by Lin Anderson
Depending on the word from Harald, the investigation might shift to Stavanger. Should that happen, his plan had been to ask DS McNab to accompany him together with Dr MacLeod, who would then work with Harald on the forensic side, as she’d done before.
The ship they sought, the Solstice, was registered under the Norwegian flag. Which is what Harald had revealed in his phone call. That made their move on it so much easier. Had it been registered under the flag of a different country, then getting permission from that country to board could have proved both difficult and time-consuming. What they believed went on there involved the physical and sexual exploitation of refugee children.
It appeared that the Tor Hagen parent company had been so confident of their owner’s prestige and position that he, and they, at no time considered the company or its ultimate owner would be challenged. After all, should what was happening on that ship be revealed, how many more people in positions of power might be exposed? The safety net offered to those who were partaking in the ship’s offerings seemed impregnable.
Alvis recalled Marita’s reaction when he’d initially revealed his suspicions that just such a ship existed, and its purpose. He had no idea then that she was in the first weeks of an insecure pregnancy, or of what that would cost her. What he did register was that his suspicions were enough for her backing. She believed in him. If his dogged determination to expose this resulted in the end of his career, then so be it.
‘So be it!’ Alvis repeated out loud this time.
Up to this point, he’d been careful not to challenge the order of things, keeping everything under the radar. The interview with Petter Lund on Scottish soil had changed all of that. Lund’s father wasn’t at the top of the tree, but he had connections there and the diplomatic immunity being claimed for his son’s actions was already causing a stir.
Once word got out regarding the true focus of Olsen’s investigation, then the powerful would move, if not to close the investigation down, then at least to neutralize it.
But if we’re right about the ship?
It was a gamble, but one he and his fellow officers were prepared to take.
With this thought, Olsen’s mind shifted to DS McNab. According to a recent conversation with Rhona, he’d learned that Chrissy had made contact with the detective in Glasgow and had reminded him that he was wanted in Aberdeen.
Yet he’s neither turned up here, nor been in touch, with either Rhona or myself. A fact that was beginning to give Olsen some cause for concern. He and the Scottish detective had got off to a shaky start, but they both had the same objective. That had been clear in the interview with Lund, although it hadn’t been easy for McNab to take the back seat in what he considered his own investigation.
Olsen recalled McNab’s struggle to keep his mouth shut at various moments in the proceedings. In particular during the replaying of the video of Lund and Amena, when McNab had had an obvious desire to punch the supercilious and despicable Lund in the face.
McNab, Olsen decided, reminded him of a younger version of himself.
The Scottish detective could be seduced by drink and self-doubt, but the brain that wrestled with those problems was also capable of powerful leaps of intuition, as Olsen’s study of McNab’s most recent cases had shown. The detective’s tendency to play the maverick, according to the evidence, apparently got results. Something his superiors, apart from DI Wilson, found threatening.
The difference between McNab and myself … by his age I’d met Marita and she’d become the humanity that anchored me.
Olsen revisited the conversation in the jazz club on Ashton Lane where both Rhona and Chrissy had been strong in their championing of McNab. As far as Olsen was aware, neither women were romantically connected to the detective, although it seemed to him that McNab was strongly drawn to Rhona.
Yet both women had spoken highly of him, despite his faults.
In that, Olsen decided, McNab was a lucky man.
Dressing after his shower, Olsen studiously avoided looking at his back, although Chrissy’s desire to discover whether McNab had got himself a tattoo had reminded Olsen of his own sortie into the world of inking. Seventeen years old, with a love of motorbikes that had been all-consuming, and fired by more than just speed, he’d had his own back inked.
Olsen could still picture the youth that he’d been back then, especially when he viewed the skull and crossbones tattoo. What he couldn’t remember, or even imagine, was what had been going on in his head at that age.
Many years later when he’d met Marita, he’d considered having the tattoo removed. She’d encouraged him to leave it there.
We are what we are, because of our past. ‘Besides,’ she used to say with a smile, ‘I like it. It makes you look like a badass.’
The chance of a woman other than Marita viewing the tattoo hadn’t occurred until the previous night in Aviemore, although Olsen had chosen to keep his top half covered. He now considered why he’d done that, and came to the conclusion that exposing the tattoo to Rhona would have compounded his betrayal of his wife.
Foolish man, came Marita’s response. Or is her imagined inner voice just my way of assuaging my guilt?
He’d turned up the sound on his laptop to be sure he would hear the arrival of any communication from Harald. The ping that now resounded brought Olsen out of his remorseful reverie to read the message, which was simple.
We’ve found the Solstice. Call me.
63
McNab lay on the bed in the darkness, his mobile alongside. Davey had indicated the message would come before midnight and it was already past that now.
He decided he would give pal Davey fifteen more minutes, then make his move regardless, relying on the information Ollie had retrieved from the laptop.
Either way, I’ll reach my prey.
In the end it was the landline that rang out. Something McNab hadn’t expected, and he hesitated before going for the receiver. When he did pick up, he was met by silence, then a click as the connection was cut.
At the same time, his mobile rang out briefly with Davey’s name on the screen. The signal they’d agreed on.
McNab went swiftly to the window and, keeping out of sight, checked the street below, looking for Davey’s vehicle. The guy was so shit-scared that whatever plan they’d hatched together could likely go belly up.
Both sides of the street were lined with parked cars, but there was no sign of Davey, frightened or otherwise.
Then another idea occurred, one that was worse than Davey simply getting the jitters.
If the landline call wasn’t the usual robot communication, then maybe someone was checking whether he was at home. Which might mean that his shit-scared mate could well have sold him out. McNab had a fleeting image of Davey with Brodie’s gun pointed at his head and acknowledged he would cave in, especially if the threat involved Mary.
Even as his mind raced with these thoughts, McNab’s body was also on the move. If he was wrong then it didn’t matter. If he was right …
Opening the door on to the landing, he listened. No one had pressed the buzzer, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t entered the close. His fellow occupants had a habit of leaving the latch off, so that their late-night pizza deliveries didn’t piss off the sleeping neighbours.
McNab eased himself out and clicked his own door shut behind him. Now came decision time. Did he go up or down? A sound from below of feet being placed carefully on the stone stairs made up his mind for him.
He was one level from the top of the building, and that’s where he now headed. Reaching the upper landing, he grabbed the hook that released the access door to the flat roof of the tenement block, and pulled down the short set of metal steps that would take him up there.
Once above, he would be exposed, but able to use the roof like a highway to the adjacent building, and descend that way.
If I’m wrong about this, then I’ve taken a stroll along the rooftops. If I’m right, then I might live a little
longer.
That was the positive way of looking at it. The negative was that once up there he was completely exposed to whoever should choose to follow.
McNab began to make his way gingerly along the dark rooftop, the only light coming from the cupolas that marked the top of the internal lighted stairways. Reaching the second of these, he disturbed a resident seagull that rose with a shriek, shitting its fear, or annoyance, in a splattered trail that just missed him.
Two blocks on, McNab decided enough was enough. He lay flat on the roof and edged his way towards the short balustrade that formed the edge. Below was the street. Not his street but the cul de sac that ran alongside. Brodie was known to make use of cars that were built like tanks. No self-respecting drug dealer would have it otherwise.
There had been nothing like that parked on his street. What about here?
And there you are.
Sitting under a street lamp, the engine turning over, was the vehicle he recognized from Davey’s garage, its changed plates in place.
The sight of it made McNab’s skin crawl. There was no way Davey, on his own, would have chosen to turn up here in that vehicle, which suggested McNab’s worst-case scenario was probably the right one. Even as he thought this, McNab heard the undeniable creak as a trapdoor to the roof was opened, then a torch spread its wide beam like a lighthouse across the roof.
Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
If whoever was looking for him was armed, which he had to assume they would be, then I’m not the disturbed seagull that could quickly fly away, but a fucking sitting duck.
Keeping low, McNab went for the next cupola and hopefully the next set of stairs. As he did so, he heard a thump and accompanying curse as the flashlight departed his follower’s hands and met the deck. The rolling light came to an abrupt halt, with the beam shining right at McNab as he attacked the neighbouring trapdoor.
If it was bolted below, he was fucked.
McNab put all his weight on it and felt it give. He was waiting for the pop of a gun as the open door now framed him in light, but nothing came. With no extended ladder, he had no choice but to dreep down, a skill he’d learned in the back courts as a boy.
McNab hit the stone landing with a thump that knocked the breath from him. Dragging himself up by the banister, he made his way shakily down the stairs.
At the bottom, he found the front door latched shut. There was no way he could discover what awaited him outside without opening it. As he reached for the handle, he heard his pursuer hit the upper landing, sounding as winded as he’d been.
Which means I have a chance. Albeit a small one.
McNab flung open the door and was faced by the black four-by-four awaiting his arrival, Davey’s face at the driver’s window.
‘Quick, get in,’ he shouted, revving the engine.
McNab, glancing up the street to see two more blokes headed his way, decided to chance it. As he moved towards the vehicle, the passenger door was thrown back, slamming his chest, as something even harder met his skull.
Then it was all over.
64
The knock was soft but audible, especially since Rhona had been anticipating it. She rose and went to answer. Olsen’s expression when she opened the door suggested that they were to be on the move and soon.
‘The Norwegian Coastguard have identified what they believe may be the ship we’re looking for. We’ll catch the early flight to Stavanger scheduled to leave shortly, meet up with my team there and take a helicopter ride out to the ship.’
‘How long do we have?’
‘Can you be ready in ten minutes?’
‘Of course. Have you heard anything from McNab?’ Rhona said, hoping that he had at least got in touch with Olsen.
Olsen shook his head, confirming that despite Chrissy’s best efforts, McNab was likely still in Glasgow. Rhona fought back a desire to express how annoyed she was by that and instead told Olsen she’d meet him shortly in the lobby.
Now that she knew she was definitely on the move, Rhona sent a quick text to Sean and told him to take Tom to his flat as she wasn’t sure when she’d be back in Glasgow. Reading the message, Rhona wondered if her choice of words sounded a bit churlish, but sent it anyway. There would be time enough to explain to Sean when this was all over.
‘The ship is flying a Norwegian flag so we don’t have to seek the authority to board, which saves time. If the owners have sufficient warning then I suspect whatever’s happening on that ship will be well hidden by the time we get there. A bit like the 3.2 tons of pure cocaine your border force found in the Turkish tug a hundred miles off Aberdeen, buried so deep in the hold it took a forensic team two days to unearth it.’
Rhona was aware of the incident Olsen referred to. ‘But they can’t hide people like that?’ she said.
Olsen looked at her candidly. ‘What would you do with such a cargo, if you learned in advance that you were likely to be boarded?’
Olsen’s response chilled Rhona to the bone.
‘That’s why our move on the ship has to be kept as low-key as possible,’ he said, seeing her distress. ‘Once she’s under our control,’ Olsen continued, ‘we’ll take her into Stavanger harbour and examine her properly.’
Reaching the car, Olsen put their bags in the boot and held open the passenger door for Rhona to get in, just as they felt the first drops of rain promised by a heavy grey sky.
‘The weather won’t be on our side out there,’ Olsen admitted as he started up the engine.
‘It wasn’t on Cairngorm either,’ she reminded him.
The rain came on in earnest as they exited the car park and Olsen flipped the wipers to fast mode. Rhona found herself relieved that it wasn’t snow, although just as on Cairngorm, it would be the strength of the wind that would likely cause the most difficulty.
The lights of Aberdeen were visible in the near distance and, beyond the city to the east, Rhona registered the vast grey expanse that was the North Sea. Those who worked out there were used to being shuttled back and forth to the numerous rigs and attendant oil vessels by helicopter in all weathers. So she and Olsen weren’t the only ones headed out from the cluster of hotels next to the airport, which supplied overnight accommodation for itinerant oil personnel. A couple of minibuses packed with men accompanied them en route, peeling off on entry to the airport, bound for the area where the resident helicopter companies operated from.
‘Stavanger’s about 300 miles east from Aberdeen harbour. A bit far for a standard chopper,’ Olsen explained. ‘The plane’ll have us there in forty-five minutes.’
The aircraft having already boarded, they were swiftly ushered through ticket control, down the metal staircase and, buffeted by a rising wind, led across the tarmac to board the small plane. Their entrance caused some interest from the twenty or so passengers, wondering no doubt the reason for their late arrival and the special dispensation they seemed to have been given. Swiftly seated by the air steward and belted in, minutes later they were airborne.
Rhona watched as the lights that signified land were left behind, and the dark choppy mass of water began to dominate the view from the small window.
Here we go, she said silently, but where the hell’s McNab?
65
His eyes, although clenched shut, were struggling to cope with the glaring spotlight that beat down on his face. To open them, he knew, would subject him to more pain.
Instead, McNab attempted to turn his head from the unremitting glare, which proved to be impossible. Whatever had been used to anchor his head in this position merely tightened its grip across his forehead.
Eyes still closed, he tried to take stock. He was seated, albeit on the floor. He could feel his outstretched legs, but couldn’t move his feet, which were obviously tied together. His hands, twisted behind him, were attached to a pipe, which was hot. Any movement which took his bare skin closer resulted in what felt like a surface burn.
The surrounding temperature too was stiflin
g, and his face dripped sweat as his body tried to regulate itself. Preparing himself, he slowly opened his eyes a crack. The light was red and hot and positioned to play on his face, but in between blinks, McNab saw enough to suggest that he was in what looked like a cellar.
His memory of what had happened to land him here was sketchy and McNab had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. One thing he was certain about: he hadn’t been shot this time. There was no scent of fresh blood and no pain radiating from anywhere other than his bonds, his eyes and … the back of his head.
So that’s where they got me.
McNab remembered it all with sudden clarity. The four-by-four had been there right in front of him with Davey behind the wheel. Davey had shouted that he’d tried to call and warn him and that he should get in and quick.
And I believed the bastard.
The hot light that played over his face suddenly went out, plunging wherever he was into darkness. The relief that he was no longer being cooked morphed into trepidation about what that change in his surroundings might mean.
He didn’t have long to wait.
With a deep rumbling sound, an engine in his vicinity fired into life and his prison began to vibrate, then move.
He wasn’t in a cellar, McNab acknowledged with a mix of anxiety and horror. He was, he suspected, in the bowels of a boat.
How the fuck had he got here?
McNab wasn’t a fan of travelling by boat. Miles of open water was as uncomfortable for him as open countryside, only made worse by what might lie beneath the surface. Who knew what lurked down there in the depths?
He licked his dehydrated lips, and subliminally recalled a few words of poetry forced on him at school – ‘Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink’ – which didn’t help with his desire for exactly that, a drink.
McNab drew his mind away from the thought of cold clear fresh water, past the even more attractive image of a full whisky bottle, and tried to plan his bid for freedom, from the bloody hot pipe at least.