by Lin Anderson
Female laughter from a nearby booth halted McNab’s attack. Was that Ellie? He rose and, slipping into the aisle, took a look.
She was seated two booths down, Baldy opposite. The bastard looked very comfortable and keen. Ignoring the warning voice in his head, McNab decided to go with the hot-blooded approach.
‘Hi, Ellie. Thought I heard your voice.’
She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Michael.’
McNab almost flipped when he read her face. A mixture of embarrassment, discomfort and defiance.
Baldy, on the other hand, was observing him with extreme annoyance, like he’d been stopped in the sex act just prior to climax. It was an image McNab didn’t relish.
‘Your new friend here,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Did he tell you about himself? Like, the fact he’s been charged with stalking?’
When Ellie’s face fell, McNab knew he’d fucked up, but he still couldn’t stop himself. ‘Dating a detective is crap, but dating the folk a detective is looking for is the bigger shite by far.’
Turning on his heel, McNab returned to his table, but did not resume his seat. The truth was he’d had enough of DI Cleverly’s face too.
‘We’re over, Cleverly. Go suck blood somewhere else.’
McNab made for the door. Was it the whisky or jealousy or just plain being a detective who’d read too many situations and people and found them wanting?
At that moment he didn’t give a damn.
22
‘So what’s going on?’ Chrissy wore her intense look. ‘Between you and Sean?’
‘Nothing,’ Rhona said, because it was true. She hadn’t seen him since he’d left for work in the eye of the storm.
Chrissy eyed Rhona in her inimitable fashion. ‘I suggest you seek the Irishman out and make contact.’
Rhona was about to say no, but since they’d established Sean was on the premises, and it only involved a short walk to his office . . .
‘Anything to get you off my case,’ she said with a smile.
How many times had she walked this corridor since she’d met the Irishman with the blue eyes and the ability to play her the way he teased sweet music from his saxophone?
She recalled one instance, back when Sean had had a brush with the law because of a girl Chrissy was convinced was dealing drugs on the jazz club premises. Her suspicions had proved false in the end, but Rhona remembered how she’d initially been more freaked by the thought that Sean and the girl had been having sex than by the drugs angle.
All in the past, she reminded herself.
As she approached the door, she heard Sean’s raised voice. Was someone in the office with him?
She hesitated before easing the door open, only to discover Sean alone, phone anchored to his ear, his normally easy-going look transplanted by one of fierce annoyance.
‘Fuck off, then,’ were his last words before he slammed the receiver down.
‘Rhona,’ he said, coming towards her, his expression suddenly transformed into one of pleasure. ‘You’re back.’
‘I am.’
Sean enveloped her in his arms. ‘How was Orkney?’
‘How did you know where I’d gone?’ she said.
‘It was on the news and in the papers. Forensic team visit the ghost ship Orlova, wrecked off the west coast of Orkney. Something about a bloodbath aboard?’ Sean was reading her expression. ‘Apparently I have the tabloid version. Are you planning on telling me the real story?’
‘I attended a crime scene on board the Orlova. That’s all I’m willing to say,’ she told him with a smile.
He kissed her. ‘Good. I’d rather talk of other things.’
‘Like what your Mr Angry phone call was about?’ Rhona tried.
Sean pulled a face. ‘Club matters. Like you, that’s all I’m willing to say. Are you sticking around for a while?’ he added hopefully.
‘I have to work tonight,’ Rhona said. ‘Catch up on my report from Orkney.’
‘Okay,’ he said, slowly releasing her. ‘I’ll await your command. Until then, I too have work to do.’
Rhona retreated, although she was unconvinced by Sean’s brush-off regarding the phone call since he rarely, if ever, lost his cool regarding anything, including being turned down by her.
‘What’s up?’ Chrissy said on her return.
‘Nothing,’ Rhona assured her with a smile.
Accepting this, Chrissy changed the subject. ‘I hear a detective from the Met was at the autopsy on the fire victim?’
‘Your army of spies were right. McNab brought along a DI Cleverly. Although they did not look the best of pals,’ Rhona added.
‘Know why?’ Chrissy said.
‘No, but I guess you’re going to tell me?’ Rhona said, catching the glint in Chrissy’s eye.
‘Cleverly was part of the safe-house team, when McNab did a runner. He told Janice that Cleverly was an arse.’
Now the scene in the mortuary began to make sense.
‘I’d assumed he didn’t like the Met getting involved with our fire case, but then again, we work with their officers all the time.’
‘Janice says it’s all take and no give on this one.’ Chrissy sipped her drink. ‘The boss doesn’t like it either. He sent McNab to the airport to pick up Cleverly, to try and get the real story out of him.’
Rhona contemplated this. ‘Cleverly wants digital reconstruction so the face is recognizable, but if they already have a possible identity via the credit cards and dental records, surely they would be pursuing that first?’
Chrissy assumed a thoughtful expression. ‘Something smells in all of this and it isn’t fried chicken,’ she said. ‘And look who’s here to tell us all about it.’
Chrissy’s face broke into a grin as McNab approached, although his expression did not match her own. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge them until he’d ordered and received his drink.
‘Whisky,’ Chrissy said as he sampled it. ‘Tough day?’
The icy look McNab threw her made her step back for effect. ‘Wow, that bad?’
‘That bad,’ McNab agreed, pushing his glass over for a refill.
‘Easy, partner,’ Chrissy said. ‘We need the story before you start slurring your words.’
‘Has he gone?’ Rhona said, drawing the conversation back to its obvious target.
‘No. He’s staying over. Back in the morning, apparently.’
Chrissy glanced swiftly at the door. ‘You didn’t bring him here, did you?’
McNab shook his head. ‘No chance, although I did have to eat with him.’
‘So tell all,’ Chrissy demanded.
‘He used to have a girlfriend who lived near you.’ He motioned to Rhona. ‘She dumped him and he’s not been back to Glasgow since.’
‘That’s it?’ Chrissy said accusingly. ‘That’s all you got out of him?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Now we know why you’re so pissed off.’
McNab ignored that and turned to Rhona. ‘How does Go Wild feature in your ghost ship story?’
‘It was me who discovered that,’ Chrissy broke in. ‘Or at least it was Ava who gave me the idea.’
‘Ava who?’ McNab demanded.
‘Ava Clouston, an investigative journalist, home for the moment in Orkney.’ Rhona brought him up to date on what Ava had discovered about the ownership of the MV Orlova.
‘So Go Wild is a lead on both stories.’ He looked at them. ‘In which case, why was Cleverly not interested in it?’
23
‘Are you sure about this, mate?’ The Uber driver gave him a warning look. ‘Gets pretty rough in there, or so I’ve heard.’
‘How long has this place been up and running?’ McNab said.
‘Word is, it was shut for a while. Maybe they went bust or the cops found out. Been back up a couple of weeks. You a punter or a fighter?’
‘Neither. Just fancied a look,’ McNab told him as he exited the vehicle.
‘Your funeral.’
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Chrissy’s earlier question as to why Cleverly had seemed so disinterested in the Go Wild connection had fired up his own interest again. Why was the bastard set on ignoring it? So he’d returned to his original plan and made a swift departure from the jazz club before he drank too much whisky, heading back to the boarded-up offices.
This time the back entrance was occupied by a wee gang of teenagers in the thirteen-to-fifteen age group sharing a couple of bottles of vodka.
Their initial reaction when he’d appeared had been one of bravado. Things changed when he’d flashed his badge and asked for their names and ages. He could have confiscated the bottles but, deciding that was too much hassle, he’d just ordered them to scram, which they did.
Left to his own devices, he’d re-entered the premises and had a good look round.
That’s when he’d found the out-of-date ticket to the Go Wild fight club, which he’d pocketed, promising himself to check out the location at least.
The place looked all shut up when he got there apart from the red light above the door. McNab stood for a moment listening, convinced he could hear voices raised somewhere in the building. He banged on the door three times and waited.
When nothing happened, he tried again. Having got there, it would be unfortunate if he never crossed the threshold. He fished in his pocket and brought out the invitation he’d found in a desk drawer of the boarded-up Go Wild office. Out of date, of course, but they might accept it, especially if the place had been closed down for a while.
A slot in the door opened and a pair of mean eyes stared out at him. McNab displayed his invite.
‘Out of date,’ came a voice. ‘You’ll have to pay again to enter.’
‘Sure thing,’ McNab said. ‘How much?’
The door opened and he was faced with a guy as broad as he was tall. ‘Fifty to watch. Bets extra.’
He was waved towards a booth where a young woman was only too willing to swipe his card.
‘You placing a bet?’ she said with an interested look.
McNab wasn’t sure if the smile was for him or the contents of his wallet.
‘I’m just here to watch,’ he said.
‘Shame, I was going to recommend you bet on the blond.’
McNab tucked his card back in place. ‘Maybe the next bout.’
‘This is the last tonight. You should have come earlier.’ She pointed him in the direction of another door. ‘It starts shortly. Bar’s inside. No photos,’ she warned him, indicating the bouncers. ‘Or you’ll lose your phone.’
If entry was fifty pounds, McNab wondered what a drink would cost. As he approached the inner door, it was opened by the first bouncer’s twin brother, who examined his receipt, then stood out of his way.
The smell that hit him like a wall was a mixture of male sweat and fresh blood with a splash of piss, coming from somewhere near the back. McNab made for the bar, skirting round the crowd of about sixty men of varying ages. He had a quick scan of the faces, but none were recognizable from this distance. As well as the bouncers at the entry point, he spotted two other guys who looked like handlers. They had certainly marked his late entry.
There was no ring as such, just a concrete floor, turned a slippery red, and a single rope to keep the punters back. In opposite corners, the blond, who the lassie in the booth had referred to, was the taller, with a gym-built physique and a tan that definitely wasn’t out of a bottle. His opponent was smaller and wirier with a shaved head and a red beard. It only took a moment to work out who wasn’t from round these parts.
The bare-knuckle fight invite had promised high stakes and high winnings; only one of the two men he surmised may have paid for the privilege of taking part, and it wasn’t the Glasgow bloke.
McNab placed himself next to an old guy who, by his intense interest, had definitely placed a bet. McNab introduced himself as Micky and asked what the odds were.
The old guy shot him a look. ‘You’re too late, son, they’re about to start.’
‘Who are you rooting for then?’
‘Kenny Boy. The wee bloke with the beard. He’s about to smash that posh fucker’s face in.’
‘I take it Kenny’s local?’
‘Aye. The posh fucker’s from out of town. Been here before, I hear. Pays money to have his pretty face punched.’
McNab wasn’t as sure as his new friend about the outcome. To his eye, the posh fucker looked like a player.
‘Has he got a name?’
‘If he has, I don’t know it. Arrived in a limo with blacked-out windows and two minders.’
McNab was keen to ask who was running the show, but that, he realized, might be a step too far. The last thing he wanted was to be slung out on his ear before he found out what he wanted to know.
A bell was rung and the two men, stripped to the waist, moved towards one another. The only thing McNab knew about scrapping he’d learned as a teenager. After which he’d realized it was better to carry a knife as a first level of self-defence, even if he never actually used it.
He’d got good with a knife, trick-wise. Even shown off his prowess when he was a young recruit at the Police College. Until he was taken aside by the brass and given a severe warning about being in possession of an illegal weapon.
There were no weapons on display here apart from bloody knuckles. The posh fucker’s tan was already spotted, but he was giving as good as he got.
The noise in the room was deafening, the jeers and shouts of encouragement bouncing off the walls. By the expressions around him, there was a lot of money riding on the outcome.
What struck him most was the difference between the two players. Kenny wanted to win, no doubt about that. He was skilful. An artful dodger, whose every punch counted. As for the posh fucker, he had the look of a killer. He wasn’t here simply to win. He wanted to beat the wee guy into the ground. For him, this looked like a fight to the death. For a terrible moment, McNab wondered if it might be. There was enough blood spraying about the place to resemble a Friday night in A&E after a gang fight.
‘When is it over?’ he asked his new pal.
‘When one of them doesn’t get up again.’
The crack that put Kenny on the concrete sounded like a bone snapping. If Kenny had even considered trying to drag himself up, the posh fucker put an end to that when he made a move to stamp on his head.
McNab heard his own shout before he realized he’d uttered it.
‘Fuck’s sake. You’ll kill him.’
The voices dropped to nothing as McNab entered the ring to stand in front of a prostrate Kenny.
The steel-blue eyes were now fastened on McNab. ‘You have a problem with me finishing the fight?’
‘The fight’s finished,’ McNab said. ‘He went down. It’s over.’
‘Not until I say it is.’
McNab thought his reactions were fast, but they weren’t quick enough. As the fist came towards him, he dodged, but not quite in time. A roar went up from the crowd and he heard bets being thrown around, all of them on him to lose.
His brain suggested he declare himself a police officer, but he knew if he did it might make things worse. And who would find his dead body here in this warehouse?
So he swung back, getting a jab in at those blue eyes, before the man’s two minders grabbed his arms and let their boss finish him.
Another face swam in front of him, suggesting it was over and they had better leave.
The last thing McNab remembered was the lights going out as a mad scramble of male bodies stepped over and on him to get to the door.
24
They’d taken a break from dealing with the evidence from the Glasgow fire scene to compare notes, Chrissy being particularly keen to tell Rhona about the handbag.
‘It’s a Mayfair bag from Aspinal of London,’ she quoted, ‘and is hand-crafted from the finest deep shine black croc print Italian calf leather. It features two inner compartments separated by a central zipped pocket, secured with our enduring
shield lock closure.’
Rhona studied the set of images, both outer and inner views of the aforementioned bag.
‘It does look the same,’ she admitted.
‘And it costs six hundred and fifty pounds,’ Chrissy finished triumphantly. ‘At that price they probably have records of the purchasers.’
‘Or the sale will be on one of Ms Richardson’s credit cards,’ Rhona said.
‘But that still doesn’t prove the body is hers, does it?’ Chrissy said, reading Rhona’s expression. ‘For that we need the DNA of the owner of the credit card.’ Something that surely the Met could have provided by now. ‘Why did Cleverly come up here to try and identify the body, and never mention whether they’d collected sample DNA of the supposed victim? After all, they would have access to her apartment and her place of work.’
Chrissy was voicing Rhona’s own train of thought.
‘Do you think this death could be a link to something bigger, something they’re already investigating, and they don’t want to divulge anything?’
That did make sense, and Rhona said so. ‘Especially since Cleverly seemed to pointedly ignore any mention McNab made of Go Wild.’
Chrissy hadn’t finished her handbag story. ‘If we can prove that the handbag is not the victim’s, then someone carried it down to the back court and placed it with her, and that same someone may have set her alight.’ She paused. ‘I did manage to get some DNA off the bag handle. Which we could try and match with the victim.’
‘Dr Sissons collected semen from the vagina,’ Rhona said. ‘If we get a DNA match between that and the handbag . . .’
‘We have a possible perpetrator.’ Chrissy’s mobile buzzed an incoming text. ‘That’s weird,’ she said, checking the screen. ‘It’s from Sandra.’
‘Your nurse pal?’
‘It’s about McNab,’ Chrissy said, wide-eyed. ‘Sandra says he turned up at A&E last night, pretty beaten up. Told them he got run down by a cyclist in a twenty-mile-per-hour zone.’
‘That’s got to be a lie,’ Rhona said.
‘Sandra thought so too.’