The Killing Tide

by Lin Anderson

  ‘Great, you’re back.’ Chrissy gave her a hug. ‘Food first. I’ll log the evidence while you eat, then we’ll talk. Oh, and Bill’s called a strategy meeting for two o’clock and wants you there.’

  As soon as Rhona indicated she was suitably replete, Chrissy said, with a serious air, ‘The print you managed to lift from the burn victim doesn’t match the one I retrieved from the credit card.’

  Rhona nodded. ‘Well done.’ Yet another indicator that the victim was unlikely to be Olivia Newton Richardson, and a reminder of why the now-missing McNab had gone to London.

  She had known without asking Chrissy that there had been no further news of him, and that her forensic assistant was aware of the death of Ava’s journalistic partner.

  ‘How is Ava taking the news about Mark?’ Chrissy said.

  ‘Badly, according to Erling, although I haven’t spoken to her in person yet,’ Rhona said.

  Chrissy, obviously judging it was probably better to stick with talking about work, said, ‘So tell me about this possible stowaway. And the beach body.’

  They spent the next hour poring over her photographs of both loci, Rhona constantly reminding herself to talk about the hideaway minus Nadia’s name, in the full knowledge that Chrissy had an almost uncanny ability to spot both a lie in practice and one by omission.

  Eventually Chrissy said, ‘You believe whoever was in that room is still alive, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m hoping that’s true,’ Rhona countered.

  Chrissy gave her a look, but didn’t comment on her response. Instead, she focused on one of the images of the hideaway. ‘See here,’ she said, pointing to the blanket covering the makeshift bed. ‘Those look like white animal hairs. I take it you brought some back for analysis?’

  Rhona nodded.

  ‘I suppose they might have come from one of the Viking outfits, although I think any fur on those was fake. These look real. Never mind, I’ll know what they belong to when I take a look under the microscope.’

  And she would, Rhona thought. After which would come the enquiry about why a dog was on board the Orlova. Rhona could only hope that, by then, she would be free to tell Chrissy the truth.

  Chrissy was now pointing to the contents of the refuse bag. ‘These tins the stowaway’s been eating. Peas, beans, hot dog sausages.’ She paused. ‘Well, a full report’s now back on the make-up of the vomit. Whoever puked up near the crime scene had been eating hot dogs and beans, which suggests the vomit may well have come from your stowaway.’

  Rhona was in the act of constructing a suitable response, when Chrissy suddenly declared, ‘You’d better watch your time.’

  When Rhona looked blank, she added, ‘The strategy meeting?’

  Lying or omitting to tell the whole truth was an exhausting business, Rhona acknowledged on the way to the police station. She could only hope that after talking to Bill she might be freed from keeping any more secrets, from Chrissy at least.

  They had moved the strategy meeting to a larger venue, the number of combined officers now exceeding the original. On stage was DCI Sutherland, backed by Bill. The chief inspector called the meeting to order, then immediately spoke of DS McNab who, he said, had not yet been located.

  ‘I have been in discussion with my opposite number in the Met, who assures me that we have their full cooperation on this and other matters associated with both the fire death here in Glasgow and the deaths on the Orlova.’

  At this point Rhona felt compelled to ask a question.

  DCI Sutherland noted her raised hand, but there was a brief moment when he looked as though he might not acknowledge it. A murmur from the surrounding officers changed his mind.

  ‘Dr MacLeod?’ he offered.

  ‘Are you aware that the Met has yet to provide us with DNA samples that would allow us to establish if, in fact, the fire victim is Olivia Newton Richardson?’

  The silence that followed begged a response from the commanding officer, although he didn’t look keen to supply it.

  Eventually, looking a little put out, he assured Rhona that that was being dealt with and added, with a sombre look, that the investigation was now associated with matters of ‘national security’.

  After which DCI Sutherland beat a hasty retreat.

  Beside her, Janice muttered a word beginning with ‘p’ to perfectly describe him, which Rhona found herself agreeing with. She threw Janice a look of support as Bill called her up to brief them on the latest forensic evidence findings.

  Having voiced her concerns about matching the body to the actual Go Wild employee Ms Richardson, Rhona revealed Chrissy’s discovery of the discrepancy between the fingerprint retrieved from the fire victim and the one on her supposed credit card.

  To those working on the fire case, this wasn’t a revelation, just one more small step in proving the victim wasn’t who they were being led to believe she was.

  Rhona moved now to the Orlova case. Despite a number of officers in the room not primarily working on that area, the interest was intense and the questions numerous, all of which Rhona answered in evidence terms as best she could.

  The Met might believe the Go Wild case was exclusively theirs, but the men and women in this room did not.

  Her delivery complete, Rhona followed Bill into his office, where he shut the door behind them.

  ‘Essentially the word from on high is that the bigger story mustn’t get out. We’ve been told to focus on the fire and the bodies associated with the ghost ship. Nothing about the wider implications of what had been happening on board.’

  ‘What about Nadia?’ Rhona said. ‘Does the chief know about her?’

  When Bill didn’t immediately answer, she added, ‘You think she’ll be taken south of the border if the Met learn about her?’

  Bill nodded. ‘Which takes her out of Police Scotland’s jurisdiction.’

  ‘And protection,’ Rhona said, thinking about McNab. ‘She may, of course, have played a part in some or all of this. After all, she was an employee of Go Wild.’

  ‘You have DNA from the hideout?’ Bill asked.

  ‘I do, and I can compare it with that collected at the crime scenes,’ she tells him. ‘Also, analysis of the vomit suggests the person hiding in that room was probably the person who was sick in the arena. However, that doesn’t mean she’s not implicated in their deaths.’

  They moved on to discuss what was in Ava’s investigative report. The question was, could it be published as Ava wanted, now that they had been told not to publicize the case?

  One thing Rhona had learned over the years was that DI Bill Wilson didn’t make decisions without careful consideration. Plus he always put his front-line officers first. And, Rhona thought, Bill was definitely unhappy about the way McNab’s disappearance was being handled, which was bound to affect any decision he made.

  ‘Have you spoken to Ava since the announcement of Mark’s death?’ he said.

  ‘I tried her mobile, but her brother answered and told me she wasn’t there.’

  ‘Is she avoiding us?’

  Rhona didn’t think so. She was more concerned that Ava wasn’t being permitted to talk to them.

  ‘The boy’s worried about Nadia. If he thinks his sister broke her promise and told anyone about her . . .’ Rhona ground to a halt.

  ‘Ask Ava to send the piece to her London editor. Tell her to make sure he mentions that the reporting came from Glasgow, where the first Go Wild body was found. Hopefully any interested parties will think she’s here.’

  ‘And Nadia?’

  ‘We keep the girl in Orkney for the moment.’

  56

  As his eyes flickered open, he was assailed by the same sounds and smells as before . . . dripping water, piss and shit. A face stared down at him. Or was it just his own reflection?

  Am I dead, he wondered? If he was, then he definitely hadn’t gone to heaven.

  ‘You’re in bad shape, mate,’ a voice said. ‘You need a doctor.’

  Mc
Nab realized with sudden clarity that it was his street companion from the previous evening talking.

  ‘The Simon folk’ll be round here soon. They’ll sort you out. Can you sit up?’

  McNab tried. He’d been dreaming about his mobile, wishing he had it, but more than that, something he should remember about it. Your brain’s fucked, he told himself.

  As his good Samaritan helped him sit against the wall, McNab noticed that he’d gained a blanket round his shoulders. He tried to say thank you, but his mouth just flapped open and shut like a stranded fish.

  At that moment two dark-clothed men appeared at the entrance to the alley and looked in, checking for – what? Him?

  ‘Who’s there?’ a voice called.

  McNab cowered back against the wall. ‘Don’t answer,’ he hissed.

  ‘It’s okay. They’re the Simon guys I told you about.’ His companion stood up and called out. ‘You need to help this guy.’

  After that, things passed by in a blur. The voices that seemed to surround him murmured their concerns. Questions were asked of his erstwhile mate. He heard him say, ‘he sounds Scottish’ and ‘he’s beaten pretty bad’.

  Another blanket was laid over him. Then he found himself rising in the air and realized he’d been loaded onto a stretcher. The alley passed him by and he emerged onto the street, and from there into the back of an ambulance.

  All of which he could do nothing about, although his mind screamed at him that it wasn’t a good idea.

  The alley had smelt bad, but in here the stink seemed even worse.

  ‘Jesus,’ he heard himself say, ‘what’s that fucking smell?’

  A male voice laughed. ‘That’s you, mate. All you.’

  McNab, shocked, attempted to apologize.

  ‘Forget it,’ the voice said. ‘I’m more concerned about your injuries.’ He turned to whoever else was in the back with them. McNab’s swollen eyes denied him the ability to view the other paramedic, but he heard her voice, a soft series of notes, which became a song in his head.

  His jacket lay open, he knew that, and someone was mouthing concern at the exposed battered version of himself. He said he was sorry, again. Why, he had no idea.

  His eyelids were eased open and a light shone in.

  ‘You taken anything, mate?’

  ‘Not by choice,’ he tried to tell them, although that wasn’t strictly true, if you counted the cocaine.

  The female voice asked, ‘Who did this to you?’

  When McNab remained silent, she said to her partner, ‘We should inform the police about this.’

  ‘No,’ McNab managed to say. ‘I just need patching up.’

  He realized the moment to declare himself a police officer had come and gone and he’d chosen not to. Despite the pain and the scrambled brain, McNab knew why.

  57

  ‘Why is she calling you?’ Dougie demanded.

  ‘Because of Mark’s death,’ Ava tried again. ‘Mark told me to tell Dr MacLeod and DS McNab that a Met officer who wasn’t to be trusted was being sent north. This was all before you brought Nadia here.’ She paused to emphasize that fact. ‘It’ll raise suspicions if I stop talking to them now. Plus,’ she added, ‘DS McNab went to London to check on Mark, and Mark’s been found dead. They can’t locate McNab now, which means . . .’

  She stopped there. It wasn’t the whole story, but it was enough to get them thinking.

  ‘So it’s not all about you, or me,’ she said directly to Nadia. ‘Don’t you want the people who killed Guido and your other friends to be caught?’

  ‘That’s why I gave you my story,’ Nadia said, her voice suddenly tired. ‘You said you would publish it.’

  ‘And I will,’ Ava said. ‘But I need to do it in a way that doesn’t lead them here to you.’

  Finn padded over at that point, but instead of nuzzling Dougie, he put his nose in Ava’s hand. It made her want to cry, all the sorrow at Mark’s death welling up inside, threatening to swamp her.

  ‘Sorry,’ Dougie suddenly said. ‘I’m sorry for all of it.’

  Ava’s heart ached for him. ‘None of this is your fault. None of it,’ she repeated. ‘But what happens now will be down to us.’ That much she did know. ‘Which is why I have to talk to Dr MacLeod, and in private.’

  Dougie eventually nodded. ‘Can we go down to the boathouse with Finn?’

  The tension in the room had eased. She may even have made some headway, but there were decisions to be made and a route to publication decided. One thing was certain, Mark would not thank her for taking time to mourn him now. His first desire would be for her to finish what they’d begun together.

  ‘Do that,’ Ava said, relieved at the thought of no longer being under constant scrutiny.

  She told them to go straight to the boathouse and stay there until dark. ‘Nadia shouldn’t really be outside in daylight. Orphir folk have long-range vision. Here,’ she said, grabbing her own jacket from the rack. ‘Put this on and pull the hood up. If anyone spots you from a distance, they’ll likely think it’s me. Now go. Scram. And let me make my phone call.’

  She watched them from the window until they reached the byre, then extracted Mark’s memory stick from the place she’d hidden it and sat down at her laptop. Mark’s death had changed things. His material, together with what she had discovered, was further topped by the existence of a witness.

  Who could she trust with the story now?

  David had always backed her and Mark up before, even in difficult circumstances. But Go Wild had identifiable links with central government and the upper echelons of British society. And not only the UK government. Mark had evidence linking Go Wild with both Russia and the USA, and a number of European countries too.

  Rich and powerful people who believed they were above and beyond the law. Who owned and managed the system. Who both ran and controlled the press.

  Could . . . should she send it to David or would he believe it to be too hot to handle, especially in view of Mark’s death?

  Mark’s voice came back to her at that point, urging her to do what was right. What was necessary.

  In the past, she would have agreed with him, relished the challenge, maybe even the danger. She also knew that in the last year alone, at least twenty-five journalists around the world had been murdered for exposing stories like this one. Mark had just been added to that list.

  Her mind made up, Ava brought up David’s number – or thought she did. Too quick. The last few numbers she’d contacted were on the screen and she’d pressed too quickly before realizing the highlighted number was actually McNab’s.

  She expected it to ring out unanswered, as before, but waited just in case. Then a man’s voice answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘DS McNab?’ she said, surprised and delighted. ‘It’s Ava Clouston here.’

  ‘Yes?’ the voice said, again.

  Fear came crashing in to swamp the joy, because the voice, she realized, wasn’t McNab’s at all. Ava cut the call and threw the mobile on the table.

  She’d given her name to whoever had McNab’s phone. If they were searching for her whereabouts, it would be easy enough to locate her now.

  58

  Dr Sissons had been reserved, even reticent; Dr Walker even more subdued than usual. Rhona knew why. No DS McNab to walk through those doors, usually late, to be harangued in Sissons’s inimitable fashion.

  McNab wasn’t there. Couldn’t be there. Because he was missing in the line of duty. At times like these, the team was a squadron with a missing member.

  Even Sissons, with all his faults, was aware of that.

  The autopsy on the beach body went as planned. The young male had entered the water still alive, but probably barely so, his throat having been cut. He had nevertheless tried to breathe and got some seawater into his lungs rather than air.

  His other injuries were slight. He hadn’t crashed against rocks or the cliff face, but merely washed up on a partly sandy beach on the west of O
rkney mainland, after the Atlantic had tossed him about for a while.

  ‘How many more bodies can we expect from MV Orlova?’ Sissons enquired, as though Rhona was responsible for the body count coming their way from the northern isles.

  As Dr Walker cringed for her, Rhona said, ‘Only the Atlantic currents can tell you that.’

  Entering the changing room, Rhona immediately sat down. The PM had felt more about McNab’s probable death than the poor victim on the table.

  Although she’d toyed with the idea that McNab was in fact dead and would soon be dragged out of the Thames, not far from where Mark’s body had been retrieved . . . still she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe that to be true.

  I would know if he were dead. Chrissy would know if he were dead.

  ‘You okay?’ Dr Walker said, appearing suddenly beside her.

  ‘Of course.’ Rhona rose and removed her mask. ‘Been here, there and everywhere the last couple of days. Travelling by helicopter will do that to you. Or at least to me.’

  She stepped out of her suit and tossed it in the nearby basket.

  A shout from the mortuary sent Dr Walker back inside, but not before he told her how sorry he was.

  For what? That McNab is dead? Or that he hasn’t been found yet? she said silently to his retreating figure.

  Rhona called Chrissy, keen to hear her voice. ‘Any word?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing . . . as yet,’ Chrissy added. ‘I’m clearing up here. Planning to head for the jazz club. Want to meet me there?’

  A fleeting glimpse of home, empty of company and food, played with her briefly, before Rhona said, ‘I’ll get cleaned up and meet you there.’

  The shower worked, up to a point. The beat of water took away the scent of death, but it didn’t remove the fear of it. Not hers, not this time, but of someone she cared about.

  What might life be like without McNab?

  Easier, certainly. Less annoying, less colourful, less real . . . definitely.

  Sean crossed her mind. Any problems they may have had seemed superfluous and unimportant at this moment. Sean, Chrissy, McNab, Magnus, even Erling . . . All of them played a role in her life. All were the linchpins of her existence.