by Lin Anderson
Olsen, she knew, was right. A single child washed up dead on a beach provided a worldwide photo opportunity that generated sympathy. The threat of boatloads, not so much.
‘We’ll produce DNA evidence that proves those children were aboard the Solstice,’ Rhona told him. ‘And the two survivors from the Solstice will tell the true story.’
‘I’m counting on you, and them, to do that.’ Olsen gave her a half-smile. ‘Although I fear the children’s voices are likely to be less effective than the scientific proof.’
As they moved to the sitting room with their coffee, Rhona judged there was more on Olsen’s mind than he’d already mentioned during the meal.
‘We’re getting some kickback from Hagen’s lawyers,’ he admitted when questioned. ‘The move of course is designed to separate him and the company from what may have happened on the Solstice. And in that they could succeed.’ He paused. ‘So we need a direct link between Hagen and someone close to him, who we know was involved.’
And that had to be Isla Crawford’s attacker.
87
The boss looks like shit, was McNab’s only thought at that moment. And the reason for that had to be that Margaret had gone. Why else would he be here and not at the hospital?
McNab desperately wanted to ask but couldn’t bring himself to. He thought of Chrissy. Why hadn’t she told him? Then he recalled the undelivered calls while he was on the tug boat, and acknowledged that since he’d arrived back in Glasgow, he’d avoided answering or checking his mobile, determined above everything to speak to Davey first.
Because I knew anyone I spoke to would tell me not to do that. Including the boss, by the expression on his face.
‘Sit down, Sergeant.’
McNab wasn’t sure he wanted to, but did anyway. Then he waited, trying not to meet the boss’s eye, yet attempting to read his manner.
‘Davey Stevenson …’ the boss began.
McNab controlled his desire to spout forth his anger about Davey. ‘Yes, sir,’ he managed.
‘I understand you were childhood friends?’
McNab answered in the affirmative, while wondering how the boss might know that, except perhaps via Chrissy.
‘We were, sir.’
‘And that you discovered material on his laptop regarding Neil Brodie?’
Fuck’s sake.
‘I asked Ollie in IT to take a look after his wife was knocked down in the hit-and-run.’
‘Why exactly?’
‘Mary – Mrs Stevenson,’ he quickly corrected himself, ‘said Davey was being threatened by Neil Brodie. I thought Mrs Stevenson may have been attacked because of that, sir.’
‘And this somehow led to your incarceration on that tug?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The boss was regarding him with some consternation. ‘Okay, Sergeant. This is where you and I both come clean on what’s happened to us in the last forty-eight hours.’
McNab side-swerved the coffee machine. Caffeine couldn’t deal with or dull what he felt at that moment. He doubted alcohol could either. Emerging from the station after his debrief, although he’d promised the boss that he would finally go home and get some sleep, he made a call instead.
‘You’re alive.’ Ellie’s voice sounded hoarse and worried.
‘Half alive,’ he admitted.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Are you going home?’
‘I am.’
‘Shall I meet you there?’
‘That would be good.’
McNab hadn’t slept for what felt like an eternity, and he wasn’t ready to sleep yet. At this moment he didn’t want to shut his eyes ever again, for fear of what his dreams would bring. If he just kept going, perhaps none of what had happened would be true. Not Mary. Not Davey. Not the tug and what had happened out there on that mad frothing sea. And not Margaret.
Keep moving. Keep awake.
Opening his front door, he registered the familiar scent of home. In past days it had often smelt bad, of stale whisky and unwashed dishes. No longer. All he caught was a place that hadn’t been occupied for a while.
The place I left in a hurry.
Like a zombie, McNab walked to the shower and stripped off. As he did so, he registered that his body was a map of what had been thrown at him in the time between leaving here via the roof, and now.
I’m a fucking sight for sore eyes. He grinned manically at his reflection. Who needs a skull on their back when they look like this?
It was a replay of an earlier evening. The buzzer, him exiting the shower to answer. Opening the door, draped in a towel. Only this time it was Ellie who carried the pizza box.
McNab felt tears squeeze from his eyes as, seeing him, she deposited the box and gathered him in her arms.
They ate the pizza together, the box sitting on the bed between them. Conscious that he wasn’t in a position to tell her everything that had happened since they’d last met, McNab had given her a brief résumé.
‘And Davey’s in custody?’
‘Until tomorrow.’
She was sitting, her knees pulled up, the duvet across her middle. Wintry light played on her upper body and its swirls of colour. McNab thought she looked beautiful.
‘You should sleep,’ she said, throwing back the cover and stepping out of bed. ‘I have a man to ink.’
‘Not his balls, I hope?’
She smiled at him then began pulling on her clothes. McNab was sorry to see that happen.
‘I could manage one more time,’ he offered, in an attempt to keep her there.
‘Sleep would be the better option.’ She scooped up her hair and knotted it at the back. As she did so, he caught sight of a vertical tatt that ran up the deep inside of her left arm.
‘What’s that one say?’ He raised his own arm to indicate where he meant.
‘Uten Frykt. It’s Norwegian for “without fear”.’
A bell rang in McNab’s head. ‘Why do you have that?’ he demanded.
Ellie looked slightly taken aback at both the question and the way it had been asked. She shrugged in answer. ‘It’s a motorbike thing.’
‘A gang slogan?’ McNab tried to even his tone, but, by the look on her face, he wasn’t managing to.
‘Why are you so interested in it?’ Ellie fired back at him.
‘Is it a gang mark?’ McNab insisted.
‘It’s a motorbike thing,’ she repeated.
When it was obvious she wasn’t planning on volunteering any more than that, McNab said, ‘The dead pilot on Cairngorm had that tatt, as did the man who killed him.’
Ellie digested his outburst and came out fighting. ‘As will scores of other people. You’ve got a skull on your back, for fuck’s sake. It’s a gang thing too.’
Realizing he was making a mess of things, McNab rose naked to try to make amends.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just we have to find that guy and if the tatt helped us do that …’ He tailed off as Ellie turned her back on him and headed for the door.
The tatt had reminded him of something he’d been trying to forget. The Iceman, as Isla still referred to him, hadn’t been on the tug, and had, Rhona suspected, departed the Solstice before it had been officially boarded. It was the Iceman she thought who’d ordered the death of the children. It was the Iceman in the photographs with Hager. The invisible man who just kept slipping through their fingers.
88
Rhona could hear Olsen moving about in the kitchen. He’d gone out earlier, she assumed for something for their breakfast. On his return, his mobile had rung a couple of times, and she’d heard him in rapid conversation in Norwegian.
Something’s up, she thought as she listened to the controlled excitement in his voice. Ten minutes later, she learned what it was.
‘Hagen’s yacht, the Mariusud, is back in the harbour.’ Olsen offered her some more coffee as he spoke. ‘We’re going to meet him there in an hour’s time.’
‘Meet Hagen?’ Rhona set her cup back down in am
azement.
‘Tor is keen to help, he says, but wants our meeting low-key. I suggested the yacht.’
His use of the chief suspect’s first name had confused Rhona. ‘You know this man personally?’
Olsen regarded her as though he was about to make a revelation, which in fact it turned out to be.
‘Tor and I were teenagers together. We both helped out on our families’ fishing boats. We were big rivals in how much fish was caught.’ Olsen’s look darkened a little. ‘His father moved into supplying the oil business. Tor got rich. I became a police inspector.’ Seeing her expression, Olsen added, ‘Like Scotland, Norway is a very small place. If we’re not related to you, then we know someone who is.’
Rhona tried to absorb this news, thinking all the time that nothing Olsen had said before now, or even hinted at, had suggested that he knew the owner of the Hagen Corporation in person. She thought of Harald and the other inspectors, all of whom surely knew of this connection.
‘Was Harald aware of your relationship with Hagen?’
‘Past relationship,’ he corrected her. ‘Yes, as were the others. In fact Harald’s grandfather’s farm is adjacent to Tor’s mother’s family’s farm.’
‘That’s why it all had to be so secret?’
‘That and the fact that he’s Norway’s blue-eyed boy,’ Olsen said. ‘No one would believe it without definitive truth, and even then …’ He shook his head. ‘Harald gave me a hard time about my suspicions at first, as did the others. We all believe what we want to believe.’ He paused. ‘Marita, on the other hand, questioned everything. As an outsider she had a different perspective on all things Norwegian.’
‘Was the boy you knew back then capable of what you think he’s involved in now?’ Rhona asked.
‘Who knows?’ Olsen admitted. ‘I suspect most of us are capable of almost anything, given the circumstances.’ He regarded Rhona. ‘Maybe the Tor I knew wasn’t aware of what was happening on the Solstice, but the man with him in those photographs has been close to Tor for years. And that man did know.’
‘Are you sure you want me to come with you?’ Rhona said. ‘I’m not a police officer.’
‘You’re a forensic scientist, which is what I require.’
Hagen had the smile of a successful man. He’d bestowed it on Rhona on their arrival, and graciously accepted her presence, although it was clear from the onset that he had no wish for her to be party to his talk with Olsen.
Having been introduced by Olsen as a relative of Marita’s, currently visiting Stavanger, Rhona was then encouraged to take a look round the yacht, while the two men talked. Rhona thanked her host, and without glancing at Olsen, was escorted away by the young crew member who’d welcomed them both on board.
Dressed in smart deck gear, like an image in a fancy yachting magazine, the young man’s English was perfect and he was swift to exhibit a knowledge of Scotland and its differentiation from England. He was, Rhona thought, the perfect tour guide. No doubt had she been from London, Wales or Yorkshire, she suspected his knowledge of that location, its habits and eccentricities, would have been equally evident.
Rhona followed him round like the usual gawking spectator on the lives of the rich and famous, making appropriate noises in all the right places. Aware that she had no idea how long the talk between Olsen and Hagen would last, she eventually managed to break away, asking in a manner which she wasn’t used to if she could have a few minutes to walk alone and admire this stunning yacht.
He agreed fairly swiftly, and Rhona suspected, being the only apparent member still working, he really wanted to be off-duty. Once he’d left her, Rhona began to retrace her steps. As they’d moved through the yacht, she’d tried to commit to memory the areas he had purposely not shown her, the private cabins in particular.
Olsen suspected the man they sought had been on board and recently. The yacht, which they’d had under surveillance as it cruised the Norwegian shoreline, had seemingly crossed paths with one of the corporation’s helicopters. Possibly the one which had departed the Solstice.
If they had connected, then whoever had deserted the ship prior to their official boarding may well have spent time on board the Mariusud.
The main cabins were situated one level down from the staterooms. Rhona halted when she reached the main room and listened at the closed doors. The two men were deep in conversation; the words she couldn’t understand, but the interchange was obviously tetchy. Hagen’s voice sounded as though he was trying to convince Olsen of something. Olsen’s short replies and longer silences suggested he wasn’t persuaded.
Leaving them to it, Rhona headed downstairs to the sleeping quarters.
There were six cabins, one of which, by its double-door entry, implied it was the master bedroom. A swift look inside confirmed it was currently being used by Hagen. Rhona began checking the others, only one of which looked as though it had recently had an occupant.
If Olsen’s intelligence sources were correct, then that occupant may well have been the man they sought.
Conscious of the time, Rhona quickly unpacked her forensic equipment and headed for the toilet. Just as in the bedroom, no personal items had been left behind, but that didn’t mean the recent occupant hadn’t left evidence of themselves. Rhona worked the raised toilet seat in particular, then any other surface he may have engaged with. Had the room been cleaned, much would have been lost, but it hadn’t yet, which suggested the occupant had only recently departed.
Exiting the guest room, she hesitated. They would emerge soon, and she would have to vacate this area of the yacht before that happened, but before she did …
Rhona stepped back inside the master bedroom.
She was climbing the stairs when she heard the stateroom door open. Olsen emerged first, followed by Hagen. Olsen’s anger was evident. Hagen, seeing Rhona waiting for them, tried to muster his previous manner and almost succeeded.
To cover the obviously uncomfortable moment, Rhona stepped in and, still playing the role of tourist, delivered a gushing appreciation of the yacht. Olsen, catching Rhona’s eye, offered her a silent thank you.
Hagen rallied. ‘I understand you’re leaving later today or I would have offered to take you for a sail in her.’ He gave her his signature smile. ‘Perhaps next time you visit Stavanger?’
‘That would be excellent,’ Rhona said.
‘What happened in there?’ Rhona asked as soon as they were in the car.
‘Tor gave the guy up. His name’s Einer Nilsen. He was hired as a bodyguard five years ago. Ex-special forces. Tor says he was alerted recently to the fact that Nilsen might be working at something under the radar, involving cocaine shipments via the Solstice. He sacked him.’
‘What about the children?’
Olsen muttered something, which Rhona took to be a Norwegian curse. ‘He was horrified. Or so he said. Promised to do everything in his power, and he has plenty at all levels of Norwegian society, “to right these wrongs”,’ Olsen quoted.
‘Where’s Nilsen now? Has he any idea?’
‘He says not. He maintains Nilsen left his employment over a month ago.’
‘That’s convenient,’ Rhona said. ‘And he hasn’t seen him since?’
‘No.’
‘Someone was staying on the Mariusud recently,’ Rhona told him. ‘I have a sample of their DNA. If it’s a match for our Iceman …’
Olsen’s face lit up. This time he chose to swear in English, accompanied by the hint of a smile.
89
McNab pushed open the ward door and, showing his badge at the reception desk, indicated that he’d come to see Neil Brodie.
The young nurse bestowed a knowing look on him, then led McNab to a door at the very end of the corridor, outside which a uniform had been placed. The officer, recognizing McNab, opened the door for him.
‘Fuck off,’ Brodie said as soon as he saw who his visitor was.
McNab let the spit-laden words pass him by and observed Brodie withou
t responding. Eventually Brodie was the one to break eye contact, turning determinedly to view the silent TV overhead.
‘Your Norwegian contact,’ McNab said. ‘Where is he?’
Brodie drew his eyes from the screen and gave him a withering look. ‘Who?’
‘The one who delivered Isla Crawford to the tug.’
Brodie was calculating whether he should respond or not. What he needed, McNab decided, was an incentive.
‘He’s wanted for four counts of murder. So if you know where he is and don’t say, you become an accessory.’ McNab made sure he sounded delighted by such a prospect.
Brodie went back to studying the screen. ‘No idea who you’re talking about.’
McNab took a moment to review the telephone conversation he’d just had with Police Inspector Olsen regarding an interview he’d conducted with Tor Hagen, the memory of which made him smile.
‘Looks like someone higher up has just ratted on Einer Nilsen. Anyone linked to him – like you – will be going down.’
The name McNab had uttered with such relish had brought a sudden colour to Brodie’s pasty face.
‘Nilsen,’ McNab repeated.
Brodie was mumping his gums in time with whatever thought was going through his head.
As McNab turned to go, a stream of invective issued forth, followed by a request to speak to any fucking pig but him.
As he opened the door, McNab’s smile grew a little wider.
He decided to go by Mary’s room before he departed the hospital, thinking only to confirm that she was still out of danger. The staff nurse, recognizing him from the time of the rammy with Davey, came to check him out.
McNab raised a hand in a peace offering, and showed her his ID.
‘Mrs Stevenson’s waiting for her husband,’ she said as though it might be McNab’s fault that Davey hadn’t arrived.
McNab made up his mind in that moment. ‘I’d like to speak to her,’ he said.