by Lin Anderson
Rhona didn’t know whether to be glad or sad.
Reaching for her mobile, she checked her voice mail for a message from Andre. Nothing. She pulled out her diary and rang the mobile number he’d given her. The hum of the phone was immediately replaced by an American drawl. Could the caller please leave a message…
As she stepped out of the shower, room service arrived with breakfast. Tucked beside the coffee pot was another card from Lynne Franklin wishing her well for the conference. Unfortunately, an urgent business matter had come up and she couldn’t be there to hear Rhona’s paper. However, she would certainly be in touch about funding on Rhona’s return to Scotland.
So she was hot property?
Rhona poured her coffee and allowed herself a moment’s pleasure at the thought of announcing this at the next meeting of the university finance committee, then she put it firmly out of her head.
Like Andre’s revelation, it would have to be put on hold until she got back to Glasgow.
The black limousine wound its way effortlessly through the Santa Monica traffic. If car horns were honking at their assertive progress, the noise didn’t penetrate the peaceful interior.
When reception had rung to tell her the car was there, Rhona had assumed it was the standard cab organised to take her to the conference. How wrong she was.
Rhona examined the luxurious interior, glad the smoked-glass windows allowed her to look out but not the general public to look in. She could imagine what Chrissy would have to say about her new found status. Fur coat and no knickers. In Glasgow that would be an insult, here it was probably true of everyone who rode in this limo, Rhona decided. Somehow the common sense and grey solidity of Glasgow belonged to another world.
Rhona sat back in the soft leather seat and tried not to be irritated by Lynne Franklin’s obvious attempts to buy her. Whatever Andre had revealed last night, he could not be drawn on her. ReGene, he assured her, was a legitimate company. Lynne was in a position to offer Rhona funding. She should consider the offer.
Rhona had been seconds away from asking Andre if there was something between him and Lynne Franklin, but the look on his face had been enough to stop her.
Outside her cool cocoon, the freeway traffic was snaking in eight lanes above the hot dusty sprawl of LA. With confidence, the limo crossed the freeway taking its rightful place in the fast lane, sweeping all protesters aside. Rhona tried not to think about an armed driver in a spurned car taking umbrage at such arrogance.
The internal phone rang five minutes later. The driver’s eyes in the rear mirror signalled that it must be for her. Rhona picked it up.
‘Rhona?’
‘Andre. I thought you said …’
‘Listen, Rhona. Tell the driver to turn round and take you back to the hotel.’
‘What?’
‘Tell him to get off the freeway and go back the coast road.’
‘But what about the conference?’
‘Postponed.’
‘Postponed? But…’
The tone of Andre’s voice shut her up. ‘A bomb went off just before nine,’ he said.
‘Oh my God.’
‘They’ve cleared the building and cancelled today’s proceedings. It’s chaos down here. Once you get caught up in it you’ll never get out. Give the driver the phone.’
Rhona handed the phone over and watched his impassive face as he took Andre’s directions. He handed the phone back.
‘I’ll meet you back at the hotel,’ Andre said.
‘Are you alright?’ Rhona asked.
‘Sure. I’ll see you later.’
Rhona put the phone down. The comfortable interior of the limousine didn’t seem so safe anymore. A car moved alongside, sitting window to window with them. The backseat passenger turned to look at her car. The tartan regalia was gone, the hair tied back in a neat ponytail, but the eyes of the Jacobite warrior were the same uncompromising blue.
The crowd of protesters spilled round the corner of her hotel and onto Third Street. The driver must have spotted the placards before Rhona because he was already making a left swerve in front of the oncoming traffic and trying to head back up Santa Monica Boulevard. The power of the limo was of little use in the sudden rush to move in the other direction. The driver turned to Rhona.
‘You’d better get out.’
‘What?’
He had stopped trying to merge into the stubborn stream of traffic that led from the demonstration and had pulled onto the pavement instead.
‘You’ll be safer out of the car, ma’am.’
Vehicle after vehicle had stopped at the sight of the protesters and was turning away, trying to escape up the boulevard or down the side streets. They weren’t having any luck either.
‘Those people,’ he gestured behind them, ‘are Pro-Lifers and they know this car.’
He was right.
A girl with long red hair was already pointing in their direction and screaming with delight. A boy joined her, the words Genetic Pigs jumping above his head as he ran.
The driver’s expression was no longer impassive.
‘Please, ma’am.’
‘What about you?’
‘They don’t care about me,’ he told her. ‘It’s delegates they’re after.’ He sprung the door for her and the noise and heat flooded in.
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded and moved into drive. As the limo jumped forward, a placard flew against the far side.
‘Go!’
She did. The bookshop was six steps away across the sidewalk. Rhona made it in two. About twenty protesters were running through the stationary traffic, ignoring the honking horns, jumping over bonnets. They reached the driver’s side as Rhona flung open the door of the shop. The girl at the counter was already on the 911 call.
The protesters couldn’t see the driver, but they knew he was there. The big engine was purring away, ready to go, given half a chance. It wasn’t going to get it.
Two protesters jumped on the roof, two on the bonnet. A girl arrived with a plastic container and passed it to a guy on the bonnet. Red stuff flew at the windscreen, slithering down, a mess of entrails and blood. They were wrenching at the door handles now, but the limo didn’t like unwelcome visitors and it sure as hell wasn’t going to open against its will. The windscreen wipers flew at the blood, whipping it back in the faces of the protesters before someone snapped them off and flung them into the crowd.
Now they were hammering at the windows. Rhona stood in the middle of the bookstore crowd and watched in fascination as the limo began to rock to and fro.
Then they heard loudspeakers and the noise of police helicopters. Some of the crowd looked up, shouting abuse at the sky. A line of riot police was moving towards the protesters from the direction of Rhona’s hotel.
But the driver wasn’t waiting for the police.
The sidewalk was clear of pedestrians and the limo took it, moving from zero to forty in seconds. The bodies on the roof were the first to go. The girl on the bonnet hung on longer but the limo was on its way.
Rhona almost cheered with relief.
‘Hey!’ The girl on the counter was talking to her. ‘Someone might have seen you come in.’ She pointed to the back of the shop. ‘There’s a fire escape over there.’
Rhona thanked her and pushed her way through the gaping crowd, opened the fire door and looked out. Everything was quiet. She exited and headed for the daylight at the end of the dark alleyway.
Genetic pigs. Jesus. The whole thing was ridiculous. Rhona was used to stalkers and criminals who blamed her for putting them away, but she had never before been targeted by people who advocated life over death.
Chapter 10
Chrissy held DI Wilson’s gaze, her sharp eyes unwavering.
They could say what they liked about Glasgow hard men, Glasgow hard women were much worse.
‘Okay. Okay,’ he conceded. ‘As far as I know the MOD have the foot and the samples.’
‘Why?
’
‘That, I don’t know.’
It looked like the truth, but Chrissy wasn’t one to give in easily.
‘A number of people have come forward to be tested in case the body is a missing relative.’ Chrissy waited. ‘Dr MacLeod instructed me to test their DNA.’
Still no answer.
‘I’ve been told to wait,’ she said. ‘Why?’
Bill shook his head. ‘Orders from above.’
That was just the answer to really piss Chrissy off.
‘Who is this missing body?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Must be somebody special to have the MOD pinching his foot.’
Silence.
‘Christ, Bill. You know how Rhona hates the cloak and dagger stuff.’
‘Look, Chrissy, I don’t know any more than you about it.’
Chrissy could tell she was wasting her time. Bill Wilson had the look of man turned mule.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Rhona touches down at two o’clock. You can tell her that yourself.’
The lab phone ended the conversation, not that it was going anywhere anyway. Chrissy lifted the receiver sharply and briskly interrogated the caller, her flushed face paling and then reddening again as she listened.
‘Seems whoever this guy is, he’s anxious to get back on dry land,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Your office.’ She held out the receiver. ‘A Skye woman out walking her dog on Rigg beach found a hand in a rock pool.’
As the plane made its last sweep over Ayrshire, Rhona forced herself to view Scotland from above. After the vastness of California, the smallness of her homeland seemed a pleasure.
Wee houses, wee roads, wee fields. Wee, solid, dependable. And cold. Already her fellow passengers were pulling on jumpers and jackets. Rhona joined them. She never thought she would be pleased to be cold again.
She closed her eyes as they touched down and said a silent prayer to whatever deity was listening. When she pulled her briefcase from the rack it still held the undelivered academic paper. Not wholly undelivered. Locked in secrecy in a small hotel in the Californian mountains, she and the other delegates had talked to one another behind closed doors. The Californian state authorities were not anxious for another demonstration of the size of the one against the World Trade Organisation in Seattle. The US might be happy to talk all things genetic, including genetic bombs and cloning, they just didn’t want to do it in public anymore.
Rhona thought about the flat and bed then decided against it. Who’s been sleeping in my bed? was the phrase that made up her mind.
A driver was waiting for her in the arrivals lounge, a big sign with Dr MacLeod on it in front of his chest.
Rhona had told Chrissy she would touch down at two o’clock. A good following wind had landed them early. She found her mobile at the bottom of her bag and rang the lab. Even the sound of the ring made her feel at home.
‘Chrissy?’ she said. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘Hey, you’re early. There’ll be no one there to pick you up yet.’
‘There is.’
‘Old George on the door was organising it. He’s missed you.’
‘Nice to know someone has.’
Rhona asked the driver to take a run past the jazz club. It wasn’t exactly on the way and he didn’t look that keen, but Rhona insisted. If Esther was still singing the blues, that meant Sean was still screwing her.
If he ever was, a small voice suggested. Rhona ignored it.
The club was in darkness. Not the darkness of two o’clock in the afternoon. The darkness of Closed Until Further Notice.
‘Stop the car,’ she told the driver.
‘But…’
‘I said stop the car.’
They pulled in behind what was definitely a CID car. Across the entrance hung the familiar yellow tape signalling an incident. Rhona ignored the protestations of the driver and dipped under the tape. Just inside the door, the constable on duty recognised her and looked embarrassed. Before he could answer her questions, a face appeared at the top of the stairs. It was the last face Rhona wanted to see.
‘Dr MacLeod. Nice to have you back.’ Detective Sergeant Dominic O’Brien was lying of course, although you would never have guessed it from the smooth smile and bright eyes.
‘What’s going on here?’ Rhona asked, already knowing the answer. If O’Brien was here, drugs was the word.
‘A drugs bust,’ he said, the smile never leaving his face. ‘Seems the owner of this little establishment’s been partying a bit too hard.’
He waited for Rhona to say something. She didn’t, so he went on. ‘We got a tip off that drugs were being dealt on the premises. We followed it up and found a young woman out of her mind in the toilets, along with a quantity of amphetamine powder and ecstasy tablets.’
Rhona willed her face immobile. O’Brien was disappointed. Heavy news like that shouldn’t go unmarked.
‘So,’ he paused, saving the best bit for the end, ‘We brought Mr Sean McGuire in for questioning and found our man has more talents than playing the saxophone.’
Our man.
Bastard. Ever since Rhona had turned down O’Brien’s drunken prick at a police ball he’d been anxious to show her just the sort of a man she’d missed out on.
Rhona kept her face impassive to piss him off.
It worked. O’Brien was running out of sarcasm. “The place is shut until further notice,’ he said.
‘The girl?’ Rhona said.
‘What?’
‘What happened to the girl?’
‘Aw,’ Sergeant O’Brien was losing interest, ‘they took her to the local psycho ward.’
Rhona got back in the car. She was so busy seething at this latest development, she missed the fact they were on the wrong road. When she did, she banged on the glass partition and demanded to know what the hell was going on. The driver didn’t answer.
They were coming up West George Street. For a moment Rhona thought she was being taken to Strathclyde Police Headquarters in Pitt Street, but the car didn’t take a left. It kept on up the hill to Blythswood Square, where it drew up outside number five. Rhona recognised the rounded arch. The building wasn’t open to the public but people came to view the Charles Rennie Mackintosh door.
The driver never got a chance to press the brass doorbell. The door was opened immediately by a man in a formal black suit and tie. He ushered her inside. The hall was panelled in polished wood, the floor a chessboard black and white marble. She followed him through a set of double doors into a room lit by long windows that looked out over the green of the central square. A suave man in his mid-fifties stood beside an imposing fireplace. His hair was iron grey, his eyes intelligent and appraising.
He came towards her, hand outstretched. ‘Dr MacLeod,’ he said, “Thank you for coming.’
‘I didn’t come by choice. I came because the driver brought me.’
‘I apologise for that. It was necessary to speak with you as soon as you got back from America.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Andrew Phillips. I’m with the Ministry of Defence.’ He headed for the drinks cabinet. ‘Can I offer you a drink? Whisky?’ He poured some into a cut-crystal glass and gave it to her. ‘We’ve called you here …’
‘Is that the Royal We?’
He smiled, but she caught the irritation in his eyes.
‘The MOD has an interest in a case you’ve been working on.’
He looked at her as if she might comment.
Rhona decided to let her brain work and keep her mouth shut. The suit would have to do all the talking.
‘The foot you sampled?’ He took a mouthful of his own whisky. ‘We have reason to believe it may have come from someone …’
‘Dr Fitzgerald MacAulay.’
She never expected him to be thrown. A raised eyebrow perhaps, nothing more. How wrong she was. Even people like him had hearts, because she could see th
e pulse from his beating rather quickly below his right eye.
The polished voice became more clipped. ‘I must ask you, Dr MacLeod, what it is you know about Dr MacAulay?’
It was too late to backtrack now. She tried to look nonchalant.
‘His name came up at the conference in relation to genetic engineering,’ she paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘Rumour has it he came to this country, gave up his work and disappeared.’ She was running out of ideas. ‘It was a poor attempt at a joke after that,’ she apologised.
Phillips looked mollified, but only slightly.
‘A Dr MacAulay did come here from America some years ago to work for us.’
She finished his sentence again. ‘At Porton Down.’
‘Yes. However, Dr MacAulay left our employ soon after arriving … through ill health.’ His lip curled in distaste. ‘We lost touch with him for a variety of reasons.’
‘Incompetence being one of them?’
The polite mask was slipping. Behind it was something rather different.
‘Look’ she explained, ‘I’ve just arrived back from Los Angeles. My head feels as though I’ve been travelling the wrong way round the world for twelve hours so I probably have jet lag. Could you just tell me why I’m here?’
She had to sit down. Her legs felt like water. She made for the nearest chair.
‘Dr MacLeod.’
Her name, Rhona decided, seemed to be acquiring a threadbare status. Either that, or she was going deaf. Phillips’ mouth was moving but she had no idea what he was saying.
She wondered for a moment if this was a dream. She decided she didn’t care anyway. In fact, she felt positively relaxed about it all, even when she felt the cold splash of whisky on her legs and heard the crystal smash on the fancy marble floor.
Chapter 11
Spike had been at the corner when he spotted the police car and ambulance parked outside the jazz club.
The ambulance could be for anybody, he told himself. One of the old cleaning women had probably had a heart attack. Or with a bit of luck, that bastard of a doorman that hadn’t let him in to watch Esther sing. But the ambulance wasn’t there for either of them. Spike knew it wasn’t.