by Lin Anderson
Could Brodie have found out about that meeting?
McNab recalled his most recent brush with Brodie in the four-by-four. If Brodie wasn’t averse to mowing down a police officer in public, then it was likely any threats he’d made to Davey would be carried through. If only to get his revenge for McNab’s raid on the Delta Club and the confiscation of his cocaine.
No wonder Mary was frightened.
His mobile, which lay on the passenger seat, lit up on his route through the city centre, but there was nothing he could do but let it ring, despite the name on the screen. McNab eventually pulled in at a bus stop, much to the annoyance of a bus driver also headed that way, and snatched at the phone, a second too late. Drawing out again into traffic, he determined he would call back, once he’d spoken to Mary. Ellie knew he was working, he reasoned. If she was in the middle of inking someone, the same would apply to a call from him, was how the argument went.
It was easy to find the salon. After all, he’d walked past it dozens of times; even thought of going in once or twice, just to check on Mary, like an old friend. Those possible visits had been linked to his drinking habits, or when he got shot, or when he got dumped. Mary had always seemed like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow – unlikely, unreal, but always desirable.
We wouldn’t have lasted six months. We didn’t last six months.
But if?
If he had been better. At everything. Then maybe?
He pushed open the door and was greeted by a wave of perfume. The contrast with the establishment he’d just departed wasn’t lost on McNab. In here women reigned supreme and he was definitely the intruder, albeit a welcome one.
It was like being cocooned in colour, scent and the sound of female voices, interspersed with laughter. McNab stood for a moment breathing it all in, before a red-haired beauty asked his name. After which he was swept from the general throng and ushered into the inner sanctuary.
Mary sat behind an impressive desk, staring at her mobile as though willing it to ring. By her expression there was no point in asking if there had been any word from Davey, although she looked composed, the make-up perfect. She was dressed in dark red. All of this McNab noticed, but most of all he read the anger in her eyes when she registered his entry.
‘What time did Davey go out?’ McNab began.
‘Midnight.’
‘He took the car?’
‘Stupidly, yes. If he’d had a Harley, no doubt you’d have scraped him off the road by now,’ she said accusingly.
‘Have you checked all his usual hangouts?’
‘You should know about those,’ Mary said coldly.
‘Me and Davey have met up once in the past eighteen months,’ McNab said, mystified by her anger. ‘And that was a couple of days ago.’
Her face was crumpling, the sight of which made McNab’s insides turn over.
‘What did you or Davey not tell me last night?’ he asked quietly.
‘I told him you couldn’t fix it, even if you did catch Brodie.’
‘Fix what?’ McNab said, growing more worried by the minute.
Mary went to a cabinet on which sat a filled decanter and two glasses. She poured herself a measure of what he assumed was whisky, then looked at him for confirmation that he would join her.
McNab hesitated. He had the car. He was on duty.
‘No,’ he finally said.
‘If you don’t take it now, you’ll need it once I’ve told you,’ Mary said, lifting the glass to her mouth.
‘Told me what?’ McNab said, already dreading her answer.
50
‘They’ve found something,’ Olsen told her.
Emerging from the van, her examination complete, Rhona had been contemplating her next move when the tent flap had been pulled back.
‘Where?’ she said.
‘To the right of the track into the wood. Disturbed earth and branches, they think might indicate something’s been buried there.’
‘Any sign of a shovel?’
He shook his head.
If the perpetrator had planned to rid himself of a body in the vicinity, then the river, although further away, would have been the easier choice, in particular if it was in spate by the time he got here. But a quick search of the bank behind the hangars had revealed nothing. Not surprising, since everything was currently being swept downstream, including uprooted trees and fallen branches. The soil samples taken from the wheels and the pedals might indicate he’d been close to the water’s edge, but that would take time and forensic testing.
The hangars had proved to be a further disappointment. When they’d finally got a key via the club secretary and gained entry, he’d declared the contents intact, including the plane and the tow truck.
So how had the perpetrator left here?
He’d descended Cairngorm on foot in difficult conditions, so he could have walked out of the valley, but Rhona didn’t think he had. She believed this choice of location wasn’t random, but part of his plan.
Why an airfield, if you don’t plan to use it?
‘I’ll come,’ Rhona told Olsen’s questioning eyes above the mask.
Darkness was descending and swiftly, the light from their powerful torches insufficient to analyse what she was now observing. Occasionally aided by moonlight on the remaining snow, she’d done her best to survey the area of disturbed earth. To excavate it would take time and patience, and could only be done during the hours of daylight, otherwise the different soil layers wouldn’t be distinguishable. Plus she would need to rig up a time-lapse camera to record the slow and often laborious forensic excavation.
The earth had been disturbed. There was no doubt about that. But for what purpose?
Rhona made her decision.
‘We’ll tent it, and take a proper look tomorrow … unless we find evidence that Isla is elsewhere.’ She didn’t say Isla’s body, because nothing she’d found in the van had convinced her that Isla had died inside it.
‘What about Inverness and Aberdeen?’ she asked Olsen as they made their way back to the car.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘They’ve booked us both rooms at the Cairngorm Hotel for tonight. It seemed sensible.’
Rhona felt relief wash over her. Up to that point she hadn’t even thought about what might happen next, concentrating only on the here and now. There had always been the possibility that she might not get back to Glasgow tonight. Sean, realizing this, had offered to stay and look after the cat, ‘to give your neighbour a rest’, he’d said.
Seeing as it had been Sean who’d brought her Tom in the first place, against my better judgement, that had seemed fair.
It appeared that Olsen had been busy while she’d been in the tent. He’d alerted Stavanger to what had been found here. Like her, he suspected abandoning the van near the only airfield for a considerable number of miles wasn’t a coincidence. Sitting in the car, heading back to Aviemore, he revealed his thoughts on the matter.
‘Maybe he was always headed for the Feshie airstrip, and the blizzard and the crash merely made him late?’
Rhona now voiced the mystery she’d been wrestling with ever since that fateful night on the Cairngorm plateau. ‘If we assume the man we’re looking for killed four people and attempted to kill a fifth merely to shield his identity, the question is why? Super-recognizers can pick out partial faces from poor CCTV footage. But is it likely that a young woman would be able to recognize someone she met in a blizzard on a mountain in the dark?’
Olsen remained silent at this, and Rhona gained the impression there was something he was considering revealing, but wasn’t quite prepared to … yet.
He’s like McNab, she thought. Older, probably wiser, but in many ways just as inscrutable.
‘Let’s talk later. How about some food,’ Olsen said as they drew up outside the hotel. ‘Say in an hour’s time?’
Back among the rosy lights and checked tablecloths of La Taverna, Olsen told Rhona that they’d been lucky to get a t
able.
‘It might be the live music, or they’re here to celebrate getting their village back from the Hogmanay hoards,’ he said.
Rhona suspected it was a bit of both. There was certainly a party atmosphere in the place. The solo guitarist on stage she recognized from the jamming session with Sean at Hogmanay in Macdui’s. Gilly, Irish, but living locally for many years, was obviously well known and had already captivated the audience.
Rhona relaxed. Tonight would be okay. Glancing over at Olsen, she realized that he felt the same. They were in the midst of an investigation with the adrenaline running, but tonight they could do nothing more than they’d done today. And standing back often resulted in a perspective that wasn’t possible close up.
‘Do you need to phone home?’ Olsen offered as they were ushered to their seats.
‘The cat’s been fed and watered,’ she told him.
‘Cats are pretty self-sufficient,’ he said. ‘Oh to be like them,’ he added with a smile.
Presented with the menu, Rhona immediately ordered the calamari to start, followed by a Sicilian pizza, both of which she’d enjoyed on her previous visit.
‘You’ve eaten here before?’ Olsen said.
‘Yes,’ Rhona said, choosing not to elaborate.
Olsen gave his order, then checking with Rhona as to whether she preferred red or white wine, ordered them a bottle of Fiorile Pinot Grigio delle Venezie.
As she ate her meal, Rhona began to suspect from the glances coming their way that some of the other diners were aware of who they were, and why they were here. The guitarist, Gilly, had already noted her presence, no doubt recognizing her as Sean’s partner from the Hogmanay party. She realized that, by now, word would have got out that the missing climbers’ van had been found at Feshie airfield and a couple of forensic tents had been set up there. She didn’t need to be a native of Skye to be aware just how quickly news travelled in a rural community and how big a story could become. Particularly one with a mystery at its heart.
And local interest and knowledge might prove invaluable. The perpetrator had more than likely spent time in Aviemore. He would have eaten, perhaps even here in La Taverna. Spoken to folk, probably asked questions about the injured climber plucked from an ice cave on Cairngorm. His turning up at Coire Cas car park to watch for Isla suggested as much.
Olsen regarded her quizzically as the coffee was served.
‘Better?’ he said.
‘Much,’ Rhona answered honestly.
He sat back, taking an affectionate look around him. ‘Marita loved this place. We always came here when climbing in the area. For the food and the atmosphere.’
At this point Rhona could have mentioned that she’d been here with Sean just a few days before, but she didn’t, and wasn’t sure why.
‘Where are you from originally?’ Olsen asked.
‘I was brought up on Skye.’
Olsen nodded. ‘I wondered where,’ he said. ‘I knew it wasn’t a city.’
‘And you?’
‘My father had a fishing boat, and we lived on a small coastal farm, like many of my countrymen. Rural Norwegians used to have three names,’ he explained, ‘the first being their given name, the second a patronymic, like Olsen meaning son of Ole. The third was really where to find them, usually the name of their family’s farm. I am really Alvis Olsen Bakken. If a family moved to a different farm, then the name changed. A nightmare for folk trying to trace their ancestors.’
‘In Scotland the Mac means son of, so not that different, and on Skye we often refer to folk by their house or farm to be clear which MacLeod we’re talking about. There are a lot of us,’ Rhona added with a smile.
A moment’s silence followed in which Rhona decided it was time to pose her question.
‘What is it that you haven’t told me about this case?’ she said.
Olsen hesitated. ‘I’d rather we discuss it back at the hotel, in private. Your room or mine.’
Rhona didn’t imagine for a moment that this was a come-on, more secrecy or reticence on the Norwegian’s part.
‘It’s fucked up,’ he said quietly, perhaps reading her thoughts. ‘And better not voiced in company. Especially since every table surrounding us will be listening.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘This isn’t the city after all.’
Arriving at the hotel, Olsen went to the bar and, asking for a bottle of whisky, brought it with him. Rhona had already indicated she’d prefer Olsen’s room for their discussion. It would be, she’d thought, easier to retreat from there, although she’d discerned no indication that he planned anything other than a talk about work.
Olsen was an intriguing character, as reticent as herself. Definitely not Sean, and not McNab either, neither of whose advances could be described as oblique.
Once inside he poured them each a dram, using the tumblers from the bathroom which were thankfully glass.
‘Water?’
‘Just a little,’ she said.
He produced a bottle and asked, ‘How much?’ Rhona nodded at the appropriate moment.
Adding a similar amount to his own glass, he joined Rhona at the small table near the window.
Rhona sampled the whisky, wondering why it always tasted better when she was in the Highlands, or better still on Skye.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘tell me.’
Olsen seemed to let go of his studied look, dropping it like a veil, and Rhona knew that whatever followed was likely to be the truth, or at least a portion of it.
It had started to snow again. Soft flakes drifting past the window. They hadn’t shut the curtains, probably because, unlike in the city, there was no one outside to look in.
She rose and, padding to the end of the bed, began to dress. She felt no regret, no wish that it hadn’t happened. Neither alcohol nor frantic desire had fashioned what had taken place between herself and Alvis Olsen.
Then why had she let it happen, or even encouraged it?
It had been his revelation about the children, she acknowledged. His distress at voicing this out loud had made her want to console him. They’d sat together then on the bed, talking, drinking whisky. She’d felt a strong attraction to this man who carried such a burden.
It had been the same with McNab, she recalled, when he’d ‘risen from the dead’ after the almost fatal shooting. Then their coupling had been at her instigation, inflamed by a desire to make him live again.
And then as now, sex – for a short time at least – made us both forget the horrors we’d faced, or had yet to face
Rhona closed the door quietly behind her. Let him sleep. It seemed that sleep had been a companion he’d seldom encountered, and one that had grown even more of a stranger since Marita’s death.
He’d said that name even as he’d made love to her. Rhona wondered if he would remember and hoped that he wouldn’t, because she hadn’t been offended. Olsen had been loving and gentle and somehow in those few moments it had seemed to Rhona that he’d crossed a boundary back into life.
They hadn’t talked of his wife or how she’d died, but Rhona sensed he carried a weight of guilt and regret about it. It was something she and Olsen had in common. Guilt, not at what they’d done, but regret at what they hadn’t.
As she’d left the room, he’d stirred, and when his eyes flickered open and he registered her departure, she thought that the looks they’d exchanged indicated they understood one another very well, and that whatever had happened tonight between them wouldn’t be discussed or referred to again.
Rhona now sat on her own bed, unable to contemplate sleep. What Olsen had told her about the circumstances surrounding this case had horrified her. No other word described it. If it were true, then what he and McNab had shared had no doubt helped fashion the version of McNab she’d encountered recently.
Now there are three of us who share this knowledge.
A triumvirate who were aware of what they were dealing with, and why it mustn’t become common knowledge. Not yet anyway. Rhona th
ought of Bill Wilson and what he was facing. She longed to discuss what Olsen had told her with her old friend and mentor, but that wasn’t possible. Not because Bill couldn’t be trusted, but because of what he must deal with himself in the coming days.
How to face the imminent loss of your partner of thirty years, your lover and your best friend? The person you could turn to. The person you most trusted.
Margaret had been, in Bill’s words, the light of his life. I can only do this job because of her and the kids. That was why Bill had spent so much time encouraging Rhona to make something good with Sean. Something permanent. Something you could depend on.
But that is as unlikely for Sean as it is for me. As indicated by tonight’s proceedings.
Rhona briefly contemplated calling the flat. Sean would probably be back there by now and she could enquire after Tom. Her call would be welcome, but definitely unexpected. Sean would think it odd, maybe even ask her what was wrong.
And I can’t discuss the case with Sean.
The only person, other than Olsen, that she could discuss it with was McNab.
51
‘I’ll need time,’ Ollie told him, eyeing the laptop and mobile that McNab handed over.
‘I’ll make us coffee,’ McNab said. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’
Ollie pointed to a door on the left. ‘It’s a mess in there,’ he offered.
‘Then I’ll feel at home,’ McNab said.
It wasn’t the first time he’d visited Ollie at his flat. During the Stonewarrior case, he’d enlisted his favourite techie in a clandestine operation. And put the guy’s job on the line. But this was different, McNab told himself. This was just a favour for a friend that had got locked out of his laptop and his mobile.
Indebtedness. It all boiled down to that in the end. Davey had got a bit too ambitious, or maybe it was Mary. No matter whose fault it was now, McNab thought, as he spooned large helpings of instant coffee into two mugs and added boiling water.
Davey was in the shit via McVitie, or Brodie, because they were intertwined, although Mary had claimed he didn’t know that at the time.