Final Cut

by Lin Anderson

  ‘Harassing her?’ McNab said stiffly.

  There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence.

  ‘You didn’t harass me.’

  ‘Texts, emails, phone calls.’ He shook his head. ‘No wonder you hated me.’

  ‘I never hated you.’

  They fell silent, both wanting to change the subject.

  ‘Did Emma sound afraid of Nick?’ said Rhona, eventually.

  McNab thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘On the contrary, I got the impression she liked him.’

  The extra forensic help consisted of Chrissy. Rhona was over the moon to see her auburn head emerge from the van half an hour after McNab’s departure.

  ‘Wondered where you’d disappeared off to,’ scolded Chrissy.

  ‘You weren’t at the lab to tell,’ Rhona replied.

  Her assistant patted her bulge. ‘Antenatal appointment.’

  ‘This wouldn’t be a good place to go into labour.’

  ‘Stop worrying, I’ve got three weeks yet. I predict the ninth of January. D’you want to place a bet?’

  ‘With a known cheat? No way.’

  They began upstairs in Claire’s room. Rhona and McNab had laid treads when they first entered. They were set a little wide apart for Chrissy, who was making a meal of negotiating them. She finally settled to spraying the carpet with luminol, trying to pick up footprints in the blood.

  ‘Apparently when Slater found out about the underwater search team he went ballistic. I hope for McNab’s sake they found something in that loch.’ She threw Rhona a look, her eyebrows perfectly poised above the mask.

  Rhona shook her head.

  ‘The kid was playing you along?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘God, I hope I don’t have one like that. Or one like any of my brothers.’ Chrissy looked worried.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You’ll have a boy and he’ll be like Sam.’

  ‘Sam’s back in Nigeria. Lagos.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He phoned me. I’m going to visit him there after the baby’s born.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Rhona knew all about the Suleimans and their vendetta against Sam. Since Sam had been instrumental in the African case last year, rescuing a child the Suleiman family had abducted, he had been in hiding from their henchmen and the police force here. Sean had gone with Sam to London. She didn’t ask about Sean, but Chrissy told her anyway.

  ‘Sean’s back in Glasgow.’

  Rhona said nothing, but she could feel her heart begin to race. It had to happen some time. Sean’s life and work were in Glasgow. She knew he wouldn’t stay in London for ever.

  ‘He’s been sleeping at the Jazz Club the last couple of nights. He didn’t think he’d be welcome at the flat.’

  ‘He’s right.’

  ‘Rhona …’

  ‘Leave it, Chrissy.’

  Chrissy turned away. Rhona was sorry for her harsh words. The mess between herself and Sean wasn’t Chrissy’s fault. She might have an idea what had prompted the break-up, but Rhona had never discussed it with her. The nearest she’d come to talking to anyone about it was with McNab, and she regretted even that now. Talking about bad things only made you remember them more. She would have to face Sean some time, just not yet.

  Despite the weather and the hastening darkness, McNab had made a brief attempt at searching for tracks around the cottage before heading back to the city. He’d found nothing except the criss-crossing of animals, mostly sheep. They would have to take a closer look in daylight.

  Rhona checked the snowfall from the window. If the wind got up they might have a problem getting out. She decided to call it a day. Their extensive search of the cottage had revealed little more than they’d gleaned in the first instance – a few spots of blood in the kitchen, a partial imprint in blood in Claire’s room. Chrissy had picked up lots of prints, but none round the access window. They’d bagged everything they could take away that might provide trace evidence of the intruder.

  ‘A cup of something hot before we set out?’

  Chrissy read that as a peace offering. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘You’re always starving. You should bring sandwiches.’

  ‘We could try for a chippy on the way back?’

  ‘Don’t we always?’

  Rhona boiled the kettle and made a pot of tea. The cottage was freezing. A thermometer hanging on the wall near the back door hovered just above zero. If it was that cold in here, God knows what it was like outside. Rhona heard the toilet flush again. Chrissy hadn’t been able to go until they’d processed the room. Now she was making the most of it.

  Rhona poured two mugs and checked the fridge for milk. The shelves were well stocked. Now that the groundwork was over, Rhona reminded herself of the real reason they were here. Something bad had happened, by accident or intent. She remembered Emma’s intense little face, her conviction that there was another body. It wasn’t unknown for a young child to hallucinate when dealing with intense stress. Abducted children often imagined scenarios to deal with the situation, often so powerfully that they came to believe them to be real. Perhaps Emma really needed psychological help.

  Magnus! She should call Magnus and tell him what had happened. Maybe Emma had revealed something to him that might throw a light on her disappearance.

  ‘Any sugar?’ Chrissy was back from the toilet.

  ‘Try the cupboard.’

  Chrissy fished about and emerged with a packet of icing sugar.

  ‘You’re not putting that in your tea?’

  ‘It’s the same stuff, just ground down a bit.’ She helped herself to two large spoonfuls.

  ‘We’d better make this quick or we might get snowed in,’ Rhona said.

  ‘I saw myself with my feet up in front of the telly on Christmas Eve, not stuck in a cottage miles from anywhere.’

  ‘You could come back with me, make a night of it.’

  ‘And watch you getting pissed on glasses of fine wine, while I drink orange juice?’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  ‘OK, but don’t expect me to produce a present for you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Hey, I’ve got one for you.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Only joking, but I have bought something for the baby.’

  ‘You have?’ Chrissy’s eyes lit up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m not telling you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Rhona wished she’d never mentioned it. ‘If you torment me, you won’t get it,’ she warned.

  ‘You’d deprive my poor baby because I’m a pain in the neck?’

  There was no answer to that one.

  They drew the bolt on the front door and exited by the back. There was no back-door key but Rhona hoped that the police tape across both doors would dissuade any casual visitors.

  The wind had picked up, whipping the snow in their faces. It would be difficult driving in this.

  ‘You lead, I’ll follow,’ Chrissy said sweetly.

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  34

  Rhona turned the heater on full blast. It was the first time she’d felt warm since she’d climbed out of the car at the cottage. She’d tried to act blasé when Chrissy had voiced some concern about getting stuck down here. The truth was she’d had the same thought. If they managed to negotiate the track and reach the main road then all would be well. But if not … ?

  She considered the alternatives; a trek to the farmhouse or holing up in the cottage. To be truthful, she wasn’t sure in which direction the main farm lay. No doubt there was a sign somewhere on the road.

  She switched the wipers to a higher setting. Chrissy had dipped her headlights but each time they went over a bump Rhona was still blinded by their reflection in her rear-view mirror. That, coupled with the whirling snow, meant she was having real difficulty seeing where she was going.

  She slowed down even further, causing Chrissy to sound the horn in alarm. Rhona pee
red out through the windscreen. Snow blown from the right-hand field had built up against the opposite bank, creating a mini-drift. She put her foot down and heard the wheels attempt to get a grip on the powdery surface. The car moved forward three feet then stopped. She revved the engine and re-engaged, this time in first gear. The wheels whirred but got no traction, so she pulled on the brake and climbed out to take a look.

  The drift was higher and deeper than she’d first thought. She went back to the car and opened the boot, and Chrissy came to join her.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of trowels. We can try and dig our way through with them.’ Rhona had to raise her voice against the wind.

  ‘We need a shovel.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t got one.’

  ‘Says who?’

  Chrissy headed back to her car and appeared carrying a shovel. ‘Part of my emergency getting-to-hospital-in-a-snowstorm pack.’

  Rhona could have kissed her. ‘What else do you have in the boot?’

  ‘My overnight bag in case I get caught short, and stuff for the baby.’

  ‘You’re amazing.’

  ‘I know.’

  Chrissy looked frozen. ‘Get back in the car,’ said Rhona. ‘I’ll sound the horn when I’m ready to move off.’

  She began clearing the road. The snow was soft and light, which explained why it was travelling so well on the wind. Five minutes later she had cleared a way through.

  She sounded the horn and Chrissy flashed her lights in response. The next section of track had little snow covering, protected as it was between two high banks. She was beginning to think they might make the main road after all when she turned a corner and ran straight into another drift.

  Her abrupt halt brought Chrissy to within inches of her. If this kept happening it would take for ever to reach the turn-off. She could dig a way through and try to keep going, but there was no guarantee they would make the road in the worsening weather. The farther they got away from the safety of the cottage, the harder it would be to make their way back there.

  The cottage had food and water, and heating if they lit the fire. She could call McNab and let him know what had happened. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d spent the entire night at a crime scene, and at least on this occasion they wouldn’t be working. Rhona headed for Chrissy’s car to give her the good news.

  ‘I think we should go back. The weather’s getting worse and we’d be safer at the cottage.’

  ‘Walking?’

  ‘There’s no way we’ll get turned.’

  ‘OK, but I want to take my overnight bag.’

  ‘All right, but I’ll carry it.’

  Rhona suggested they don forensic suits and boots over their clothes to keep them dry. God knew what they looked like, Rhona carrying Chrissy’s bag, the small intense beams of two forensic torches shining the way.

  Battling against the wind with the snow swirling in their faces, they could hardly see a foot in front of them. Had it not been for the fence wire on either side, they might easily have ended up in a field. The cold was working its way through Rhona’s forensic suit and all subsequent layers. If they were out in this for much longer there was a real danger of hypothermia.

  Chrissy had said nothing for the last half-hour, except for uttering the occasional curse when she’d slipped or had to fight doubly hard against the wind. Rhona was beginning to doubt whether leaving the car had been the right decision after all. They could have bundled up together, kept each other warm and sat out the worst of the storm.

  Chrissy had resisted any attempts to help her by taking her arm. She must be tired by now. Rhona shot her a worried look, but could make out only the shadowy form of the suit and the curve of her cheek in the thickly falling snow.

  ‘Not far now,’ she heard herself say, although she had no idea how true that was.

  ‘I’m definitely going to Lagos after this.’

  They were nearly on the cottage before they saw it.

  ‘My God!’ exclaimed Chrissy. Drifting snow had piled up against the walls, almost to the windows in some places.

  ‘Come on.’

  The fought their way round the back. Rhona’s frozen fingers struggled to turn the handle, then they were tumbling in, desperate to get out of the wind. She closed the door and slid the bolt. The sudden silence left them shouting at one another.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Chrissy always favoured religious curses when things got really bad.

  ‘That’s what Bill would have said.’

  ‘Good Catholics know how to blaspheme. What would a Protestant like yourself say in such circumstances?’

  ‘Bloody hell?’

  Chrissy shook the snow from her body. ‘Not in the same league. You light the fire,’ she ordered. ‘I’m going to find food.’

  There was kindling in a basket and a small supply of cut logs. There would be more in the woodshed, but that would mean going outside again. Rhona decided it was better to do it now before she took off her suit.

  Thankfully the shed was only yards away, otherwise she would have been crawling there. She filled a basket and unloaded it just inside the back door, then went for a second load, determined to make sure there was enough to last them through the night.

  She set and lit the fire, stacking the remaining logs near by. They would sleep here in the sitting room. There were a couple of small couches, a bit cramped but better than the back seat of a car. They just needed something to cover them. She eventually found a couple of blankets in a linen cupboard under the stairs. When she returned to the sitting room the fire had caught and was burning well. Already the air temperature had risen. Rhona went in search of Chrissy and found her putting a casserole dish in the microwave.

  ‘There’s loads of cooked stuff in the freezer, so we won’t starve.’ Chrissy nodded at the range. ‘I don’t understand why that’s not on. Any idea where the oil tank is?’

  ‘Near the back door.’

  ‘I’ll take a look.’

  ‘Chrissy,’ Rhona warned, but Chrissy was already pulling on a coat she’d found somewhere. She was gone only minutes.

  ‘There’s plenty of oil. Probably the wind blew out the pilot light.’

  She reached for a nearby box of matches, knelt down and opened the left-hand door.

  ‘Are you sure you should be on your knees like that?’

  There was a grunting sound then Rhona heard a pop followed by a small roar.

  Chrissy pulled herself groaning to her feet just as the microwave pinged behind her. ‘Right, a quick stir then in again for a further five minutes and dinner is served.’

  They carried their plates through to the sitting room.

  ‘I hope Claire doesn’t mind us eating her food.’ Chrissy’s remark brought them both up short.

  ‘I think they both left this place alive,’ said Rhona. ‘We’ve done enough to know that.’

  There hadn’t been sufficient blood to suggest a fatal wound, and no evidence that Emma had been hurt. Until it was proved otherwise, they had to believe that Claire and her daughter were alive.

  ‘You need a stiff drink,’ Chrissy declared. ‘There’s a couple of bottles of red in the cupboard. I’ll have to make do with tea.’ She gave a long-suffering sigh and headed for the kitchen to fetch the wine.

  After consuming two large plates of food, Chrissy stretched out and fell fast asleep on the sofa. Rhona was relieved to see that her white, strained look was gone, replaced by two round rosy cheeks. She took the plates through to the kitchen then tried her phone again. There was still no signal. The phone in the hall gave her a dead tone, so it looked as if the wind had brought a line down somewhere. There would be no contact with McNab or anyone else tonight. She would just have to make herself comfortable until the storm blew itself out and she could walk to the farm.

  She fed the fire and lay down herself. Now that they were enclosed within the thick walls, the howling of the wind had become a distant murmur. Rhona closed her eyes, allowing the s
teady tick of the clock and the hiss and crackle of the fire to lull her into sleep.

  35

  McNab pulled up in front of the Russian Restaurant. He was on a double yellow line, though you couldn’t see it for grey slush. He glanced at his watch. There would be no parking attendants around at this time, especially on Christmas Eve.

  He glanced in at the steamed-up windows, feeling like Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol. The place was packed with what looked like office parties. Boozy faces under paper hats. McNab wished he was one of them. He could do with getting drunk and disorderly. The way things were going he would finish late, pick up a chippie or a pizza and drown his sorrows at home. Merry Christmas.

  Slater had left him in no doubt that he would be going the way of his DI if he fucked up again. McNab had had no business ordering an underwater team out on Christmas Eve, or swanning off to the middle of nowhere when he had been given a very precise order to visit the Russian Restaurant and find out who the hell the dead guy in the skip was. The job was his because it was a crap one and it was Christmas Eve and he had pissed off his new boss with some fancy fairy tale about voices in a wee girl’s head.

  McNab pushed open the door and the fug hit him. No cigarette smoke now, just heat, a babble of voices and a multitude of food aromas. A young woman with jet-black hair and eyes like blackened saucers shook her head, rattling her long red earrings at him.

  ‘I’m sorry. We’re fully booked.’

  McNab flashed his photo ID at her. ‘Police. Is the boss in?’

  She looked perturbed. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘Well, can you call him out here please. I would like to speak to him.’

  ‘We’re really busy …’

  A shriek of laughter erupted at a nearby table.

  ‘Just get him.’

  Black-eyes went in search of her boss. McNab waved to another girl behind the bar and asked for a Famous Grouse.

  ‘Can I tempt you to a vodka instead? We do all kinds.’

  He cut her short. ‘Whisky’ll do fine.’

  A tall, slim, broad-shouldered guy emerged from behind swing-doors and walked purposefully towards him.

  ‘DS McNab,’ he said, flashing his badge once more.

  ‘Ah, Rhona said to expect a visit from the police, but not on Christmas Eve. I am Mikhail Grigorovitch.’