Deadly Code (Rhona MacLeod #3)

by Lin Anderson

  The voices were sent to punish her. That’s what she believed. Punish her for what?

  Spike had no idea who the guy in their flat had been, but it wasn’t their neighbour. He had been convinced it was somebody looking for him, but Esther thought the man had come for her and it had frightened the wits out of her.

  Who was Esther afraid of? Some old boyfriend who’d been bad to her? Spike hated the thought of someone hurting Esther. He hated the thought of someone else being with her.

  Spike felt his cock harden and immediately pulled back from the warmth of Esther’s body.

  He spat his distaste for himself into the grass.

  ‘Heh.’ She was awake and watching.

  He jumped up and walked towards the bushes, afraid she would see his erection.

  When he re-emerged, she was ready to go.

  They went back to the cafe.

  Esther was listless and Spike sensed she had entered that other world. The world of voices that told her she was shite, a nothing who didn’t deserve to live.

  ‘Esther?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Esther! Look at me.’

  She lifted her head.

  ‘We’ll find somewhere else to stay. Don’t worry.’

  She gave him a small smile.

  When he met her after her rehearsal, she was transformed. There was no rush to find a place, she told him excitedly.

  ‘Sean says we can stay at his while his girlfriend’s in California. That’ll give us time to find somewhere decent.’

  It didn’t sound right to Spike. Why would this Sean guy offer Esther a room while his girlfriend was away?

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’ll ask about me.’

  ‘I told him you were my young cousin from up north. He doesn’t mind.’

  He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind. The words blew Spike’s brain. Sean might not mind but Spike fucking well did.

  ‘We don’t need Sean. I’ll find us somewhere.’

  But she wasn’t listening.

  ‘Please, Spike. Sean gave me the key. We could at least take a look.’

  A big black cat met them in the hall. Esther bent down and rubbed its head.

  ‘Sean says it’s called Chance.’

  The cat made off and Esther followed.

  Spike hung back, hating being in someone else’s place. He took in the thick rugs, the polished wooden floor.

  This was crazy. They couldn’t stay here.

  ‘Spike. Come and see this.’

  He found her in a kitchen, standing at the window.

  ‘It looks like a convent at the back.’

  He joined her at the window and looked down on a trim lawn and neat flower beds. In the middle of the grass stood a statue of the Virgin Mary.

  The whole thing was madness. They shouldn’t be here. Already the space between them and the real world was diminishing. At the flat they were themselves, separate. They didn’t have to discuss who they were, where they had come from. Here there would be questions and they would have to have answers.

  ‘You don’t want to be here, do you?’ Esther was looking at him sadly.

  ‘It’s better if I don’t stay with you.’

  He knew how afraid she was of being alone with the voices.

  ‘No. We’ll find somewhere else.’

  She made for the door, decided. Spike felt mean. You couldn’t blame her for wanting this. To be warm, comfortable, clean, safe.

  ‘So where’s our room then?’ he forced himself to say.

  Her face lit up.

  ‘You’ll hardly see Sean. Anyway, he’s not the nosy type.’

  Yeah, thought Spike, but what about when the girlfriend comes home?

  He almost chickened out when he saw the double bed. He forced himself not to imagine them there, his arms about her.

  ‘We could share the bed,’ she suggested, her voice light.

  ‘It’s alright. I’ll just sleep on the couch.’

  She opened another door and Spike caught a glimpse of mirrored tiles.

  ‘A bathroom … with a shower!’ Esther was like a kid on Christmas morning.

  He smiled. ‘I bet there’s hot water too.’

  She turned on the shower and began pulling off her clothes.

  ‘I’ll go and get our stuff,’ he mumbled awkwardly.

  ‘Sean says we can borrow his van tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll just pick up some clothes and some CDs.’

  ‘Okay, but be careful.’

  Outside, the sun was blinking through the clouds. The pavement was lined with trees, big spreading sycamores waving their long pendulous May flowers. He was in the same city as before, but it was hard to believe it

  The American would never look for him in this part of Glasgow. Christ, even Bags wouldn’t look for him here. He smiled, thinking about Bags’ face if he knew Spike was holed up in a posh flat in the West End.

  He tried to convince himself. All he had to do was lay low. Eventually, whoever was looking for him would get fed up, think he was dead too.

  If only his father hadn’t made him post the letters the day before it happened. He had insisted Spike take them to the post office. Mrs MacMurdo, the postmistress, read the American address. He knew she had, although she never mentioned it.

  Nobody said things on the island but they knew everything. Not everything, he reminded himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets to stop himself looking at them. The marks were getting worse. Esther would notice them soon. He would have to think up something to tell her.

  Maybe it was thinking about home that made him remember the baby. The nearer he got to the old flat, the more worried he became. It was like coming home after school to find his baby brother Calum alone and crying in the house while his mother walked the cliffs and his father worked in his laboratory.

  He started to run.

  When he reached his landing, he found the baby sitting outside the door in a buggy. Beneath a silly pom-pom hat, tear lines streaked the dirty wee face. It was hungrily chewing on an old nappy. Inside, the Flintstones were at it, bump bump.

  If he wasn’t shagging her, he was thumping her. Or a mixture of both.

  ‘Hey, mate. Time for some food.’ Spike lifted the buggy down the stairs.

  Chapter 6

  Rhona tried the tuner on the car radio again. ‘Is there nothing but country and western?’ she said.

  ‘What’s wrong with country and western?’

  Rhona couldn’t tell if Andre was joking or not. Interpreting the nuances of American speech was tricky. Surely there was news, national or international, out there somewhere?

  At last she found a station worth listening to; a deep and sincere voice, pity about what he was saying: Friends and listeners. Send in your donation now and when the financial crash comes, as come it will, God will look favourably on one who lives by his laws.

  Rhona stole a look at Andre.

  ‘Hallelujah!’ he said.

  ‘You don’t believe all that?’

  ‘My parents were Baptists, and their parents before them. Of course I’m a believer.’

  The sincere voice had been replaced by a good oldfashioned hymn. Andre joined in with gusto. Rhona thought there was a smirk on his face but couldn’t be sure, so she kept her mouth shut and concentrated on the scenery.

  Clan tents scattered the lawns and nestled round the lake of the big colonial-style mansion. A couple strolled past arm-in-arm, the young woman in a crinoline with a tartan sash, her beau in full Jacobite regalia, complete with giant claymore. Rhona tried not to stare.

  ‘How come I’m the one who’s Scottish here and I’m the only one who doesn’t look it?’

  ‘Ssh,’ Andre said. ‘These people are real Scots. They’d probably say you’re the mongrel.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. I was born in Scotland.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean a thing. Were your great-great-great-grandparents Scottish?’

  ‘Scottish and Irish.’


  ‘See! You’re a mongrel.’

  Two young plaided men stopped arguing in Gaelic to nod at Andre, then stood aside to let him enter the MacLeod tent. Rhona followed. One of them said something that sounded suggestive as she passed. She decided by the laughter that followed her that it was.

  Now she was sitting on a rattan rocking-chair with a glass in her hand. Beside her, a matron in a long kilt was stitching a clan sampler. The elderly man refilling her glass with malt whisky had been introduced as the Clan Chief this side of the Atlantic. He was suggesting that, as a visiting MacLeod, she might like to take part in the judging of the Highland dancing.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know much about Highland dancing.’

  The Chief this side of the Water gave her a disappointed look.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear you folks don’t keep up the traditions over there. We sure do here.’

  Rhona retreated to her whisky, realising her accent wasn’t enough. Around here you had to do Scottish as well as be Scottish.

  The Chief over the Water abandoned her and, taking Andre by the arm, urged him to a far corner of the tent for some real Scottish conversation. At least, from where Rhona was sitting it looked passionate. Andre looked as though he was disagreeing, but as the Chief’s expression became more determined, Andre seemed to concede. Whatever the Chief was asking him to do, Rhona didn’t think it was judging the Highland dancing.

  ‘Would you excuse me a moment?’ Andre was beside her looking slightly embarrassed. ‘I have to go speak to someone. Will you be okay here for a bit?’

  ‘I’ll maybe take a wander outside,’ she said.

  ‘Of course. I’ll see you back here in half-an-hour?’

  Rhona nodded. She would be glad to be alone. She had a feeling Andre was only taking her to the bits of the games he wanted her to see.

  The heat outside the tent hit her like a wall. They were inland, away from the ocean’s breeze. Broiling hot California. Beside the lake a small boy practised his pipes, sending Scotland the Brave across the silted water.

  ‘Bizarre.’

  ‘Sorry. What did you say?’ It was the young Jacobite from the door of the tent. He gave her a delicious smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. I said, it’s bizarre.’

  ‘Who’s bizarre?’ The smile drooped under his white cockade.

  ‘Not you,’ she laughed. ‘This.’ She swept her arm in an inclusive gesture. ‘Any Highland games I’ve been to usually resulted in a fight to get into the beer tent out of the wind and the rain.’

  As he walked alongside her, Rhona couldn’t help imagining what Chrissy would say: something like, And how long is your sword then?

  ‘You guys go to Highland gatherings back in Scotland?’ her young Jacobite was asking enthusiastically.

  ‘I’ve been to one or two.’ Although the Cowal Games had never been like this.

  The tent on their left sported a large symbol over the entrance.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Come and see,’ he said, taking her by the hand. Being led into a dark space by a tall handsome Jacobite with a big sword. This was a story Chrissy would love.

  Inside it was relatively cool. Rhona stood for a moment waiting for her eyes to adjust to the change of light.

  ‘Alba gu brath.’ Her Highlander’s voice was a heady mixture of American and Gaelic. He was standing in reverence in front of a flag. At first it looked like the Saltire, a simple white cross on a blue background. But there was a difference. In the centre of this cross was a small crest, like a coat of arms, with the word ReAlba. Below the flag was a map of Scotland, delicately etched like something out of an ancient book. This map was old, God knows how old, and protected from the air by a glass case. At the foot was an inscription, written in brown ink in tight, swirling but firm-handed letters. Rhona’s Gaelic was rusty. Her Jacobite came to the rescue:

  ‘For the Men of the West. So that they should know from whence they came.’

  ‘Right.’ It sounded heavy stuff. Definitely not a tent to be found at the Cowal Games.

  ‘And ReAlba?’

  ‘I thought you came here with Andre?’ he said sharply.

  ‘I did.’

  He was looking at her suspiciously now. The friendly chat was turning decidedly cool. Rhona went on regardless.

  ‘ReAlba. Let me guess. Some Scottish organisation?’

  ‘Rhona! There you are.’

  Andre’s voice had a distinctly petulant tone about it. No more flashing smile and crinkled eyes. He took her arm and firmly escorted her towards the door of the tent, but not before she had pocketed a couple of the leaflets from the table in front of the Men of the West’s map.

  Outside the tent, the smile was back, crinkles and all.

  ‘What the hell is ReAlba?’ Rhona demanded.

  ‘I’ll tell you in the car.’

  ‘You’ll tell me in the car?’

  This afternoon was beginning to resemble a Monty Python episode. ‘You can tell me while I have a beer,’ she informed him.

  She removed her arm from his grip and walked towards the beer tent, where Scotch pies were being sold in large numbers. Rhona asked for one. Surely a Scotch pie would be the same regardless of which side of the Atlantic it was on.

  Rhona waited until they were sitting in the shade of an old tree.

  She had drunk her beer, eaten her pie and read the leaflet. She presented it to Andre.

  Andre gave it a cursory glance, shrugged and handed it back.

  ‘You can’t believe this,’ she said. ‘You’re a scientist, for God’s sake.’

  Andre’s voice was quietly firm: ‘You’re a scientist and you can’t accept the laws of physics.’

  ‘Planes do fall out of the sky.’

  ‘There are an estimated twenty million people of Scots descent in the States,’ he said. ‘That’s four times the number that live in Scotland. Why shouldn’t they have an opinion about their homeland?’

  ‘It isn’t their home.’

  ‘People in Chinatown call China home.’

  ‘This stuff,’ Rhona flapped the leaflet in his face, ‘is racist rubbish. The Declaration of Arbroath did not say Scotland was for whites.’

  ‘Can we talk about this on our way back?’

  People were looking round at them. Obviously a Scottish voice raised in anger was causing some interest. Rhona suddenly heard herself. Coming to another person’s country and telling them what to do. It happened enough in Scotland, and she didn’t like it then.

  ‘It’s the racist bit I can’t take,’ she said. ‘Celts and Gaels are white, therefore America should be white. It says the Declaration of Independence was written for white people and black people cause all the problems here.’ She paused for breath. ‘And they make out the Western Isles of Scotland to be some mythical land of the Gael, which should have a no-entry policy for anyone who isn’t one.’

  Andre was silent.

  Rhona backed off, for the moment. ‘Okay. I’m on my high horse, as Sean would say.’

  ‘Sean?’

  She hadn’t mentioned Sean since they met. There hadn’t been any reason to.

  ‘Husband?’

  ‘Boyfriend.’

  ‘Pity.’ Andre made a wry face.

  Rhona wondered if it mattered. Instinct told her it did.

  ‘You ready?’

  Rhona nodded and picked up her things. She hadn’t totally avoided thinking about Andre as a man. An intelligent, attractive, charming man. She had just assumed he was attached. That moment’s look when he asked about Sean suggested he wasn’t, but would like to be.

  Andre asked her to dinner when he dropped her at the hotel. Rhona hesitated. Saying no would be churlish and Andre’s company would be better than eating alone, surrounded by the beautiful people on Third Street.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘If it puts your mind at rest, I am not a member of ReAlba.’

  ‘But the Jacobite warrior said …’

  ‘However, my fathe
r was, and his father before him.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Rhona. My family was burned out after the Forty-Five rebellion. The tiny island they called home had one hundred and twenty-six pipers at the battle of Culloden.’ Andre smiled. ‘I know, swords might have proved more useful. When the Jacobites lost, the island paid dearly for supporting the cause. My family stuck it for a while, then left with the arrival of the sheep. I am an American but it doesn’t stop me remembering why I am an American.’

  It was a pretty speech. Rhona wondered briefly if he had used it before.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘You win. I’ll be ready at eight.’

  Rhona watched the car drive away. Andre. An expert in genetic weapons who just might be a racist. An interesting combination. If she ran this past Chrissy she knew what she would say. ‘So what? You’ve made a career out of dead bodies. That doesn’t mean you have murderous thoughts.’

  The hotel room didn’t feel so cool and chic on her return. It just felt big and empty. There was something wrong about coming in from the heat to the cool, instead of the other way round. It made inside feel less safe, somehow.

  Rhona wondered briefly if she should phone the flat and speak to Sean. It would be nice to hear a voice from home. She glanced at her watch. Okay, so Sean would still be in bed. Probably alone, but why tempt fate?

  Rhona had been in this state of mind before about Sean, too often for her own good. Some of the time it had been warranted, most of the time it had not (or so Chrissy said).

  Rhona decided against the phone call. She would check her email instead.

  Chapter 7

  Two messages awaited her. Neither from Sean. He refused to go electronic. Recording a message for the ansaphone was, he declared, his limit.

  There was one from Chrissy, entitled jazz and things. The second looked like a conference memo for tomorrow. Rhona double-clicked and viewed a confirmation of her schedule, while trying not to acknowledge the sudden flutter of apprehension in the pit of her stomach.

  Now for Chrissy’s message.

  The things part came first and the tone was decidedly nippy. Chrissy had gone into the lab to do some overtime but had been unable to process the tests, because the samples were gone. She had checked the mortuary but the foot was also absent. Dr Sissons had been unavailable. There was no evidence of a breakin at the lab and nothing on the security cameras. Chrissy had phoned and reported the foot and samples missing to DI Wilson, who told her he would get back to her.