by Lin Anderson
Rhona nodded.
‘If she reveals anything else or asks any questions, let me know. McNab’s due back tomorrow morning. Things might be clearer by then.’
39
The white, two-storey terraced houses, with pillared entrances, appeared even more upmarket than Mark’s impressive red-brick mansion, McNab decided. Ollie had indicated that Ms Richardson’s flat was on the first floor.
Pressing the doorbell, and not expecting an answer, McNab was surprised when he got one.
‘Yes?’ a male voice said.
‘Detective Sergeant McNab, Police Scotland, here to see Ms Richardson.’
There was a studied silence, while whoever had answered absorbed this information, then the voice said brusquely, ‘I’m afraid Ms Richardson is away on business.’
‘I’d still like to come in, sir.’ McNab’s tone didn’t brook a refusal.
‘Do you have ID?’
‘Of course.’
A moment later, the door buzzed open.
The mosaic-tiled entrance hall led to a set of stairs, at the bottom of which stood a man, who looked to be in his fifties. He wore a slightly haughty expression.
‘As I said, Ms Richardson is away on business,’ he repeated as though McNab was slightly deaf.
‘May I ask who you are, sir?’ McNab said.
‘Henry Wollstone. I live on the ground floor. Ms Richardson is the upstairs tenant.’
McNab proffered his ID. ‘Can you tell me when you last saw Ms Richardson?’
Mr Wollstone thought about that for a moment, then, shrugging his shoulders, said, ‘She’s away a lot. Maybe a week ago.’
‘Then I’d like to check Ms Richardson’s flat.’
McNab had fully expected the man to mention the Met somewhere in their conversation, but it didn’t look as though he planned to.
‘Has something happened to Olivia?’ he said instead, looking worried.
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish, sir.’
‘But why Police Scotland?’
‘Because Ms Richardson’s handbag and wallet were found in Glasgow.’
‘Glasgow! Why on earth would Olivia be in Glasgow?’ He sounded genuinely surprised.
‘That’s what I’m here to hopefully find out, sir. If you could let me check her flat now?’
McNab followed the man up the stairs, his mind already working on the fact that it appeared no one from the Met had been here. Which probably meant they already knew the fire victim wasn’t Olivia Newton Richardson and possibly had done all along.
So why had Cleverly come to Glasgow, attended the PM and demanded facial recognition software be used to identify the victim?
‘There you are.’ Mr Wollstone threw open the door, allowing McNab to enter, then attempted to follow him inside.
‘You can wait on the landing, Mr Wollstone, or I can call you when I’m ready to leave,’ McNab said firmly.
He expected a possible argument and was relieved when the man’s only reaction was a disgruntled look.
As soon as he heard footsteps descending the stairs, McNab closed the door. Despite the classical nature of the building’s exterior, in here was open-plan and modern, a sitting area with a study at one end, a kitchen at the other.
The place felt and smelt as though no one had been in here recently. There were a few dishes in the sink and a half-empty bottle of Polish vodka sitting on a coffee table, two shot glasses beside it, both used, one with a lipstick imprint.
There was no laptop in the study area and no paper evidence of any work done there.
The bedroom was a mess. Not that different from Mark’s. Clothes and shoes scattered about. Wardrobe open. A space above that may have held a suitcase.
The bed was rumpled, the duvet thrown back, the bottom sheet stained by what might be semen. It was then he saw the photograph. The frame had been turned over next to the bed. On purpose or by accident, he couldn’t tell.
Olivia and a man, cheek to cheek, smiling at the camera. With a start, McNab realized where he’d seen the man before. Only then, he’d been bare-chested, his fists up.
It appeared the man who’d put his lights out in Glasgow and Olivia Newton Richardson knew one another very well.
McNab bagged the shot glasses, then went in search of alternative sources of DNA, the bathroom providing a couple of toothbrushes, a hairbrush and a discarded earring.
Hearing the front door being opened, he concealed his booty and went to greet Mr Wollstone.
‘All finished here, thank you.’
‘Did you find anything that might help locate Olivia?’
McNab ignored the question and asked one of his own. ‘I take it the Met haven’t been here as yet?’
Mr Wollstone’s face fell. ‘The Met are involved too?’
‘I’d expect them to visit soon,’ McNab said, although he believed otherwise.
Out on the street now, he pulled out his mobile and rang Cleverly’s number.
The voice that answered was gruff and distinctly unwelcoming. McNab decided to make things even worse.
‘I’m in London. We need to talk.’
40
As the moon escaped the clouds again, Dougie urged Nadia to lie down at his feet rather than sit in the bow. They were coming within sight of the shore, and there was always a chance of being spotted by someone out late in the fields.
The girl was shivering, either from fear or cold. He couldn’t blame her. His own heart had been racing ever since he’d urged her from her hiding place to cross the slippery decks. She’d frozen at the sight of the ladder and it had struck him that she was as fearful of ending up in the sea as she was of being discovered.
He’d spoken encouragingly to her as he’d put an unprotesting Finn in his harness and begun lowering the collie onto the boat.
‘Now us,’ he’d told her as he’d roped her to him. ‘I’ll go first and then you follow. Don’t look down, but even if you do, you’ll only see my face smiling up at you.’
She’d relaxed a little at that, the fear in her eyes diminishing.
The descent had taken longer than he’d wanted, conscious as he was that the gradual turning of the Orlova at anchor would soon expose them to anyone who might be watching from the shore. The periodic unveiling of a bright, almost full moon only increased his concern, but he couldn’t let Nadia see that. So every time she stopped, seemingly frozen to the ladder, he’d spoken calmly, telling her they would soon be on dry land and in the warmth of the farm kitchen. That she could have hot buttered bannocks with bacon and fresh eggs from the hens.
He had no idea if she’d heard or understood his wittering, anxiety strengthening his Orkney accent, but eventually she got close enough for him to grab her by the waist and ease her aboard the Fear Not.
Feeling Nadia shiver now against his legs as a squally shower added to the sea spray hitting the boat, he ordered Finn to get down beside her, which the collie did, pushing his warm body into her arms.
In sight of the slipway now, Dougie watched as the moon slid behind a cloud, plunging them into shadow once more.
‘It’s okay,’ he told a silent Nadia, ‘I know my way in the dark.’
Seconds later, he felt the bow scrape against the slipway. The tide, he knew, was well in, so they were very close to the boathouse. Finn, familiar with the routine, jumped out, Dougie following, before holding out a hand to help Nadia.
He was shocked at how cold her hand was and realized he had to get her into the warmth, and soon. She scrambled onto the slipway and waited while he drew the boat up and secured it.
Dougie’s plan was to stop at the barn, get Nadia settled in the warmth of the hay, then approach the house alone to talk to Ava.
He explained this to Nadia as he opened the barn door. ‘You’ll be safe here,’ he told her. ‘I won’t be long.’ Worried about her low temperature, he told Finn to stay with her to keep her warm.
Once he saw them settled, he apologized for leaving her there. �
�Don’t go outside. Finn will stay with you until I whistle for him. Okay?’
She nodded, the whites of her eyes barely visible in the gloom.
As Dougie walked swiftly towards the house, he saw a pair of lights turn off the main road to make their way down to the farm. He held his breath as he realized that it looked like a police car.
Had Ava got his message and called Erling?
Dougie mustered himself. He would return home as promised. But what of Finn? he thought. Won’t Ava think it odd that he’s not with me?
He contemplated whistling for the dog, then decided against it. Nadia might get freaked or follow Finn out, assuming it was safe and he was summoning her. Better to have an excuse for the missing Finn, he decided.
By the time he reached the house, the police car was parked and the driver already inside. Dougie took a deep breath and, before he could change his mind, opened the door and walked into the kitchen.
41
McNab was still seething when he walked into the Afghan coffee shop. Having just wasted an hour waiting for Cleverly to show up at an agreed location, he was in no mood to be thwarted a second time.
The guy behind the counter listened to his demand with an openly hostile look, which McNab duly returned. He wasn’t the only one in the cafe throwing him dirty looks. In fact, it was a little like walking into a Rangers’ pub wearing a Celtic top on the day of an Old Firm match.
‘Tell Mark McNab’s here to see him. And I’m in a hurry.’
The dark look only got darker. McNab could see where all this was heading and the result would be a refashioning of his face again.
‘Tell him Ava sent me,’ he added as a last resort.
At Ava’s name, something changed. The guy looked less likely to punch him or throw him out. McNab decided to take that line a little further.
‘Tell Mark Ava’s in danger.’
‘Sit down,’ the voice said, gesturing to a nearby table.
Thinking he might be getting somewhere at last, McNab chanced his arm and asked for a coffee, the scent of which had been assailing him since he’d walked in the door.
He duly took a seat, aware that whatever interest the circle of other male customers had had in him had lost its edge. His face, it seemed, wasn’t about to meet another fist.
Five minutes later, the coffee arrived, delivered by counter guy, but with no invitation to come and see Mark. McNab threw another glance at the curtained doorway, which he presumed led to more private accommodation and through which counter guy had gone earlier.
Drinking the remainder of his coffee, he ordered another, which didn’t arrive. In fact, everyone was now doing a fine job of pretending he didn’t exist. Either the journalist was here or he wasn’t, McNab decided, and there was only one way to find out which.
Ava had said he had a room here where he worked and sometimes slept, and to McNab’s eye it had to be beyond that curtain. He rose and made for the Gents just long enough for counter guy to clock him and turn away. Then he made his break.
A warning shout followed him beyond the drapes, down a corridor towards a door. McNab reached it before his pursuer caught up. He flung it open, stepped inside and shut it behind him, just as a shoulder slammed it.
A tall figure rose from behind a desk. ‘DS McNab? I wondered when you’d decide to come through.’
Counter guy, in now, fired something unintelligible at the man, and was duly ordered out in English together with a request for more coffee. ‘My visitor looks like he needs one.’
He waved McNab to a seat and introduced himself.
‘Apologies for the wait. My Afghan friends take my security very seriously. They didn’t like the look of you.’ He paused. ‘You said Ava was in danger. Is that true?’
‘You weren’t answering her messages. She told me you might be here. She asked if I would check up on you,’ McNab told him.
‘So here I am. Alive and well. What about you?’ He gestured to McNab’s facial bruising, which matched his own.
‘A little argument at a bare-knuckle fight.’
Mark looked interested. ‘So they’re on offer in Glasgow too. Any names?’
McNab didn’t answer. If an exchange of information was expected, he wasn’t going to be the one to go first.
‘You told Ava to warn me about Cleverly. Why?’ he said instead.
Mark sat back in his chair. ‘The Met don’t want me investigating Go Wild. In fact, they’re trying to stop me. I suspect they’re doing the same with Police Scotland.’ He eyed McNab. ‘Am I right?’
McNab didn’t answer.
‘You’re planning to meet with the Met while you’re down here?’ he said.
When McNab still didn’t respond, Mark gave a little laugh. ‘The girl in Glasgow is not Olivia Newton Richardson. But hey, you knew that already.’
‘Who was she?’ McNab demanded.
‘My guess? A trafficked female supplied by Go Wild for one of their games.’
‘And the handbag?’
Mark shrugged. ‘You’re the detective, not me.’ Reading McNab’s expression, he added, ‘You’ve checked out Olivia’s flat? Any sign of the Met having been there?’ When McNab said nothing, he looked thoughtful again. ‘What did you remove for DNA sampling?’
McNab thought about the glasses and the Polish vodka display.
‘If someone wants you to believe the dead girl is Olivia, then you’ll get a match from the flat with your fire girl. If not . . .’
He gave a half-smile, before adding, ‘Even you, as a police officer, cannot imagine the kind of cover stories those in authority can cook up, even when you yourself know the real truth.’
McNab thought of Mr Wollstone. The ease with which he’d allowed McNab to enter. The likelihood that the Met had never been there. The whole scenario had screamed ‘wrong’ at him. Then that photo of Olivia with the posh fucker who’d been in Glasgow around the time of the storm. Maybe the missing Olivia had been there with him?
He tried to bring up an image of the fight room. The audience had been mostly men, but there had been females too. He cursed himself for not registering them properly.
If he hadn’t been knocked out cold, he would have likely seen the posh fucker leave with one of them on his arm, and that one might have been the real Olivia.
Coming back to the present, he found the journalist studying him.
‘My interpretation? Cleverly was sent north to check out your moves on the fire death because they believe a high-profile bastard was involved in the torture and death of the victim,’ he said. ‘As for the Orlova coming ashore on Orkney, thus involving Police Scotland even further in what the Met see as their case . . .’ He made a face. ‘My bet is you’ll shortly be getting requests, which are really demands, to send south all evidence relating to the investigation into Go Wild. In the interests of national security, of course, which supersedes everything.’
42
Dusk had settled over the park, with a clear sky and the prospect of a full moon. The call from Bill had come as she’d headed down the path from the university, having decided to go home rather than to the jazz club.
Which was just as well, since what he’d had to say meant that she was headed back to Orkney next morning and would have to pack again.
‘Give Erling a call,’ Bill had told her. ‘He’ll give you the full story.’
Opening her front door, Rhona was greeted with some enthusiasm by Tom, which only lasted until she’d checked his dish and replenished the contents. After which food became much more interesting than she ever could be.
Rhona extracted a ready meal from the freezer and put it in the microwave, then poured herself a glass of wine and set about calling Erling.
‘I take it DI Wilson told you what’s happened?’ he said after the usual greetings.
‘Only what was required to get me to agree on a return trip tomorrow.’
‘The body was discovered this evening. A male, probably in his twenties. We had to move h
im further up the shore because of the tide. We’ve covered him but the wind’s up, so no tent. D’you want us to move him to the mortuary?’
‘It’s better if I see him in situ first,’ Rhona said.
‘He’s dressed like a waiter, so we think he may be off the Orlova.’ Erling answered the next question before she could ask it. ‘I don’t think by the state of the body that he’s been long in the water.’
Erling would have pulled enough folk from the sea over the years to be a reasonable judge of that.
‘Any obvious wounds?’
‘Not on his back and I haven’t turned him over as yet.’
She heard a hesitancy in his voice. ‘But?’ she encouraged him.
‘I think there’s a neck wound, but I can only see a little of it.’
‘I’ll be up at first light,’ Rhona promised. ‘Where is the body exactly?’
‘I’ll send you a location reference and you can take a look. It’s on a beach near the Broch o’ Borwick, just north of Yesnaby. The helicopter should be able to land you nearby. I’ll meet you there,’ he promised. ‘Oh, and we plan to check out the Orlova again tomorrow at first light. See if we can find anything that might fit your theory of a possible stowaway.’
Rhona rang off and, fetching her laptop, waited for the incoming arrival of the map reference. Her previous caseload in Orkney had seen her called to the Ring of Brodgar and, of course, Sanday, but she’d only boarded the Orlova once it had been towed into Scapa Flow. The cliffs at Yesnaby, where it had come aground, she hadn’t yet seen.
Opening the map, she noted that the area lay about a half-mile from the Yesnaby car park. It wasn’t far north of Stromness, although the main road that ran along the Loch of Stenness gave way to smaller farm routes leading in the direction Erling had indicated.
Online, photos of the bay showed it as slated stone and gravel with a layer of sand closest to the fields. Which definitely looked flat enough to land a helicopter.