by Lin Anderson
Rhona could almost hear the irritation at this point.
On a positive note, Chrissy had taken the digital image to the computing department They had done some work on it and the result was in the attached file. Mention of the jazz club was short. Sean’s new singer was good, very good. Unfortunately she had the look of heroin chic.
Another woman reading Chrissy’s email would have assumed the new singer was skinny, white, with big charcoal eyes. Definitely not Sean’s type.
Rhona knew Chrissy was telling her something else.
Heroin chic. Translation - the new singer was at worst a junkie, at best liked partying.
What the hell was Sean playing at?
Okay, so the club was popular with her colleagues. But not everyone in the law and order establishment appreciated their Chief Forensic’s relationship with an ex-con, good musician or not.
Sean was a working partner in the jazz club. If this Esther girl was using or supplying on the premises, Sean could be held responsible.
Rhona decided she needed a drink. Propped up on the bar was an invitation to try a cocktail. Room service would be delighted to mix it for her. Something with at least two different types of alcohol sounded good to Rhona. She dialled room service and headed for the shower.
The pounding needles on her head didn’t help. She would have to speak to Sean. Find out what he had to say. She turned her attention to the missing samples.
Every sample bag was strictly monitored. Every movement had to be logged. If the samples went missing from her lab, then it was ultimately her responsibility.
And, according to Chrissy, the foot was no longer in the mortuary. Rhona could not imagine the eminent Doctor Sissons countenancing anything underhand. But if the MOD was involved … Rhona cut her shower short and pulled on a bathrobe.
The hum of the air conditioner had strengthened, making the air cold and almost drowning the background sound of the television. The bedroom had suddenly turned from empty silence to electronic overload. Rhona stared at the shifting television screen she’d switched on for company.
It was then she noticed the man’s shadow.
He was in the alcove that housed the desk with her laptop, bent over the computer screen.
Two thoughts raced through Rhona’s mind in quick succession. One, she had nothing to defend herself with. And two, she should have kept the chain on the door.
It was too late. Her visitor had heard her.
Rhona stepped back a little, trying to judge how far the bathroom and a lockable door might be while her eyes noted the plain black jacket and grey trousers and hoped her instinct was right and it was room service come to make her cocktail.
It was.
Her intruder’s body language moved swiftly from surprise through discomfort to formality.
‘You ordered a cocktail, ma’am?’ The young man stood to attention and indicated the shaker on the desk beside her computer. ‘A Manhattan?’
‘Great.’
Rhona hastily retreated to the bathroom to try and regain her dignity.
When she reappeared a few minutes later, the television had been turned down and the room had returned to a comfortable temperature.
‘Your drink, ma’am,’ said the young man holding out a little silver tray with a stemmed glass of pale golden liquid.
He waited while she tasted it.
The liquid was cold and sharp against her throat Rhona resisted the desire to cough and smiled instead. ‘Good,’ she said.
He looked relieved. Rhona wondered how many customers complained just for the hell of it. She thought about trying to engage him in conversation, then decided against it. She had already tried that with various members of hotel staff. It hadn’t worked. Polite and helpful, real conversation was not considered part of the job.
The waiter was replacing the bottles in the drink cabinet, tidying up. Behind him, the computer screen was flashing Chrissy’s downloaded file. Rhona went over for a look.
The screen held six images, three above and three below. In the top lefthand comer was the photograph she had taken with the digital camera of the area above the decomposing ankle. From left to right, what was little more than a smudge began to take shape and change colour. By the third image it had become a definite pattern.
Maybe a letter?
The pattern was complex, but the middle part might be a letter. Rhona sat down at the desk for a closer look. If it was a letter it was one of those oldfashioned ones, all curves and sweeping lines. Real writing. It wasn’t crystal clear, but if the computer guys had achieved this from that photograph of spongy grey flesh then she would have to stop slagging them off for sitting in front of a computer all day.
Rhona was suddenly aware of the waiter standing behind her, staring over her shoulder at the screen. She turned to a face full of pleasant blandness.
‘What do you think?’ she said.
‘Looks kinda Celtic.’
‘Yes.’
He topped up her Manhattan from the cocktail shaker and headed for the door, before she could ask him anything else.
‘Have a nice day, ma’am.’
Reality LA-style had returned.
The door clicked shut behind him. Rhona put the chain on this time and turned back to the screen. The guys in the Computing Department had done her proud. The smudge was now a distinguishing mark. A mark that might help them find the owner of the foot.
An hour later Rhona was sitting in LA’s most popular restaurant on Main Street, Santa Monica, trying to keep her attention on what Andre was saying. She had made two phone calls after the waiter left.
DI Bill Wilson had told her that the investigation had been taken out of his hands, and by implication hers.
Rhona was not amused.
‘You know where the samples are?’
He hesitated for a second. ‘No.’
She had worked with Bill Wilson for years. If he was lying to her, he must have a very good reason.
‘What the hell is going on, Bill?’
‘Just concentrate on your conference. We’ll talk when you get back.’
The second phone call was worse. The answering machine wasn’t on so Rhona let the phone ring out, determined to waken Sean. But it wasn’t Sean who answered. It was a young female voice.
Rhona was past the niceties. ‘Who the hell are you?’
She could tell the girl was taken aback by her attitude. Rhona didn’t care.
‘I’m Esther, the new singer with Sean’s band.’
‘And what the fuck are you doing in my flat?’
Rhona listened in silence while the girl stumbled through some lame excuse about staying for a few days until she got her own place sorted out, then the phone was commandeered by Sean.
‘It’s true,’ he said.
‘Like hell it is.’
‘Esther was in a squat. It got raided. She had nowhere else to go.’
‘You had no right to let her stay in my flat.’
Sean went silent Somewhere in the background Rhona heard the girl say she would pack and go. A door closed then Sean was back on.
‘She’s ill. It would better if she stayed here for a few days.’
‘Is she on something?’
Silence, then: ‘Chrissy’s been in touch, I take it?’
Sean’s voice was dry. A bad sign. Sean never lost his temper, even when she was trying to goad him into an argument. But the quiet tone showed how upset he was.
‘Well, is she?’ she repeated.
‘She says not.’
‘Christ, Sean. This could lose me my job.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘If she’s taking stuff, she’s dealing in it or doing something else to pay for it…’
‘And mixing with undesirables doesn’t look good on your CV.’
Sean had told Rhona about his conviction for possession as soon as things got serious between them. Rhona had dismissed it then. It was ten years ago, she’d said, it’s pa
st, forgotten. But at the same time Rhona knew there would be someone out there who would love to know that information about her. So she told Bill Wilson. He’d said there was no big deal. It was on record that most cabinet ministers had smoked dope in their student days and marched with CND. Either that or they were gay. He told her to forget it. That’s what she’d done. Until now.
‘Maybe you’d rather I moved out too?’ Sean was saying.
‘Maybe I would.’
The words were out before she could stop them.
‘We’ll talk when you get back.’
His voice was low and sad and it made her feel like shit. Plus she was pissed-off with people telling her they would talk about it later, in the car, when she got back.
By the time Andre arrived she had finished all the Manhattan mix in the shaker. It hadn’t made her feel any better. She just wanted to get her paper delivered and get home where she belonged.
Or maybe she didn’t want to go home at all?
If Andre sensed her mood, he said nothing about it. He was all charm and good fun. Even now, when she wasn’t listening to him.
His offer of more wine finally registered. Rhona nodded an okay and tried to concentrate.
Across from her the door was opening and two more beautiful people were ushered in. The woman wore a long muted gold evening dress which perfectly matched her tan. Her companion was younger than her and very attentive.
‘Someone’s brought dessert with them,’ Rhona said cynically.
‘What?’
Andre turned for a better look.
‘Andre!’
The woman was over in an instant. On closer inspection, Rhona had to admit she was the equal of her companion in the looks stakes.
‘And you, I believe, are Dr MacLeod,’ she held out her hand to Rhona. ‘Dr Lynne Franklin.’
‘ReGene?’
‘That’s right.’ Dr Franklin waved her companion over.
‘I’m so looking forward to your paper tomorrow. I hoped we might get an opportunity to talk together afterwards.’
‘Why don’t you join us?’ Rhona suggested. ‘We could talk now.’
Andre looked less than enthusiastic. Rhona didn’t care. Dr Franklin fluttered for a bit, then agreed.
‘That would be great,’ she said, ‘if Andre doesn’t mind?’
Andre minded but he didn’t have any choice.
The companion, who turned out to be called Jason, sat next to Rhona.
‘What do you think?’ Lynne Franklin smiled across the table at Rhona.
‘I think it’s a great offer.’ Rhona tried to imagine Sean playing saxophone in a Bahamas beach club. Then she remembered what he was likely to be doing right that minute.
‘You don’t have to commit yourself in any way at the moment,’ Lynne Franklin was saying, obviously spotting the change in Rhona’s expression. ‘But I’d sure like you to think about it.’
By the time Lynne Franklin and her escort left, Rhona was thinking about it. Lynne Franklin had put two provisional offers on the table. One, that Rhona come and work for ReGene in their Bahamas division or, alternatively, ReGene fund her current research in Glasgow.
Rhona tried not to indulge in dreams about what the university would do with that money. The earlier Manhattans coupled with the wine at dinner weren’t doing much for her common sense.
Before she left, Dr Franklin kissed Andre on the cheek and said she would see him soon. Andre nodded, although Rhona had a feeling he was glad to see her go.
‘You didn’t mention you knew Dr Franklin.’
‘Neither did you.’
‘I don’t,’ Rhona said. ‘She left her card at the hotel. Said she wanted to meet me. She isn’t another one of your real Scots I hope?’
Andre looked uncomfortable.
Rhona felt bad. Andre had treated her with kindness and hospitality and she was treating him like shit
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Cynicism is part of the Scottish psyche.’
Andre smiled. ‘The part I like best.’
Rhona picked up her bag to avoid meeting his eyes.
‘You want to get back to the hotel?’ he said.
She nodded.
The drive to the hotel was studiously quiet. Sitting in the back, the driver separated from them by a smoked shield, Rhona felt exposed and vulnerable. The revelation that Sean had moved Esther into her flat as soon as she was out of the country had thrown her. She felt used.
Her privacy was something she treasured. It kept her sane. Letting Sean McGuire into her life and into her home had compromised that. And now his actions were threatening her professional life too.
When they drew up outside the hotel, Andre got out of the cab with her.
‘I’d better go up,’ she said.
‘Yeah. Big day tomorrow.’
“Thanks for a great evening.’
‘Sure.’
Rhona stood at the entrance, willing herself to turn away and go in. She didn’t. Andre paid the fare. As he walked towards her, Rhona knew the smallest sign of rejection would be enough.
They crossed the hotel lobby in silence. The lift was open and empty. Standing inside, Andre beside her, Rhona wondered if this was how it was for Sean. The anticipation of someone new, anticipating how different it would be. She thought of the girl’s voice on the phone. She imagined this Esther spreadeagled across her bed, the muscles on Sean’s back flexing as he drove himself into her.
The elevator opened.
She sensed Andre’s eagerness as she fumbled with the keycard.
‘Here, let me.’
He took the card and slipped it in the slot and pushed open the door.
He stepped into the darkness and used the card in the power slot. The lights came on and the air conditioner hummed into action.
She shivered.
‘Want me to turn it off?’
‘Yes.’
He was watching her, waiting for her to decide what would happen next. Whatever it was he would go along with it.
He broke the silence. ‘I’d settle for a drink.’
She wanted to be the one to decide and was irritated by his retreat.
‘If you don’t want to …’ she said sharply.
‘Oh, I want to alright.’ He pulled her towards him. ‘The question is, do you?’
‘I asked you up.’
‘No you didn’t.’ Andre led her to the sofa and pushed her gently down. ‘My guess is something bad happened tonight and you’re thousands of miles from home. I also think one night stands are not really your scene. Not that the sex wouldn’t be great.’
‘Thanks.’
Andre headed for the bar.
‘Maybe another drink isn’t such a good idea,’ Rhona said.
‘We have already agreed not to seduce one another. So another drink won’t matter.’
‘That’s true.’ The way he looked at her at that moment made Rhona wish it wasn’t.
‘I’m mixing a drink,’ he said, ‘because you’re going to need one when I tell you the real reason I wanted to come up here tonight.’
‘So it was nothing to do with sex?’
‘Not unless sex and dismembered limbs go together.’
Chapter 8
The baby munched contentedly on a pancake and jam. Mary in the cafe had waved away Spike’s offer of money.
‘It’s on the house,’ she said. ‘And Tesco has a toilet with a changing mat and free nappies.’
Spike looked down at his charge’s damp trousers. He’d grown used to changing Calum. When his mother got bad, he was the only one who would. He thanked Mary and she winked at him.
‘You’re taking him back home?’
Spike nodded. ‘Half an hour.’
She smiled and went off to the next table.
Spike wiped the dribbling mouth and wondered what the fuck he was doing. If Ma Flintstone realised her son was missing, she would go mad. He would just clean him up and then take him back.
Tesco was busy.
He had to stand in a queue for the family toilet. One of the women waiting gave him a funny look, but he just ignored her. Once inside, he laid the baby on the mat and pulled down the wet trousers.
The disposable nappy had gone lumpy, overwhelmed by the amount of urine it had to deal with. Spike threw it in the bin, stood the child in warm soapy water in the sink and washed his thin wee bum.
Then he laid him on the mat and dried him with a paper towel. His tiny penis was red raw with nappy rash.
Spike looked about for cream. There was a tube on the ledge above the sink that someone had left. He squeezed some and rubbed it over the angry skin. The baby was whimpering now, despite his attempts to be gentle.
He turned him over.
In the strong overhead light, the bruising round the back passage was obvious. Spike almost sobbed as he pressed the nappy shut. The bastard. The fucking bastard.
He put the child’s trousers back on and lifted him against his shoulder, holding him tightly. The whimpering stopped. On his way out he pinched a bar of chocolate and stuffed it in his pocket.
‘Fuck them both,’ he told the kid when he’d turned the corner. He pulled off the paper and handed him the chocolate, which the child grabbed and gnawed at ravenously.
Spike opened the telephone booth and squashed inside. He sat the baby on the ledge while he dialled. Esther answered.
‘I’ll pick you up after the rehearsal,’ he said.
‘Okay.’
‘Esther. We’re not going back to Sean’s.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you,’ he said and rang off.
Now he was for it, he told the baby. Now they would really be looking for him and he didn’t fucking care.
The child grinned back at him, drooling chocolate.
Chapter 9
The buzz of a morning call woke Rhona. She had left the curtains open and the early sun flooded the room with light. For a moment she had no idea where she was, then she remembered and glanced at the other three quarters of the kingsize bed. Empty and unrumpled.