at that. ‘Yes, it has been hectic, what with the rescues and the crashed plane.’

  ‘What’s happened about that?’ he said.

  ‘Well …’ she said. ‘Folk are saying the plane came from Stavanger, and there’s a detective come over from there to investigate.’

  He felt his spine go rigid, and forced himself to relax before he responded. ‘So it’s a Norwegian plane?’

  ‘Seems to be.’

  He waited for her to continue, but it looked like she’d run out of news, so he prompted her.

  ‘And the girl who was hurt?’

  Annieska nodded in the direction of the hotel. ‘She thought she could drive her van back, but there’s no way that would happen, although I’d give her points for determination.’

  ‘So how will she get home?’

  ‘Train or bus, I expect. Kyle brought her down the mountain and she’s staying the night across the road.’ Her face assumed a sad expression. ‘That’s where they were supposed to stay on Hogmanay.’

  ‘So what happens with the van?’

  ‘Kyle’s looking for someone going back to Glasgow to drive it down for her.’ She had a sudden thought. ‘You’re not headed that way?’

  He attempted a ‘sorry’ look, even as his heart pounded with the thought of such an opportunity. ‘Sadly, no.’ Then discarding the menu she was offering, he said, ‘I’ll have the same as last night.’

  She repeated last night’s order verbatim, including what he’d had to drink.

  ‘You’ve a good memory,’ he remarked cautiously.

  ‘Yes. And I never forget a face.’

  40

  ‘So she was lying?’ Chrissy said as she poured them both a morning coffee.

  ‘Possibly. Or she was genuinely confused about that night. Not everyone with hypothermia recalls what happened during their delirium state,’ Rhona said.<
br />
  ‘But she did scratch someone other than the boyfriend?’

  ‘The blood and DNA from under her nails came from the same person and it wasn’t Gavin, her boyfriend.’

  ‘What about the results on the pilot?’

  ‘The hair and blood from the instrument panel are a match for the body we found. So he did hit his forehead on landing …’

  ‘But?’ Chrissy demanded.

  ‘It wasn’t a serious injury. The initial blood-splattering suggests—’

  ‘When he exited the plane he still had a blood pressure, which meant he was very much alive,’ Chrissy took over. ‘Then, coagulation kicked in, which accounts for the lack of a blood trail afterwards.’

  Rhona nodded. ‘However, the wound we examined in the postmortem wasn’t that injury. It was in the same location, but the newer wound was occasioned by a sharp instrument, not the blunt-force trauma from the instrument panel.’

  It wasn’t unknown for someone to be able to walk into a Casualty Department with brain substance oozing from a single hammer blow to the head, Rhona reminded Chrissy. ‘But if you’re moving onto the weapon, the combined speed can prove fatal.’

  ‘So you think the blow came as he went towards his assailant?’

  Rhona nodded. ‘And Sissons recorded the injury as potentially fatal.’

  Chrissy lapsed into a brief silence. Not something that happened often. Rhona waited for what she suspected would come next.

  ‘The forensic evidence you collected from the pilot,’ Chrissy said. ‘Is there any chance there’s a match in there with Isla’s assailant?’

  ‘That’s what we have to establish,’ Rhona confirmed.

  The number Isla had given Rhona rang out unanswered, making her wonder if there was a chance she’d entered the number incorrectly, or if Isla in her injured state had made a mistake when giving it. They’d exchanged mobile numbers as soon as they got Isla on board the helicopter. Isla had appeared lucid at the time, and insistent they keep in contact, because, she’d said, you saved my life.

  ‘Any luck?’ Chrissy said.

  ‘No, but if she’s still up north, she may not have a signal.’

  ‘I thought she’d been discharged from Raigmore?’

  ‘A little earlier than I thought she should be, and probably determined by her.’

  ‘You can’t climb places like Hell’s Lum and be a wimp,’ Chrissy told her.

  ‘How would you know about Hell’s Lum?’ Rhona said, surprised.

  Chrissy assumed an offended air. ‘Patrick’s climbed it.’

  Chrissy’s one sensible older brother, Patrick, was her pride and joy. The other men in her family, including her father, were best forgotten about, according to her forensic assistant.

  ‘These results are important.’ Chrissy voiced exactly what Rhona had been thinking, something that tended to happen on a regular basis. ‘Shouldn’t you let Alvis know?’

  Rhona already had Inspector Olsen’s number on the screen. Hesitating, she wondered if she should give McNab the heads-up first.

  Chrissy was reading her mind again. ‘McNab will throw a wobbler if he’s not first in the queue.’

  Despite insisting to Chrissy that she had no intention of asking if he had a tattoo, Rhona found herself watching McNab closely as he took his seat opposite her in the canteen. And she didn’t detect any discomfort as described by Olsen in their conversation at the jazz club.

  When he looked over, catching her studied gaze, his expression suggested he believed she was ‘up to something’.

  ‘What’s Chrissy been saying?’ he demanded.

  ‘That you have a new lurve interest.’ Rhona attempted Chrissy’s rendition of the word.

  McNab smiled at that. ‘How does she do it?’

  ‘So it’s true, then?’

  ‘I’ll talk about my love life if, or when, you talk about yours,’ McNab offered.

  It was his smug look that drove her to it. ‘Chrissy says you’ve got a tattoo on your back. She thinks it’s a Viking,’ Rhona said swiftly, before she could change her mind.

  ‘It is not!’ a surprised McNab immediately retorted.

  ‘Ah. You did get inked,’ Rhona pounced. ‘So, if it isn’t a Viking, what did you get?’

  ‘You really want to know?’ he challenged her.

  Rhona should have known by McNab’s expression that she was on dangerous ground, but she still said yes.

  ‘I didn’t have my back inked.’ He caught Rhona’s eye at this point and declared, ‘I had “I’m nuts about you” tattooed on my balls.’ His look confirmed exactly who the ‘you’ referred to was.

  Touché.

  That interchange over, Rhona quickly changed to the subject she’d really come to discuss, which resulted in McNab’s thoughtful study of his coffee cup.

  ‘If she’s been discharged …’ he began.

  ‘She has,’ Rhona interrupted. ‘I spoke to Charlie. Apparently she’s due to come south from Aviemore by train today.’

  ‘And we have her Glasgow address?’

  Rhona quoted the one Charlie had given her.

  ‘Olsen and I will interview her, but it might be better if you approach her first.’

  ‘I called the Cairngorm Hotel,’ Rhona said. ‘They think she was going for the 9.30 train. If she caught it, she’s due at Glasgow Queen Street at 12.17.’

  ‘You’d recognize her?’ McNab asked.

  Rhona was pretty sure she would.

  ‘So, can you meet her at the station?’

  41

  ‘He’s waiting for you in interview room four,’ Janice told McNab, with a stare that resembled a warning.

  McNab gave her a wide-eyed innocent look in return.

  Olsen stood unsure which direction to head in, obviously trying to recall where McNab had taken him when they’d had their private discussion. McNab wasn’t about to make it easy for the Norwegian inspector. Olsen was on his turf and should therefore be at a disadvantage. If he was ever to go to Stavanger, he had no doubt the same rules would apply.

  And they’d all talk in Norwegian.

  Gesturing to Olsen, McNab pushed open the door and headed down the corridor, taking a circular route in a concerted attempt to confuse. His plan backfired.

  ‘I think room four’s along this way,’ Olsen said, his gaze steady.

  McNab smiled. ‘Of course it is.’

  Olsen was regarding him with an amused air. The fact he hadn’t irritated Olsen served to irritate McNab instead.

  He threw open the door with a flourish, causing it to bang back against the wall. The sudden noise startled the occupant and he looked up at them with an annoyed expression.

  ‘My solicitor isn’t here yet,’ Petter Lund said.

  Olsen responded with something in Norwegian which brought a flush of colour to Lund’s cheeks, after which Olsen exited, indicating McNab should follow. Now outside in the corridor, McNab asked him what he’d said.

  ‘You don’t want to know, Detective Sergeant. Suffice to say it wasn’t pleasant.’ He paused. ‘Do you know who Lund’s lawyer is?’ When McNab indicated he didn’t, Olsen said, ‘I believe he will have contacted his father in Oslo, requesting a Norwegian lawyer, or at least someone who can speak the language.’

  ‘But he speaks perfect English.’

  ‘He will use Norwegian, if only to annoy you.’

  The detailed information on Lund and his influential family connections sent to McNab in the middle of the night had indicated how difficult it would be to deal with Petter Lund. When McNab had suggested they go after the other two Norwegians first, Olsen had shaken his head. ‘We’ll get them too, but it’s Lund who is the direct connection.’

  McNab had been party to numerous interviews involving mainly Eastern Europeans, where a translator had to be present, often when he suspected the interviewee understood English perfectly. He’d chosen that moment to remind Olsen of that fact.

  ‘Nevertheless, I suggest I conduct the interview as we discus
sed.’

  McNab had surprised himself by agreeing and now had to concede that Olsen had been right about how the meeting would pan out, although there had been moments up to now where he’d wished for the days when, under Scots Law, he had been able to question someone without a lawyer present. He and the boss, DI Wilson, had been an excellent double act back then.

  But not any more.

  Lund’s lawyer, having been helicoptered down from Aberdeen, was spending most of his well-paid time advising his client to say nothing. Even McNab could work out what Min klient ønsker å forbli taus meant when he heard it as often as this.

  As far as McNab could follow, via intermittent translations by Olsen, Lund denied purchasing sex. According to him, the party at the Delta Club had been a private affair among consenting adults. No money had changed hands. And even if it had, his lawyer reminded them, ‘Unlike Norway, in Scotland, the exchange of sexual services for money is legal. Only associated activities such as public solicitation, operating a brothel or other forms of pimping are criminal offences.’

  McNab had desperately wanted to come in at this point, but Olsen reminded him with a shake of his head that that hadn’t been the plan. Instead he produced the iPad and slipped it across the desk to Lund. McNab watched Lund’s face change colour as he saw himself in penetrating action against the thin young body that was Amena Tamar.

  ‘The child in the video is thirteen years old,’ Olsen said in English, ‘and I don’t have to remind you that having sex with a minor is a criminal offence, whether in Norway or Scotland.’

  As he said this he played the short clip again, this time with the sound turned up full volume. Amena’s painful pleading for Lund to stop could be clearly heard, despite the surrounding grunts, proving that Brodie had been keen to provide vivid video memories for those involved in the orgy, or offer an enticing advertisement for those who might like to participate in the future.

  The lawyer reached over and stopped it.

  ‘You are able to confirm the age of the young woman in the video?’ he replied in English, glancing at McNab.