by Lin Anderson
A silent figure stood for a moment in the open doorway, then stepped inside. By the manner of the entrance, McNab decided that his visitor was aware someone was in the shed. The door clanged shut and a voice called out his name.
The tone, the inflection in the way it was said, told McNab what he wanted to know. He didn’t move, afraid that anger would propel him forward to hit the bastard who’d said it. Had it been Brodie, McNab wouldn’t have felt any angrier than he did at that moment.
‘You bastard,’ he hissed into the space between them.
There was nothing for a moment, then he heard it. The sound of a man weeping.
The noise, loud enough to echo against the metal walls of the shed, fell on him like splinters of glass. McNab hated the man that was making those sounds, yet found something akin to pity stirring in his heart.
Which is what the bastard wants.
Davey was sitting on a stool, or had collapsed onto it, such was the curled shape of his body. McNab registered the T-shirt stretched by an upper body developed in one of Davey’s gyms or through bouts in the boxing ring. The muscled forearms, the big hands that cupped his friend’s face in despair as he fought to suck in a breath between the sobs.
‘Shut up!’ McNab told him. ‘You have no fucking right to cry.’
His words seemed to hit home. Davey dropped his hands and drew himself upright on the stool.
‘I’ve dug me a big one, Mikey. And I’ve no fucking idea how to get out of it.’
McNab gritted his teeth, which he’d had to do more than once while listening to Davey’s sorry tale, most of which he had no wish to recall. Davey had flat out denied that he’d accessed the material that was on the laptop. He’d been set up, was the excuse, planting child pornography being one of the methods used to keep him in line.
‘Brodie knew no one would believe me if I went to the police.’ Davey had glanced sadly at him at that moment. ‘Not even my old friend, DS Michael McNab.’
‘Was it Brodie who got you to meet me?’ McNab said, suspecting that had to be the case.
Davey admitted it had been. ‘After the raid on the Delta Club. He was way pissed off about that. He wanted to pay you back. Draw you in. Screw with you.’
‘And the girl he took from the hospital?’
‘I told you the truth. He did take her to Aberdeen. She’s probably out of the country by now. And for telling you that, I paid a price.’ Davey shrugged. ‘Brodie’s got guys everywhere, including among your lot. You way underestimated the size of his empire and the influence he has when you sprung that raid.’
‘Does Brodie know I’m here?’ McNab demanded.
Davey shook his head. ‘No, definitely not.’
McNab’s brain was racing through all the possible scenarios that had resulted in him being brought here and they all pointed the same way.
‘It was you that told Ellie about the car.’
Realizing he was right, McNab launched himself at Davey, who made no effort to get out of the way. His hand round Davey’s throat, McNab strangled the reply he didn’t need to hear.
‘You fucking involved Ellie in this, you stupid moron,’ he shouted into his face. ‘You want her killed too?’
McNab released him in disgust, fear at the outcome of all this already formulating in his mind. Amena Tamar, Isla Crawford, then Mary. Who was next on the list of innocents to pay the price for all of this – Ellie?
I should never have taken her to Davey’s house that night. It had all been a set-up.
‘I didn’t talk to Ellie direct,’ Davey was saying. ‘I got a biker who comes here to tell her the story.’
‘A biker who comes here for drugs? That Brodie sells? Like he’s going to keep schtum.’
McNab observed his erstwhile mate, wondering how the fuck he had become so rich yet was so stupid. No wonder Brodie was able to play him like a concertina.
‘I’m calling in the vehicle.’
As McNab reached for his mobile, Davey grabbed his arm.
‘Don’t do that. Not yet. Please.’
McNab threw him a look of disgust. ‘And this is how you plan to climb out of that hole?’
Davey was struggling with what he wanted to say. Eventually it came out.
‘I don’t care about me any more. It’s Mary I need to keep safe.’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘If Brodie finds out I’ve talked to you …’ He stuttered to a halt.
They were the first truly honest words that had emerged from his mouth.
‘So, what do we do?’ McNab said quietly.
‘We get him together.’
60
The journey through to Aberdeen had proved useful.
With Kyle driving, Annieska had visibly relaxed once she’d departed Aviemore, and had seemed happy to relay to Rhona every detail she could remember of her meetings with Isla’s possible kidnapper.
As the full story had unfolded, Rhona had made notes linking the sightings of the man in Aviemore with her own timings on the hill with CMR and in the valley. Kyle had chimed in at this point, in particular suggesting that it was likely by the timeline that the Iceman, as he’d chosen to call him, may have been hiding out in one of the same snow holes he’d recommended to Rhona on the night they’d found Isla.
‘Which suggests, not only is he skilled at survival, he’s probably familiar enough with Cairngorm to know about both the Shelter Stone refuge, and the snow holes along Feith Buidhe.’
Watching now as the girl engaged with the forensic professionals regarding an identikit image of the man they were looking for, Rhona decided that bringing Annieska with her had been a smart move and by Olsen’s expression he agreed with her.
His silent yet intense manner as he’d listened to Annieska give detailed descriptions of her encounters with their suspect had led Rhona to suspect that Olsen knew or thought he knew who the girl was describing.
After she’d settled on a photofit, Olsen asked if Annieska would be willing to view some CCTV footage. Rhona, unaware of what was to come, was surprised to see the car park at the Day Lodge come on the large screen at the end of the table. The images were grainy with an occasional snow flurry making things even more difficult. To Rhona it just looked like a mass of indistinguishable figures in ski gear.
But not, apparently, to Annieska.
‘Wait, there,’ she suddenly announced. ‘Behind that car.’
Rhona had no inkling how Annieska could tell one suited figure from another, let alone know that this was the man who’d engaged her in conversation in Macdui’s. With his head and face only partially in sight and further obscured by a snow flurry, it didn’t seem possible. But when asked by Olsen if she was sure, Annieska declared she was.
Olsen nodded his support. ‘Now, I’d like you to take a look at some photographs I have and see if you can recognize anyone in them as possibly being the same man.’
When Olsen gave the go-ahead, the first image appeared. This wasn’t CCTV footage but what looked like a press photograph. Two men stood on a set of steps of perhaps a public building or set of offices, their faces towards the camera, shaking hands. Rhona didn’t recognize either of them or the setting.
Annieska shook her head, almost apologetically.
The next photo appeared. In this the taller of the two men appeared again, this time with an attractive well-dressed woman on his arm, outside what Rhona took to be a luxury hotel. Judging by the sunshine and nearby palm tree, it looked more Mediterranean than Nordic.
Annieska shook her head again in disappointment, then a light seemed to go on and she shouted ‘wait’ just as Olsen made a move to change it.
‘There’s someone else in the picture,’ she said. ‘Look, there.’ She pointed at the far right of the screen.
Rhona couldn’t see who she referred to at first, then Annieska said, ‘The reflection in the glass door.’
Despite her best efforts, Rhona still wouldn’t have noted this if it hadn’t been pointed out to her.
‘He�
�s looking the other way, so I can’t see his face,’ Annieska said, obviously irritated by this.
Olsen moved to the next image.
‘There,’ Annieska’s voice rose in her excitement. ‘He’s off to the right again, on the edge of the picture.’
The same male stood in his handshake pose, this time with a third man. Hovering on his right was the figure Annieska referred to.
She sat back in the chair. ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘That’s the man in Macdui’s.’
Rhona looked to Olsen for his reaction, to find a half-smile playing his lips.
‘You’re certain?’ he asked.
Annieska seemed puzzled by the question. ‘One hundred per cent sure. I never forget a face.’
She, Roy and Olsen sat in the conference room together. Someone had delivered coffee and, Rhona was glad to see, some chocolate biscuits. She helped herself to one.
‘So,’ Roy asked the question both he and Rhona wanted answered. ‘Who is he?’
‘The man in all the photographs is Tor Hagen, a Norwegian oil businessman and shipping magnate. The man Annieska identified is I think part of his entourage, in what capacity I don’t know, although he does appear to be camera shy.’
‘A bodyguard?’ Rhona suggested.
‘Could be.’
‘And he’s the guy you believe was on that plane?’
‘We’ve yet to prove it forensically or otherwise, but yes, I think it is,’ Olsen said.
‘So the plane that came down on Loch A’an, plus the killer, are linked in some way with this businessman Hagen?’
‘I don’t know, and believe me, if we make the slightest move towards linking them publically we’ll never get to the truth,’ Olsen said with conviction. ‘Hagen is one of Stavanger’s foremost sons. A favourite with police, politicians and the people. Unblemished. Untouchable.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Roy said.
‘Not quite, but close enough,’ Olsen said with a small laugh.
‘Have you told Roy about what we discussed?’ Rhona said.
Olsen glanced at Roy Hunter. ‘I’ve shared what’s necessary and expedient for his part in all of this.’
‘So what happens next?’ Rhona said.
61
McNab felt the mobile vibrate against his chest again. This time he decided it was better to answer. Expecting Ellie, he found Chrissy instead.
He only managed her name and a ‘Hi’ before Chrissy interrupted him with a deluge of Glasgow vernacular which established how seriously pissed off she was at him.
Join the club, McNab thought, but didn’t say.
When she demanded to know where he was, McNab told her home, although that wasn’t strictly true. He was currently awaiting the arrival of a taxi, which he’d called to take him there.
‘I’m coming over,’ Chrissy informed him. ‘There’s things we have to talk about.’
There seemed little point in arguing. Chrissy rarely changed her mind when on a crusade, especially one that involved him.
McNab rang off as the taxi approached, aware it would be a good idea if he got there before she did, dumped the dead whisky bottle and opened a window or two.
Chrissy McInsh had a face perfect for poker. McNab knew that well, having played against her on a number of occasions. Inscrutable, unreadable, impenetrable when required. In this instance, none of those qualities were what she chose to exhibit.
This was no game, poker or otherwise, her expression said.
She’d found the empty whisky bottle with ease. Much like the dumb killer who deposits the murder weapon in the bin nearest to the scene of crime, McNab, although a detective who should know better, had simply hidden his bottle in plain sight … in the kitchen bin.
‘How much of this?’ she’d demanded, waving the empty litre bottle in his face.
‘Enough to feel pretty good,’ he admitted.
In his former drinking days, he would have berated Chrissy for what he would have called ‘nebbing’ at him. This time McNab didn’t. The pleasure of being drunk hadn’t lasted as long as the sick aftermath.
‘I’ve ordered pizza,’ she told him. ‘One each. You can pay when it arrives.’
She now proceeded to set up the coffee machine. For a brief moment, McNab decided he quite liked being bossed around by a woman, but only if it involved food, drink and sex … although the latter with Chrissy had never been an issue.
Unlike just about every other female he’d worked alongside.
McNab pondered briefly why that had been the case, then realized he knew. Chrissy had always treated him like one of her wayward brothers (when she was pissed off at him), or like her favourite sibling, the older Patrick (when she thought McNab was doing the right thing).
And Patrick, McNab remembered, was gay.
They were seated on the couch, pizzas consumed, and McNab had had a few refills of coffee, so was now equipped to face Chrissy’s interrogation, which he knew by the look she threw him was about to begin.
‘I went to the hospital,’ she said. ‘Mary Stevenson’s out of surgery. She’s critical, but stable.’
McNab nodded.
‘You knew?’ She sounded surprised.
‘I’ve seen Davey.’ McNab didn’t elaborate.
Chrissy appeared about to tell him something else, but in this instance, was having difficulty. Eventually she said, ‘The news on Margaret isn’t so good. It could happen any time within the next twenty-four hours.’
So that was it. Shit. McNab felt a stab of guilt. In the midst of everything that was going on, he’d completely forgotten the boss.
‘What do we do?’ he said.
Chrissy shook her head. ‘Our jobs. That’s what Bill would say, anyway.’ She paused. ‘He asked after you.’
I might forget the boss, but the boss never forgets me, he thought, conscience-stricken.
‘And you told him, what?’
‘That you were on the case, as usual.’ Chrissy eyed him. ‘Why aren’t you in Aberdeen?’
‘I had stuff to do here.’
‘Like getting pissed?’
McNab side-swerved that cutting remark. ‘Following a lead to Brodie.’ He decided that was all he was prepared to say.
‘Rhona’s in Aberdeen with Inspector Olsen,’ Chrissy told him. ‘A girl working at Macdui’s in Aviemore ID’d Isla Crawford’s possible abductor. He’s Norwegian.’
A faint memory of his drunken phone call with Rhona came surging back. McNab decided it best to come clean about what he didn’t know, or at least couldn’t remember about that call.
From Chrissy’s reaction, he’d made the right choice. She filled in the rest for him. ‘The grave Rhona excavated turned out to be for illegally killed birds of prey, not Isla.’ She then added a story of an aircraft taking off from an airstrip close to where the climbers’ van had been dumped, which may have taken both Isla and her abductor away.
‘There’s an airfield next to Cairngorm?’ McNab said, bemused.
The Cairngorm crime scenes had been Rhona’s responsibility. Despite what Chrissy was saying, McNab couldn’t forge a link between what had gone down on that mountaintop and what he was focused on here.
Chrissy was watching him and probably, McNab suspected, reading his thoughts.
‘Bill told you to help Inspector Olsen,’ she reminded him. ‘And Olsen wants you in Aberdeen.’
62
Olsen longed for the familiarity of his own space, both at the Commissariat and in his flat.
He also yearned for his morning walk via Lagård Gravlund and his conversations with his dead wife. His sudden and unexpected reference to Marita as dead, even internally, brought him up short. Until now, the words ‘Marita’ and ‘dead’ had rarely shared the same space in his brain.
He could almost hear his wife’s chuckle in response.
I knew you would get there eventually, Alvis.
‘If that were true,’ he answered the imagined comment, ‘I wouldn’t be hearing you now, would I?
’
This time, as though to prove her point, his wife didn’t respond and the sudden emptiness of the hotel bedroom drove Olsen to locate the remote and switch on the television. As the newsreader filled the silence, Olsen went to shower.
He found standing under the gushing water a good place in which to think. For some reason things seemed clearer, and sudden insights more frequent.
And, he believed, despite drawbacks, the bits of this particular puzzle were gradually coming together. Although for some time it had felt like one of those giant jigsaws that boasted a thousand pieces, all of which looked exactly the same colour.
A pictorial representation of this investigation, Olsen realized, would be either a blanket of snow or, alternatively, the monotone surface of a grey North Sea.
But all snow isn’t the same.
Norwegians had many different words to describe snow, though not as many as the Scots, who, Marita had informed him, had over four hundred words for snow logged in the Scots Thesaurus. As for the expanse that was the North Sea, fishermen and ships’ captains wouldn’t agree to its uniformity either.
All you required was a landmark to give it perspective.
And Olsen believed he now had that perspective.
Dressed again, he checked his laptop, but there was no word from Harald as yet. From the fourth-floor window Olsen watched as a Scandinavian Airlines plane took off from the nearby Dyce airport runway and wished he was on it and heading for home.
Soon.
He poured a whisky from the bottle he’d purchased before heading for the hotel. The prices in the Scottish shops always surprised him, used as he was to Norway’s higher cost of living. The Scots themselves complained bitterly that they could buy their national drink cheaper anywhere in the world than at home.
Except of course in Norway.
The shock price of alcohol for itinerant North Sea oil workers and visitors to Norway was alleviated by the airport shops offering special cut-price deals on arrival. Norwegian nationals also took advantage of this, using what they bought for forspil, the Norwegian equivalent of a pre-drinks party before a night on the town where the bigger prices had to be paid.
He recalled that the last time he’d brought a bottle to his hotel room, Dr MacLeod had been with him. Olsen stopped himself from wandering down that particular memory lane and tried to focus instead on what was likely to happen next.