The Killing Tide

by Lin Anderson

‘The coastguard have just reported finding the Fear Not abandoned and drifting.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Hoy Sound.’

  ‘Close to shore?’ she said, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘It’s not clear,’ Ivan said, his expression a picture of misery.

  Ava took pity on him. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Ivan.’

  Alone again, Ava tried to focus on the possible scenarios which might have led to what Ivan had just described.

  Dougie was somewhere on Hoy and had released the boat to suggest they’d drowned.

  They had drowned, but since Dougie knew these waters, prevailing tides and winds, that didn’t seem likely.

  They were dead by someone’s hand and the boat released to give the impression they had drowned.

  They’d been captured and were possibly still alive.

  No matter which way she played it out, instinct told her it was one of the last two.

  The forces ranged against them were just too strong, she acknowledged. In London, and also here on Orkney. They simply couldn’t win.

  That’s the coward’s opt-out, she heard Mark say. Words are powerful and have reach. Use them.

  He was right. There was only one thing to do now. And that was to put the story out there.

  There would, no doubt, be a price to pay, and in that moment, Ava both accepted that and almost welcomed it.

  64

  McNab sat back in Mark’s chair and surveyed his new abode. Provided with Mark’s backup laptop, which Abu-Zar had not surrendered to the police, a smartphone and a vehicle at his beck and call, he was back in business.

  Plus he had a place to sleep, food when required and all the coffee he could drink.

  Also, judging from the big burly guy hanging around outside his new office, they’d provided him with a bodyguard. He suspected the bodyguard was armed, but had decided not to question this. As a police officer, it was better not to know.

  It appeared that taking Mark down may have been an error on the enemy’s part. Who pisses off associates of the mujahidin? Added to all of that, he’d been assigned Firash as his driver, Abu-Zar’s son, the one whose life Mark had saved, according to Ava, and now a knowledgeable man about town, who had been a confidant of Mark’s.

  A full and frank conversation with the boss about his present circumstances had allowed him another forty-eight hours in London, after which he was expected to get the train back to Glasgow. McNab hoped and intended that it would be enough time for his plan to unfold, especially with his new allies on board.

  During his conversation with the boss, he’d stressed his concern for Ava’s safety. ‘Most of her investigation was done in tandem with Mark. And he’s dead.’

  The boss had assured him that Ava was under police protection on Orkney. Then he’d sprung the bad news. McNab had listened with mounting concern to the story of the brother, missing again. This time with the girl he’d rescued from the Orlova.

  ‘We’re hoping they’ve gone into hiding, but we can’t rule out the possibility that they’ve been picked up by associates of Go Wild. If so, there’s a chance she may have been taken south,’ the boss had said.

  McNab had asked about cruise ships at that point. ‘According to Ollie, the Go Wild empire has exclusive cruise ships operating worldwide, all of them with helicopter pads for the transfer of visitors. It wouldn’t be that difficult to get her off the island.’

  In his mind’s eye, he could already see the girl being whisked away from under their noses.

  ‘Police Orkney are checking everything within their manpower capabilities,’ the boss had told him.

  There had been some positive news from the call, with the identification of the Glasgow fire victim.

  ‘We’ve found a match via dental records for Charlotte Weiner, a missing student at the London School of Economics,’ the boss had said.

  It appeared Olivia’s belongings were left at the scene to suggest it was her. ‘Why, we don’t know,’ Bill had said. ‘Unless they wanted her to disappear, presumed dead. Folk still think that fire destroys everything,’ he’d finished.

  McNab checked the time. He had fifteen minutes before he should log on for the strategy meeting, when apparently Ollie was going to reveal what had been retrieved from the gaming equipment on board the Orlova. There was, however, still time to make the call he’d been putting off, despite Rhona’s reminder when they’d spoken earlier.

  Listening to it ring out, part of him hoped it wouldn’t be answered. When it was, he said nothing for a moment, forgetting that his name wouldn’t be on the screen because he wasn’t using his own phone.

  ‘Hi, Ellie, it’s Michael.’

  The moment’s silence that followed saw his heart slowing to what felt like a stop.

  Then, ‘Michael. Thank goodness you’re okay. I called Rhona when I couldn’t reach you. She said you were away on a job.’

  ‘Yes, sorry about that. My phone died.’

  ‘It’s about a date for the dinner party you mentioned. I expect it can’t be decided until you’re back from wherever you went?’ she said, a smile in her voice.

  Over the course of her words, McNab’s heartbeat had risen first to normal, then above. Ellie actually sounded pleased to hear from him. She wanted to see him again.

  ‘True,’ McNab said.

  ‘So you’ll let me know when you’re back in Glasgow?’

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  After a short silence, she said, ‘Please stay safe, Michael.’

  In that sweet moment McNab imagined maybe, just maybe, they might be back on firmer ground.

  ‘You too,’ he said, adding, ‘I’ll definitely give you a call when I get back, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  He found himself smiling, which felt strange, and also reminded him that parts of his face weren’t fully healed yet.

  Thank God Ellie hadn’t suggested they have a video call.

  65

  Bill called them to order, then explained that DS McNab would be joining the strategy meeting from London.

  When McNab’s face appeared on the big screen, there were a few whistles of approval, even one or two wolf whistles, belying the state of his face.

  Apart from that, Rhona thought, he looks okay.

  ‘Stupid bastard,’ Janice announced beside her. ‘When he gets back, I’m going to kill him.’

  Rhona understood the sentiment. ‘I’ll help you,’ she said.

  Ollie was now up on stage and, in his usual, hesitant fashion, described what they were about to see.

  ‘There was some fire damage to the equipment, but not enough to prevent us from recovering the games software, plus the recordings taken of various bouts, including the one to the death, which you are about to see here. I should say we believe these bouts were recorded so that participants might view themselves later . . . some were also made commercially available online via various virtual gaming platforms.’

  Most of the police personnel had already viewed Rhona’s footage of the crime scene, the route through the maze to the arena and the virtual audience. All of which had been taken after the event. This promised to be something quite different, as the tension in the room suggested.

  There was an intake of breath as the first image appeared on the screen.

  A seemingly frightened female was being dragged by two men through the maze and then abandoned in the centre of the arena. Rhona recognized the victim, but here, she was alive.

  A roar from the virtual crowd signalled their mounting excitement at what was to come.

  It resembled a scene from a gladiator-type movie, just as Chrissy had suggested. However, the female combatant appeared not to want to be there, which threw up an alternative interpretation of the crime scene to the one she and Chrissy had imagined.

  Chrissy’s current task involved comparing DNA samples from the female victim with those collected from both the staff and visitor quarters, in order to hopefully esta
blish her role aboard the ship. Had she perhaps not been a paying guest, after all, but someone brought on board to take part in the scene they were now viewing?

  The virtual audience fell silent as all eyes turned to a lone male now entering the arena. He strode in, effectively giving a bow to the adoring crowd. He appeared to be the favoured one, the ‘hero’ of whatever game was being played out here.

  The appreciative roar from the balcony emphasized that.

  In contrast, the watchers in the strategy room were completely silent. Whatever happened next would result in two actual deaths, and that wouldn’t be comfortable for anyone there to watch.

  The female, although possessing a weapon that looked like the one found at the scene, kept it by her side. She appeared not to want to fight, which obviously angered her opponent, and the watching crowd, who proceeded to boo and shout obscenities at her.

  Egged on by the male, they continued to call out for blood to be spilt. The male, obviously aroused, was eager for that too. He began prodding her, the point of his short sword nicking the skin on her arms, then her thighs, culminating in her exposed breast. This led to a roar of approval.

  And still the female didn’t defend herself or retaliate.

  Rhona thought of her own interpretation of the manner in which the scene might have played out, and suspected something was about to change.

  And change it did.

  Suddenly it was the female attacking the male, and not without skill. The male, who had behaved as though he thought himself invincible, found himself being outfought. The female appeared swifter and fleeter of foot than her opponent, using her smaller stature to attack the lower half of his body. Blood was spraying from wounds inflicted on his thighs, his hips, his groin, the point of her sword getting perilously close to his most vulnerable spot.

  The interest in the strategy room was sharpened by this. As for the virtual crowd, their howls of delight were now focused entirely on the female, screaming their pleasure at the fighting pair below.

  The contest appeared to be evenly matched. Neither of the two participants looked as though they were there for the purpose of killing one another, although the intensity of the bloodletting was so blatantly sexual that Rhona suspected they were watching the foreplay, the culmination of which would be the sexual act itself.

  At this point the scene was plunged into darkness before a single spotlight came on above them and the virtual crowd fell silent. The combatants stopped, obviously puzzled. This, it appeared, had not been in the script.

  The male swore loudly, demanding that the game be continued. Consternation then apprehension registered on his face. The female became more watchful, certain, it seemed, that they must be on their guard.

  Blinded by the spotlight, they did not at first see the masked swordsman emerge from the maze. Taller than the male, his upper body bare, he strode towards the surprised couple, his much longer sword raised.

  The attack was over in seconds. As he swiftly sliced into necks and legs, the two fell heavily bleeding to the ground. Their assailant stood over them for a moment then, turning, walked out of sight.

  The video stopped at this point, the final image being the scene Rhona and Chrissy had met on board the Orlova.

  Bill came to the front again, allowed a few moments for the company to come to terms with what they’d just watched, then said, ‘According to the murdered investigative journalist Mark Sylvester, the male victim is Damian Charles Lloyd, son of Lord Alfred Lloyd, a cabinet minister. This has not been confirmed, despite repeated requests to the Met to do so, after they insisted that both bodies be sent south.

  ‘Mark also identified the female as Penny Addington, who apparently Damian was seeing. Both were keen fencers.’

  He brought up a photograph of the two of them together, dressed in their fencing gear.

  ‘Our resident super recognizer,’ he gestured to Ollie, ‘assures me they are one and the same. However, without official confirmation from London we can’t be sure. Should it be Damian Lloyd, the implications are far-reaching.

  ‘This, we believe, is the reason for London’s reticence on the matter. I must stress here that nothing stated in this room goes any further than here.’ He looked around the assembled officers. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  The murmurs indicated he had.

  It was DS Clark up next, looking all the better for her partner being alive. She opened by saying as much, eliciting a cheer.

  ‘The fingerprint on the credit card found with the burn victim is that of Steven Willis, who has previous convictions for people-trafficking, amongst other things. We are currently looking for him. The victim, as some of you already know, has been identified as Charlotte Weiner, a student from the London School of Economics, who disappeared three weeks ago. We believe Willis was engaged to dispose of Charlotte Weiner in a way that suggested it was Olivia Newton Richardson, who Interpol think may be currently in the south of Spain.’

  Rhona could tell by the faces around her that the significance of all of this, especially the Met’s failure to share information, had not been lost on the assembled company, the time wasted over the identification of the fire victim being particularly galling.

  The briefing now moved to Orkney, where Erling joined them from the conference room in Kirkwall. Tense and pale, he proceeded to give them an update on the stowaway, Nadia Kowalski, a key witness to what had happened on the Orlova.

  For many it was the first time they’d heard of the existence of a witness, then only to hear that she had now gone missing, along with Dougie Clouston, brother of Ava Clouston, who had been working with Mark Sylvester on the exposé of the Go Wild conglomerate.

  ‘Dougie’s boat has since been found abandoned in the Sound of Hoy, some distance away from his home in Orphir,’ Erling said. ‘There is concern that both he and the girl may have been taken to prevent her from providing evidence of what happened on the Orlova. Or worse, she has already been disposed of.

  ‘We now know that Ava Clouston recorded the girl’s story while she was hidden on her farm, which also puts her in considerable danger, and she is currently under police protection.’

  The last person to speak was McNab. Rhona had expected him to give an account of what had happened since his arrival in London, to include his incarceration. Instead, he said, ‘Run the video back to the killer’s entrance.’

  It was well worth a second watch, from a forensic scientist’s point of view. The killer was left-handed, as suspected, the pattern of the cuts in Rhona’s study of the bodies matching what was being played out on the screen.

  As the killing ended, McNab shouted, ‘Freeze.’ In this shot the killer was caught face on, except they couldn’t see his face under the mask. What they did have was a clear view of his torso. Tanned and blood-splattered, the tattoo, a swirling GW centring on the left nipple, was obvious.

  McNab gave a little laugh. ‘I’ve seen that bastard close up.’

  ‘Where?’ Bill demanded.

  ‘At the bare-knuckle fight. That’s the posh fucker who knocked me out.’

  66

  ‘You should have let Harim come with us,’ Firash said. ‘You forget what these people are capable of.’

  McNab hadn’t forgotten, and maybe wouldn’t for a long time. He just didn’t want his resident bodyguard, offspring of the mujahidin, going in all guns blazing.

  ‘The plan is to take a quiet look at the Combat office, nothing more,’ he said, hoping that would turn out to be true.

  Firash didn’t argue but adopted instead a grave countenance, as though considering how he was going to keep the Scottish detective alive when McNab didn’t appear committed to the idea.

  In the short time since McNab had met Mark’s minder, he’d been impressed with his knowledge of Mark’s work. There was also no doubt he blamed himself for his death. Apparently Mark had refused to take Firash with him when he’d left for the final meeting, and Firash had had no idea who Mark had gone to see. Something
that obviously haunted him.

  As Firash deftly wound his way through the central London traffic, McNab checked his mobile to realize he’d missed a call from Ollie. Listening to his voicemail, he found a frantic message asking him to call back.

  The phone had barely begun to ring before it was snatched up and answered.

  ‘The shit’s hit the fan. Ava’s released her material online, initially to the worldwide gaming community. It’s everywhere now,’ Ollie’s stunned voice declared, ‘with millions of hits. All the details are there. Mark’s death because he was investigating the Go Wild connection with the Orlova, where rich people went to play torture and killing games. She gives pretty full details of what’s been on offer, from the bare-knuckle fights upwards and the web of international companies across the world associated with Go Wild.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ McNab said out loud.

  ‘She also says she’s spoken to a survivor discovered on the ghost ship. She hints at the suspected death of a prominent politician’s son, who was on the ship to fight a girl to the death for pleasure, and asks, “Is Russia involved? Or is it a very British game?”’

  Ollie took a breath. ‘Finally she mentions a Police Scotland detective’s capture in London and a surprise escape.’

  The significance of this final piece of information wasn’t lost on McNab. It wouldn’t take long for someone to work out how he’d got away from his captors and who had likely helped him.

  He ended the call, telling Ollie he’d be back in touch and to make sure the boss was kept fully informed.

  ‘What is it?’ Firash said, eyeing McNab anxiously via the driver’s mirror.

  ‘Just get us to the Combat address and fast,’ McNab ordered.

  ‘You have to tell me what’s happening, otherwise I can’t do my job,’ Firash protested. He hadn’t said, ‘like with Mark’, but it was clear that’s what he meant.

  McNab relented. ‘Ava Clouston released the Go Wild story worldwide and she included a bit about my incarceration,’ he told him. ‘The guy who set me free may well be in serious trouble because of it. We need to check out Combat and then, if necessary, the place where I was held.’