by Pamela Clare
“I’m a veteran of the SAS, for fuck’s sake. If I say I’m bein’ followed, then I’m bein’ followed. Get DS Wilson. No, I dinnae know his division or his station name. He knows what’s goin’ on.”
That seemed to get the dispatcher’s attention. She cautioned Quinn not to evade the other vehicle but instead to drive as if he were oblivious, following her directions to a place where two police cars would intercept the Corsa.
Elizabeth spoke quietly so as not to be overheard by dispatch. “I guess that answers our question.”
It wasn’t the police following them.
The dispatcher guided them along a simple route with a few turns that took them toward the center of the city. “At the light, turn left. Two police cars will come up behind you there.”
Quinn made the turn, the Corsa following. “I see them.”
Elizabeth saw them, too—two police cars, coming up fast behind them, lights flashing blue and white. Then she heard an engine roar. “He’s going to run. Shit!”
The Corsa sped up, flew through the intersection, and disappeared.
Quinn slammed a closed fist against the steering wheel. “Fuckin’ hell!”
One of the police cars sped after the Corsa while the other pulled up behind them.
Elizabeth sympathized with his fury. For Quinn, this wasn’t just about some creep following them. It was about his best friend’s murder.
She tried to offer support, touching a hand to his arm, the contact electric as always. “They might still catch him.”
“We’ll escort you to the police station now,” said a voice from Quinn’s phone.
“Och, hell.” He ended the call. “This is why you dinnae call the police. It’s goin’ to be a long night.”
They followed the other police car to the station, the bright lights making Elizabeth blink. A woman who introduced herself as PC Patel took contact information and a statement from each of them. She also asked to see Elizabeth’s passport. Then she showed them where the coffee was and asked them to wait.
Quinn poured them each a cup, anger and frustration making his features hard. “They’re no’ goin’ to catch that bastard.”
“You don’t have much confidence in the police.”
He met her gaze, and his expression softened, his lips curving in a lopsided grin that sent a trill of excitement shivering through her. “I spent too many years runnin’ from them myself.”
What was it about the way he looked at her? She’d met lots of ripped, handsome men in her years working with special forces guys, but none of them had made her feel the way Quinn did.
She was about to say that she wanted to hear more about his days as a delinquent when a man in a tan trench coat strode toward them looking annoyed.
“Wilson.” Quinn’s dislike for the man was obvious.
“McManus, why am I no’ surprised to see you?”
“Perhaps because the control room told you I was here.” Quinn could be such a smart-ass. “Did you catch the bastard?”
“Let’s talk. Your friend, too.”
He led them to an interview room, a small space with a table and a few chairs. He shut the door behind him—and laid into Quinn. “If you’re after findin’ the person who killed Jack Murray, you’d best think again. This is a police matter.”
“Why in God’s name are you angry wi’ me? I take a woman out to the pub, some bastard follows us, and I’m to blame?”
“By confrontin’ the burglar last night, you’ve drawn unwanted attention to yourself. I want to know where you’ve been today, what you’ve been doin’.”
“You ought to be lookin’ into who’s leakin’ details about this case to the media, not worryin’ about us. Aye, you’ve a leak in this office.”
While the two men argued, Elizabeth watched DS Wilson closely. There was nothing in his body language to indicate that he was hiding something or being less than truthful with Quinn. At the same time, it was clear that he didn’t trust Quinn.
Well, Quinn did have a talent for rubbing people the wrong way.
“Gentlemen!” Elizabeth interrupted them, eager to get back to the hotel and anything that resembled a bed. “While I agree it was stupid for Quinn to enter the house alone with a possible killer inside, that’s water under the bridge. Now, it’s late, and I’m jet lagged. This conversation is going nowhere.”
Both men shut their mouths.
Elizabeth asked the obvious question. “Did they catch the guy who followed us?”
Wilson shook his head. “The driver evaded us long enough to abandon the car on a side road. The car matches one that was stolen in Edinburgh this mornin’.”
Elizabeth gave Quinn’s hand a squeeze to keep him from going off on Wilson again. “Are we free to go?”
Wilson nodded. “Try not to get yourselves killed, aye?”
Quinn drove back to the hotel, glancing in his rearview mirror every so often. “Surveillance cameras? What for? The hotel has security guards and surveillance cameras in the lobby and all the entrances. You can’t use the elevator wi’out a keycard.”
“All of that can be hacked or bypassed. You know that. You’ve seen me do it.”
“You think we’re dealin’ wi’ someone who’s capable of that?”
“I don’t know.” She yawned. “The guy who followed us tonight—he was savvy enough to use a stolen car and to elude the police. What’s his next move? Does he give up, or does he try something different—like putting a listening device in your room?”
“You’re thinkin’ he’ll try to get at me at the hotel.”
But Elizabeth was lost in her own musings and didn’t answer. “I wish I understood his motivation. Was he trying to find out who you are and where you’re staying? Is he trying to keep tabs on you or find out how you’re connected to Jack? Was he hoping to get a second chance at you with that knife?”
“Let him try.” After tonight, Quinn would like a crack at the bastard.
“I’ll do a threat assessment tomorrow.” Elizabeth yawned again. “But if this were a Cobra job, I would insist that we install some kind of surveillance in our rooms. You don’t want to walk in on this guy—or leave yourself open to being bugged.”
None of those possibilities had crossed Quinn’s mind.
That’s why she’s the brains and you’re the brawn.
“I don’t suppose you borrowed any surveillance equipment from Cobra.”
She laughed. “I could get into big trouble for that. We can get what we need from an electronics store in the morning.”
Quinn turned into the car park adjacent to the hotel, keeping an eye on their surroundings as he walked inside with Elizabeth. The lobby was empty, apart from a couple drinking together at the bar.
They rode the lift to the fifth floor.
“Would you like me to clear your room afore you sleep?”
“Sure. Thanks.” She pulled her key card out of her handbag, followed him out of the elevator to her room, and swiped her card.
At the green light, Quinn opened the door, flicked on the light, and stepped inside, wishing once again that he’d thought to bring his Glock.
Elizabeth took off her jacket, tossed it onto the sofa. “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” Quinn cleared the bedroom, her closet, and the bathroom. “You get some sleep and … Lilibet?”
He found her fully clothed and already sound asleep on the bed.
For a moment, he stood there, watching, a strange tenderness swelling in his chest. Then he took a throw blanket from the foot of her bed and draped it over her. “Sleep sweet, Lilibet.”
He turned off the lights and let himself out, checking the door behind him.
Inside his own suite, he walked to the bedroom, reached inside the closet for one of his boots, and pulled out the Glock 42 and holster hidden inside. Twice now, he’d wished he had it with him. He wouldn’t leave it behind again. He couldn’t legally possess or carry it in Scotland, but he’d be damned if he’
d let the killer harm Elizabeth or get a second chance at him.
He checked it—six rounds of .380 hollow-point ammunition in the magazine and one round in the chamber, enough to stop Jack’s killer if it came to it.
Enough to keep Lilibet safe.
Elizabeth woke early the next morning and showered, details from yesterday running through her mind. She’d been so exhausted by the time they’d gotten back to the hotel that she didn’t remember getting into bed. Oh, the joys of jet lag.
She toweled off, blew her hair dry, and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a blue fleece jacket. She didn’t want the hotel’s housekeeping staff entering her suite, so she put out the Do Not Disturb sign and made her own bed. Then she called room service for a pot of coffee and some toast.
While she waited for her breakfast, she unpacked her UK plug adaptor and power converter so that she could hook up her computer. She would be able to create a secure connection with her computer at Cobra, which had the various frameworks and applications she would need for almost anything—tracking cell phones, organizing intelligence, and even cracking encrypted security.
Not that she had any intention of hacking.
By the time her coffee and toast arrived, she was set up and ready to work. Quinn would probably want her to go straight to tracking the SIM and IMEI numbers they’d gotten off that box yesterday, but after last night, her first task was to do a threat assessment for the two of them.
Being followed last night had changed things.
This wasn’t like any threat assessment she’d done before. There were no satellite or communications feeds to analyze, no regional history to study, no cultural or religious forces to consider, and no long list of potential players to complicate matters. There was simply an unsolved murder, the unknown attacker who’d stolen Jack’s laptop, and someone with unknown motives who had followed them in a stolen car.
She nibbled her toast and sipped her coffee, thinking through all she knew about the murder. In the end, it came down to two things—
A knock.
She set down her coffee, walked to her door, and looked out the peephole to see Quinn. She opened the door for him—and had to fight not to stare.
He stood there, looking impossibly sexy in a dark gray cable knit sweater and butter soft jeans, his thick red hair damp, his beard trimmed short, the bruise on his cheek beginning to fade. “Mornin’.”
Seriously? He was one man she couldn’t touch and he just had to show up at her door looking like a Celtic god, all rugged and manly. He even smelled good, damn it, the herbal scent of his soap and shampoo mingling with the salt of his skin.
She struggled for words, pheromones having apparently short-circuited her brain. “Er … good morning.”
He entered, saw her computer. “Hard at work, I see. Have you had breakfast?”
“I’ve had some toast.”
“Och, that’ll no’ get you through the day. It’s time you had a proper fry up.”
“A fry up?”
“A full Scottish. Come. It’s time for a wee bit of culture.”
Elizabeth went with Quinn to the restaurant downstairs. A young man in a white shirt led them to a table, where Quinn ordered breakfast for both of them.
“Coffee, please,” Elizabeth added.
“Tea for me.” Quinn waited until the server had walked away. “You want to get surveillance cameras?”
She nodded. “I started doing a threat assessment for us this morning. Two things stood out for me. The first is that whoever killed Jack is truly dangerous. Jack served in special forces and worked as a security guard, but he died without a fight.”
Quinn’s jaw tightened. “Aye. I cannae fathom it.”
“The second involves the guy who followed us. If Jack’s murder were a random event, what motivation would the thief or thieves have to follow you? Their best bet would be to hole up somewhere, not to chase you through Glasgow.” Elizabeth changed the subject as the server approached with their beverages. “Does it always rain here?”
“Near enough.” Quinn waited until the server had walked away. “You’re thinkin’ there’s more to it.”
“It’s all about motivation.” She tried to explain. “Let’s assume that the killer, the man who broke into Jack and Ava’s house, and the guy who followed us last night are all the same person. If Jack’s murder were random, why would the killer risk being caught just to ransack his house and steal his laptop? He’s looking for something. Why else would he risk a confrontation with police by stealing a car and following his victim’s best friend through town?”
“Criminals are stupid. Trust me on that.”
Elizabeth leaned in. “Does a man who killed an SAS veteran with one slash, rushed you on the stairs, and escaped both you and the police seem stupid?”
Quinn’s brow bent in a frown. “Naw.”
A family of four sat at the table beside theirs, forcing them to talk about other things—sight-seeing, Scottish history, and whether Elizabeth should get herself a proper pair of wellies, which, she learned, were what Americans called rain boots.
“It’s no’ goin’ to stop rainin’, and if we’re out muckin’ about at Dumbarton Castle, you’ll want dry feet, aye?”
“Aye,” Elizabeth said, mimicking his accent to tease him—a small and insufficient way of getting back at him for looking so damned hot.
Then the server brought their food.
“This is a fry up.” Quinn pointed to the different things on her plate. “Sausage, bacon, tomato, black puddin’, tattie scones, grilled mushrooms, beans, and eggs.”
“So, ‘fry up’ is slang for ‘heart attack on a plate’?” The mingled scents made Elizabeth’s mouth water. “What is black pudding?”
“It’s blood sausage.”
Elizabeth stared with revulsion at the two dark patties beside her eggs, her expression seeming to amuse Quinn. “Is there actual blood in it?”
“Aye, pork blood, oats, barley, spices…” He chuckled. “You’ve never heard of blood sausage?”
She couldn’t conceal her revulsion. “Would you like to eat mine?”
“Aye, thanks.” He jabbed the two patties with his fork, shifting them from her plate to his. “You know what this means?”
She shook her head.
He leaned closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “No haggis for you.”
6
Quinn stuck the small camera into place with a strip of adhesive. The hotel’s management wasn’t going to like this, but they would deal with that later. He turned the unit on, pointed the lens toward the door where Elizabeth stood. “Ready.”
She did a little dance to set off the motion detector, her gaze on her phone.
Quinn heard her mobile buzz. “So, it works, does it?”
She smiled. “I’m looking at myself on the screen, so it’s working perfectly.”
If anyone entered their rooms while the cameras were operational, the devices would notify both phones using the hotel’s wireless system and send an image of the intruder to their screens. If the bastard tried to break in while they were in their rooms, Quinn would be ready with the Glock 42.
He hadn’t told Elizabeth he had the pistol. He didn’t want to make her complicit if he was forced to use it and faced prosecution. It was small enough that he could carry it in its holster inside the waistband of his jeans. She need never know it was there.
With cameras in both rooms, Quinn helped Elizabeth set up the white board, watching for the next five minutes while she cleared space for her computer and then arranged her pencils and notebook.
“I’d no idea that intelligence work demanded such precision. Does it make a difference to national security if the pencils point this way instead of that?”
She shot him a look, a smile tugging at her lips. “I like to be organized.”
“Aye, I can see that.”
When she was satisfied, she picked up a dry erase marker and her notebook. “Let’s write down the facts—no g
uessing or assumptions. Just facts.”
Quinn sat on the back of the sofa. “Jack is dead, murdered.”
She turned to the board and began to write.
JACK MURRAY MURDERED — TIME OF DEATH ca. 3 A.M. 2 NOV.
God almighty, had Jack truly been dead for almost a week now? Last Friday at this time, Quinn was in Afghanistan, and Jack was living his last day on this earth.
It didn’t seem real. It wasn’t right.
I’ll find the bastard, Jack, and I’ll make him pay. I swear it.
“We don’t have toxicology tests yet. Who identified the body?” Elizabeth turned, met Quinn’s gaze, stopped.
She set the marker aside, walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around him, her head resting against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Quinn. This won’t be easy for you. I’ll seem like I’m being cold and analytical. I’m probably going to throw out ideas that are upsetting. But I’m here because I care. Don’t forget that.”
Quinn held her, the feel of her precious in his arms. He wasn’t used to accepting comfort from others. For most of his life, physical contact had come in two forms—sex and violence. Her kindness touched him more than he could say. “Thanks.”
She stepped back, looked up at him, sympathy shining through her blue eyes. “You were Jack’s best friend. I never met him. I’m going to do my best to be objective, and you won’t always like it.”
“Fair enough.” He felt an urge to kiss her but knew it would drive her away. He’d always been careful during their wee flirtations not to cross the line. Elizabeth took her work seriously. She wasn’t about to risk her career over a kiss—or a man.
She turned back to the board. “Who identified the body?”
“Ava did.”
Working off her notes, Elizabeth wrote down all the facts they had about Jack’s murder and the events that had followed. “Is that everything? Am I missing something?”
“He rang me.”
“Oh, right! He called on his original phone. When was that?”
Quinn drew his mobile from his pocket, looked at the date on Jack’s message. “He rang on October twenty-eighth. It was almost nineteen-hundred hours in Afghanistan. That’s fourteen-thirty Glasgow time.”