Follow the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  In the darkened interlude since the engine had started up, he’d succeeded in freeing his head from the rope binding by a constant turning motion, although his brow now smarted like hell to match the burns his hands were registering every time he tried a similar manoeuvre near the hot pipe. As for his feet. No chance.

  He wet his lips again with what little saliva he had left, and almost longed for the return of the streams of sweat which had earlier run down his face, some of which had trickled into his parched mouth.

  It was important that he stay alert – and angry, he acknowledged. Anger had kept him alive in more difficult circumstances than this, but he preferred to have his opponent in front of him so that he might direct his hate in looks and verbal abuse.

  Muttering obscenities about Davey wasn’t doing the trick, and he had a poor recall of Brodie’s face and had never heard his voice, so not much mileage there.

  As though on cue, a metal door clanged open and someone stepped into the room. The smell until then had consisted of his own sweating body coupled with diesel and salty dampness. All that changed as a strong whiff of men’s cologne invaded the darkness.

  The light from the corridor merely outlined the figure in the doorway, so McNab couldn’t see the face, but the height and build didn’t suggest Davey. Nor did the cologne. He waited for a voice, but got none.

  The figure stepped forward, and McNab knew he was being studied intently, although how much of him was clearly visible he wasn’t sure. His visitor, of course, had the advantage of the light behind him. Then there was a click, which made McNab jump, imagining as he did that a gun was being cocked in his direction. But the sound was only accompanied by a beam of light. The torch beam swept over his face, then ran down his body, descending his legs to his feet.

  McNab decided that he’d kept silent for long enough.

  ‘I’m a detective with a Police Scotland Major Investigation Team. Assaulting and kidnapping a police officer is a very serious offence,’ he offered.

  When there was no response to this, McNab continued, ‘I’m looking for Neil Brodie on charges of cocaine and people smuggling.’

  A small, dry and pitying laugh greeted his announcement.

  McNab, pissed off now with the official approach, shouted, ‘Whoever the fuck you are, untie me.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then the man turned on his heel and exited, pulling the door closed with a bang behind him.

  ‘Fuck off, then!’ McNab shouted to the restored darkness.

  So they weren’t interested in anything he had to say. Why then had they plucked him from the streets of Glasgow and deposited him on a boat? McNab took a moment to wonder where exactly he’d joined this boat. The nearest water to where they’d picked him up was of course the Firth of Clyde, Britain’s largest and deepest stretch of coastal water. But judging by the pitch and yaw his stomach was currently enduring, he was no longer in sheltered water but on an open sea.

  If he was right about Brodie’s cocaine supply coming in somewhere on the west coast of Scotland, then they could be heading up there now. But if Olsen’s right, then I’m more likely somewhere off Aberdeen.

  McNab found he didn’t like either scenario. Added to the fact that he had no idea why they would snatch him at all, and increase the heat on themselves, if not as pay-back. Brodie, he knew, was a vindictive bastard, and McNab had taken his cocaine and, for a short time at least, some of his women.

  He tried to recall the description of the man who’d brought Amena to the clusterfuck in the Delta Club. Could cologne guy have been him? Maybe he’d chosen not to speak because his accent would have given him away.

  Or maybe he just came to gloat in silence?

  Another thought occurred. Could Amena be here on the boat as well? And if so, then where were they taking her, and him?

  At that moment, the bow of the boat, which had been rising and falling with ever greater rapidity, suddenly lurched upwards, as though climbing an oncoming wave. This resulted in McNab being pulled abruptly downhill away from the pipe, before being thrust back towards it as the bow suddenly dropped.

  McNab smothered a cry as he met the metal again, its heat searing through the back of his jacket.

  The shock this created made him even more determined to get free, even if it did mean scalding his hands further in the process.

  As the boat started to climb a second time, McNab began to tug desperately at his right hand, sensing it was the looser of the two.

  66

  ‘Politiinspektør Jonas Silvertsen, Organized Crime, Oskar Gerhard, Child Sexual Abuse, and of course Harald Hjerngaard, Forensics, who you already know.’

  Rhona shook hands with all three police inspectors in turn, after which Harald asked what had happened to Detective Sergeant McNab, who they’d also expected. Rhona realized at this point that Olsen had indeed held out a hope that McNab would eventually show himself and that the empty seat next to her on the plane had been for him.

  ‘Sergeant McNab seems to be missing in action,’ Olsen said, his tone registering concern rather than annoyance at this. ‘However, we’ve been promised full cooperation from Police Scotland, should we need to venture into Scottish waters.’

  They were in a private room at Sola airport awaiting the departure of their chopper. The picture window overlooked a rain-soaked and windy runway. The landing of their standard SAS flight earlier had been a little shaky. Winds on the flight over had seen them strapped in for the entire journey, plus the abandonment of the service trolley, although the captain had assured those new to the Aberdeen–Stavanger flight that this wasn’t an unusual occurrence when crossing the North Sea in January.

  A sleety shower had accompanied their take-off from Aberdeen, and the same conditions had met them on landing at Sola, reinforcing Olsen’s declaration that despite a distance of 300 miles, the two cities shared the same weather.

  Once seated, there had been little chat between them on the way across, with Olsen apparently deep in thought. Rhona had registered no noticeable change in their relationship since the night they’d slept together, although he had intimated that when the investigation was over he would like to tell her about the circumstances that surrounded his wife’s death, should she wish to know.

  Rhona had accepted this, suspecting that by talking to someone about it, Olsen might begin to forgive himself for whatever part he thought he’d played.

  After the introductions and a rundown on what was planned, Harald had encouraged her to eat something from the display of open sandwiches and coffee.

  ‘It might be all you get for some time.’

  Noting her reticence, he checked whether she might be inclined to sea sickness. ‘If so –’ he produced a strip of tablets from his pocket – ‘I have a fast-acting solution to a helicopter ride.’

  Rhona thanked him. ‘I was okay hovering over Cairngorm in a blizzard. I’m not so sure about bobbing around in a boat on the North Sea, though.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, don’t hesitate to ask.’

  They helped themselves to a breakfast plate and took a table near the window.

  ‘How much has Alvis told you?’ Harald said as they settled down to eat.

  ‘Not the whole story, I’m sure.’

  ‘Did he mention the refugee kids he found lying frozen on the Russian border?’

  Rhona indicated he hadn’t.

  ‘Just one of the horrors he’s been unearthing. It’s been a long, slow, laborious business and we went down a lot of blind alleys before we got this far.’ Harald met her eye. ‘Of course we could be wrong. There might be nothing when we get out to the Solstice, especially if they’ve got wind of our interest.’

  That had been Rhona’s concern as well.

  ‘We had hoped DS McNab’s pursuit of the Glasgow connection would have confirmed our suspicions of the link between the Solstice and the people smuggling.’ He waited for Rhona’s response.

  ‘McNab tends to go his own way.’ She hesitated.
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  Harald was reading her expression. ‘You’re worried he might be in trouble?’

  ‘McNab has a reputation for going AWOL. He worked undercover for a while. He still has the habit.’

  They were interrupted by a call from Olsen indicating that they’d been given permission to board.

  ‘We’re in the hands of the Norwegian Coastguard now,’ Harald told her.

  Rhona found his declaration strangely comforting.

  Climbing aboard, she experienced a similar sensation to that morning in Aviemore when she’d joined CMR at the converted church to look for the downed aircraft on Loch A’an, which they’d later discovered had originated from this airport.

  The circle’s closing. Let’s hope we have those we want inside.

  The lift from the tarmac was smooth and only indicated by noise and the image that swept by the window. Rhona checked on Olsen, whose handsome face exhibited everything she felt herself at that moment. Anticipation, excitement, determination and trepidation. If Olsen was right, and a vessel owned and operated by one of Norway’s most respected citizens was implicated in what was an international crime, then the fallout would be considerable. If Olsen was wrong, the other officers involved might survive, but surely the kickback from the investigation would harm or even end his career.

  She glanced over at Olsen again. Sensing her gaze, he returned it, giving her a small, almost apologetic smile.

  He’s a brave man, Rhona thought as her eyes roamed around the assembled team. And he’s brought them with him. Into hell or damnation.

  67

  Isla woke as the boat began to pitch. Grabbing the side of the bunk to stop herself falling out, she waited for the rise to end and the fall to follow.

  She was comfortable at sea even in poor weather, having sailed since an early age. Gavin on the other hand could never be persuaded to go out on the water with her. Mountains hadn’t fazed him, but this …

  You wouldn’t like this, would you?

  She imagined she could hear Gavin’s exaggerated groan as the vessel hit a wall of water with a thud, followed by a shudder as the hull attempted to absorb the wave’s energy. Isla could feel the vibration travel from the side of the bunk through her hands.

  Most of the time she’d sailed on the west coast of Scotland where you could always find shelter from a storm in one of the myriad sea lochs and inlets. This was no sailing boat, and she wasn’t in sheltered waters, which suggested they were in the wildness of the North Sea.

  The first time she’d opened her eyes, she’d had no idea where she was, nor how she’d got there. Then gradually bits of what had happened had come surging back. A man waiting by the van in the hotel car park, telling her Kyle had sent him. He would be happy to drive the vehicle south for her. He’d been courteous and kind, asking after her injured ankle. She’d been delighted that he wanted to help, even suggesting if he could manage to go the following day, then she’d come with him as a passenger.

  Then I saw it.

  A long half-healed scratch mark on his cheek, which made Isla think of another scratch on another face. Another similar pair of ice-blue eyes caught in the light from her head torch.

  ‘It’s you,’ she’d stupidly said.

  His retribution had been swift, doing no doubt what he’d planned all along.

  Her hand moved instinctively to her head, feeling the bloody scab where he’d hit her with something metal from the climbing box. With the back doors of the van already open, locating a weapon had been easy, the attack over in seconds, and she’d been unable to do anything about it.

  He must have got me inside the van and away from Aviemore in minutes.

  Only snatches of the journey that had followed remained with her, suggesting he may have drugged her in some way. Anything she did recall was in slow motion or kaleidoscopic, much like she’d experienced in her hypothermic delusion in the ice cave on Cairngorm.

  Though she did recall a woman’s face inhabiting her strange dreams. It was the face of the woman who’d rescued her from the cave, who’d eased her pain and kept her alive. Who’d cajoled her into talking when she wanted to sleep. The woman, Rhona, who’d sat by her side in Raigmore Hospital.

  Where I was safe.

  Tears filled her eyes and Isla brushed them away in annoyance. Crying would get her nowhere.

  Better to understand why the Iceman had gone to the trouble of bringing her this far, when it would have been so much simpler to kill her and dispose of her back at the airfield.

  He could have thrown me in the river. Or buried me in the woods.

  But he’d chosen not to, because, Isla suspected, he wanted to punish her for not dying that night on the mountain. And maybe alive, I’m worth something. Here at least.

  She’d studiously avoided facing the cameras Isla knew were watching her. Her initial horror that she was being spied on was compounded by her nakedness. Even asleep she wasn’t awarded any privacy. She was certain at least one night had passed, although darkness had never descended in the cabin or in the tiny shower and toilet room that adjoined it. She suspected her hobbling visits there were also being recorded, but couldn’t avoid going.

  Then there were the visitors.

  Isla squashed that memory and focused on her anger. Anger was keeping her functioning in spite of everything that had happened. Anger and the desire to kill the man who’d brought her here. Isla had never thought herself capable of such rage or a thirst for revenge. Her persecutor, she now accepted, had killed Gavin and her friends. Blotted out their existence without a second thought, just as he’d pushed her off that mountainside.

  He made a mistake in not killing me when he got another chance, she told herself. A big mistake.

  Isla lay back down. She’d fought a mountain and survived. She would survive this, and have her revenge. She told Gavin what she planned to do, and listened as he praised and encouraged her. You get him. For Lucy and Malcolm. And for me.

  The red light peered down and the camera whirred, capturing her every movement for whatever sad bastard sought pleasure from viewing the incarceration and subjugation of a woman.

  Isla gave the watchful eye the finger of defiance.

  68

  As she’d crossed the tarmac, Rhona had felt her mobile vibrate beneath her suit, heralding the arrival of a text. There had been no time to view it before boarding the helicopter and getting buckled in. The noise on take-off had been deafening, the rush of adrenaline to her heart and brain just as powerful, as the big rotating blades, seemingly defying gravity, pulled them up and into the sky. Her immediate thought then had been of their mission as she and Olsen had exchanged looks. Now Rhona reached for her mobile to check the origins of the incoming text, although her hopes that McNab’s name might be on the screen were quickly dashed. Still, the text – which she noted had come from Ollie, McNab’s declared IT genius collaborator – might just contain some knowledge of McNab’s whereabouts.

  Rhona scanned the message, which began with Ollie’s concern that McNab might be ‘off the radar’ and that it could have something to do with a laptop and mobile he’d given to Ollie to examine.

  Rhona immediately sensed that Ollie was a lot more worried about McNab than his cautious words suggested. And if Ollie was worried, so was she.

  She read on.

  I retrieved a mobile number which McNab was certain would lead him to Neil Brodie. I haven’t seen DS McNab since.

  Then followed the worry that if Ollie told the station about the laptop, which had contained illegal images involving child pornography, McNab would be in trouble.

  Suddenly a bigger story around McNab’s recent return to the world of his pal Davey Stevenson was emerging. If, as well as Mary’s hit-and-run, McNab thought Davey was involved in child pornography via Brodie, no wonder he’d gone into meltdown.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Harald said.

  It wasn’t the time or place to try to explain. ‘Later,’ Rhona promised.

  Sola airpor
t being situated on the coast, south-west of the Stavanger inlet Gandsfjorden, the NH-90 had already departed the landmass. According to Harald’s briefing, the NH-90 was set to replace the British-built Sea King for SAR operations.

  ‘They normally operate out of Bardufoss flystasjon, further north, in Tromsø county,’ Harald explained. ‘But since we might be required to land on a moving ship in high seas, the 90’s the better vehicle to travel in.’

  Harald showed her a palmtop on which their position was recorded with the backdrop of the coastline marked by coloured dots. ‘The Automatic Identification System on ships exchanges data with other nearby ships, AIS base stations and satellites,’ he explained. ‘The dots near the coast are Norwegian trawlers or fishing boats. The ship we’re heading for is here.’

  He drew the screen image in, so Rhona could see further west. ‘The Solstice is perfectly legit. One of the smaller RAS, replenishment at sea, vessels, she’s a station for diesel oil, aviation fuel and fresh water. It’s what’s been docking with her that raised Alvis’ suspicions.’ He continued, ‘Smaller craft, from northern Norway, close to our border with Russia, from Aberdeen and surrounding ports, and even more significantly, North Africa and Turkey.’

  ‘They’re bringing refugee children?’

  ‘And drugs. We know there’s a big market in both. Porn and drugs tend to go hand in hand. And then there’s the other lucrative use for the refugees who can’t pay their way with the traffickers …’

  He tailed off, although Rhona knew what he referred to.

  ‘As a support vessel, the Solstice has a hospital with around twenty beds, an operating theatre and a helicopter pad for a quick exit.’

  Lapsing into silence, Rhona looked down on what was now a seething white-topped mass. Up here, the chopper was dealing with some turbulence, but nothing to what it must be like in a small vessel trying to make its way through such high seas.

  Rhona registered Olsen’s worried look. If a ship in the vicinity required help, then the coastguard helicopter would have to provide it, whatever its current status.

  Rhona said a silent prayer that that wouldn’t happen.