The Killing Tide

by Lin Anderson

  He’d figured out the warehouse location with the help of Google Earth and his drugged memory of the Scottish BrewDog Clerkenwell pub which he’d visited.

  Firash nodded. ‘Okay, but now I think we should bring Harim, in case we need him.’ When McNab didn’t immediately respond, he added, ‘They killed Mark. They won’t hesitate to kill us too.’

  Seeing his fearful expression, McNab relented and Firash made the call. McNab couldn’t interpret what was being said, but it was definitely going to make something happen.

  If the Kommandant was at the Combat address and this news was circulating, he would be the one in danger now, McNab thought. And if he wasn’t, then, ‘We check the old warehouse where they held me,’ he told Firash. ‘Just in case.’

  Glancing out of the car window, he registered that they were back in the area of his abduction.

  ‘How long now?’ he asked, irritated at how slow the traffic was.

  ‘According to the satnav, we’re two streets away,’ Firash told him.

  As they slowed down for yet another red light, McNab threw open the car door and jumped out, much to Firash’s dismay.

  ‘Meet me there,’ he said, closing the door, ‘and make it quick,’ aware that he might well need backup.

  McNab realized he was now close to where he’d hung about in the rain, waiting for Cleverly. Ahead of him, the usual crowds were milling around the entrance to the Underground. Weaving among them, he emerged to see the doorway into which Cleverly had apparently darted.

  Approaching, McNab noted that it was a sex shop, but the entry to the neighbouring building was via a double glass door, with the name Preston House and four buzzers to allow access, the top of which indicated it was Combat’s office.

  Steeling himself, he pressed the button.

  Rerunning his abduction as he awaited a response, he realized that his kidnappers may well have come from these premises. Had Cleverly made his swift exit into Combat or the sex shop? Possibly something he was about to find out.

  When a female voice responded to his request for entry, McNab looked up at the camera and gave his name. A few seconds later he was buzzed in.

  Entering the lobby, he ignored the lift and opted for the stairs, only to discover he was out of breath by the third landing. Not a good sign. Before pushing open the door, he took a moment to compose himself.

  Stepping into a carpeted area, he found it empty. Taking a quick look at the two screens on the reception desk, he spotted the one linked to the entrance webcam. So they would have seen him already, bruised face and all. But had anyone recognized the name? And where was the female who’d allowed him entry?

  At that moment a dark-suited man sporting an earpiece appeared from a door behind the desk to ask him what he wanted.

  McNab feigned puzzlement. ‘This is Combat, isn’t it?’

  The man’s nod was almost imperceptible.

  ‘I’m looking to arrange a London fight,’ he said, his tone verging on a threat. ‘In fact, I’d like to knock the hell out of the posh fucker who did this to me recently in Glasgow.’

  The guy’s lips moved into something that might be construed as a smile. He pointed to McNab’s face. ‘That looks like Hugo’s work.’

  ‘Is Hugo or any of his minders around?’ McNab said. When the man hesitated, McNab added, ‘Believe me, he’ll want to hear what I have to say.’

  Just then, something came in via the earpiece, which resulted in a swift change in the guy’s expression. McNab wondered if he’d been rumbled.

  ‘Okay,’ the guy was saying. ‘Hugo will see you now.’ He unbuttoned his suit jacket and, reaching in, drew the gun from its holster. He flicked it in the direction of a fire exit, which McNab suspected led down the back of the building and to his possible grave.

  A quick glance at the camera screen found no sign of Firash, or Harim.

  The bodyguard might not have got here by now, but Firash should have, McNab thought.

  67

  The smell was back, greeting him with the tight embrace of a long-lost friend. In fact, it had roused him, not from a drugged sleep this time, but from a blow to the head.

  He should be glad, McNab thought, that the gun had been used to knock him out, and not to kill him . . . yet.

  The darkness hid his prison, but by smell and sound, he knew where he was. Trauma had ensured he was unlikely ever to forget.

  The journey here too had been similar. He remembered entering the black van parked this time at the back of the building, the bag over the head, then the blow.

  After that nothing, until now.

  The last time he’d imagined Cleverly might be here, and in his drugged state had called his name, having it bounce back at him. Not something he planned to do again.

  The scent of blood was fresh. The stink of warm urine even fresher. Someone had pissed nearby and recently. And – McNab quickly checked his groin – this time it hadn’t been him.

  He got onto his knees and attempted to follow that scent.

  The body wasn’t far away. In fact, in the thick darkness, he almost fell over it. But was it warm? McNab reached down, searching for the head, the face, the neck . . . and pressed, seeking a pulse.

  His own heartbeat was too loud to be sure of what he felt under his fingers, until he heard the groan, weak but definitely there.

  ‘It’s me, the Jock pig,’ he said, still not sure who he was touching.

  There was a sound that might have been a laugh. Then, ‘Fuck’s sake. How often do you have to be told to fuck off home?’

  ‘I came to tell you to get out before they saw Ava’s report.’

  The Kommandant began to drag himself up to a sitting position. ‘Too late, I’m afraid.’

  McNab felt the warmth of escaping blood against his knees. Running his hands over the man’s body, McNab found the origin. The open wound was at the guy’s waist and the blood was seeping rather than pumping out, but without help, soon he would likely be dead.

  McNab removed his jacket and, taking off his shirt, rolled it into a tight fist and pressed it into the wound. Now to hold it there, without his hand.

  Taking off his belt, he slipped it round the body, pulling it tight. He couldn’t be sure, but after a few minutes he thought – or maybe just hoped – the flow of blood had lessened.

  ‘Right,’ McNab said. ‘Who are you, really?’

  ‘Since we’re about to die, I might as well tell you. Name’s Jack Winters and—’

  ‘You’re a Serious Crime Squad plant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Cleverly?’ McNab said.

  ‘The Met were ordered to keep schtum, in view of the undercover operation. The Orlova hitting Orkney fucked everything up, that and the Glasgow fire. Cleverly’s visit north was supposed to ease things. It clearly didn’t because you appeared at the bare-knuckle fight.’

  ‘It was your face looking down on me to check if I was still alive?’ McNab said.

  Now he knew why the Kommandant had seemed vaguely familiar.

  ‘I told Hugo you were a goner to get him out of there. Then you bloody turned up down here. Just about blew my cover.’

  ‘So there isn’t a cover-up?’ McNab said.

  ‘There are some who would like one – too many prominent names involved – but there are plenty in the Met willing to fight that, just like in Police Scotland. Despite the cries from the government about national security.’

  ‘And Cleverly?’ McNab said.

  ‘I gather you two have history?’ When McNab didn’t answer, Jack said, ‘I have no reason as yet to doubt him.’

  McNab thought of his glimpse of Cleverly before his abduction and wasn’t convinced. He changed the subject.

  ‘By the way. Who’s Lily Peony?’

  Jack made a strangled sound. ‘How the fuck . . .’

  ‘You popped up on her Instagram account. In the background of her photo.’

  ‘Well, I never got any nearer to her than that.’

  McN
ab decided it was time to spring his news. ‘We have footage of the killer from the Orlova,’ he said. ‘The posh fucker’s going down. He and Olivia Newton Richardson, I hope.’

  There was a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘His name’s Hugo Radcliff. And I hope you’re right. He’s a number-one bastard. He was the one in charge of your interrogation. Not me.’ There was an apology in his voice.

  ‘Any idea why he killed Damian Charles Lloyd and his girlfriend?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was the killer until you told me.’

  When he started coughing, McNab decided he’d asked him enough questions.

  ‘Okay, Jack Winters, now I plan to get you out of here,’ McNab said, hoping Winters would stay alive long enough to accomplish that.

  ‘Good luck with that.’ Groaning, he lay back down. ‘But don’t hang about on my account.’

  McNab’s mobile had gone, of course, but he still had his watch, whose illuminated dial told him he’d last seen Firash at least an hour ago.

  He decided to try and locate the door. If, as he believed, he was in the same location as last time, and the door was unlocked, then they had a route out. Rising, he stuck out his right hand and walked in a straight line until he met a wall.

  The last time, they’d hung him up directly opposite the door. He remembered the long shaft of light culminating at him, whenever that door was opened. Chances were they’d put Jack in the same location. If so, then the exit should be a little to the right or left of where he now stood.

  He was still feeling for it when he heard the sound of someone approaching. He stopped and listened. It was said that a remembered smell was the biggest factor in revisiting trauma. That had been obvious when he’d come to, in here. But he’d heard the distinctive sound of those footsteps in that corridor before. After which his tormentors would enter to do the posh fucker’s bidding.

  The recall of that scenario held him in its grip, but only briefly. If it was his tormentors come back, then he knew where he should make his last stand.

  As he sat down again beside Jack, he heard the voices grow louder as more footsteps approached.

  Suddenly the door was flung open and a figure stood in the shaft of light.

  McNab wouldn’t have recognized the man as Firash, not with his head and face swathed in a scarf, with what looked like an assault rifle in his hand. Not until the figure called out his name.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Firash! What took you so bloody long?’ McNab shouted back, surprise and joy colliding.

  On his answer, Firash came quickly towards him, as three more men entered, one obviously Harim.

  ‘We need to get this man to hospital as soon as possible,’ McNab said.

  Pulling down his mask, Firash shouted to his backup brigade to come and carry him to their vehicle.

  68

  The call had come before it was light. Rhona had expected it, although she hadn’t been sure when it would arrive.

  ‘Ava,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You know I published the material?’

  ‘I do,’ Rhona said. Like everyone else, she’d devoured it. Discussed it with Bill.

  ‘Was it a mistake to release it?’

  Rhona chose her words carefully, aware of the impact they might make. ‘It was what Nadia wanted.’

  ‘But maybe it was already too late? If they’re both dead.’

  ‘There was never going to be a right time. We knew that.’ She used ‘we’ to take some responsibility for the decision too. Bill felt the same. They’d discussed doing this and keeping Nadia in Orkney for safety. Apparently that hadn’t worked out as planned.

  Rhona had been involved with disappearances before. Where young people were involved, especially in a small tight-knit community such as Orphir, they usually returned, but not always. When the news was bad, the family often seemed to know that their loved one was dead before they were told.

  ‘What’s your gut feeling about Dougie?’ she said.

  Silence, then . . .

  ‘He knows these waters as well as anyone. I don’t think they’ve drowned. But if the police thought I was in danger from Go Wild, then Dougie and the girl were too.’

  ‘If they left because you were hesitating to publish as you promised, then by doing that you might bring them back.’ It was what Rhona had been hoping for, as had Bill.

  There was a moment’s silence, as though Ava was making her mind up what she should say next.

  ‘There’s something else,’ she said eventually. ‘Mark gave me all his evidence. He’d told me to hold it back, when I met him in London, because he feared the police would bury it if he handed it over. I alluded to it in my piece, but there are images, videos, interviews conducted with participants in these games. It could be explosive, because of who is in there. I think that’s why he was killed.’ Her voice tailed off as she tried to collect herself. ‘So do I wait here for Dougie to come home or come to Glasgow and hand over this evidence?’

  Now Rhona knew the true nature of the call. Ava was basically asking, what job should she put first? Her professional one or the personal?

  Rhona thought briefly of her own situation. How often she had put the job before her private life. Her work before her son, before Sean.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ she said, in all honesty.

  ‘I suspect I know what you would do,’ Ava said. ‘I’ll book a flight to Glasgow as soon as possible, and let Erling know my decision.’

  Rhona cut in at this point. ‘If that’s what you want, then you’re welcome to stay here with me.’

  ‘You would do that? I suspect, like up here, I’ll have to have some sort of security.’

  ‘I’ve had police minders before,’ Rhona assured her. ‘It occasionally comes with the job.’

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ Ava said, her voice certain again. ‘I plan to ask that DS McNab does the interview. Mark trusted him and so do I.’ And with that, she rang off.

  Rhona went through to the kitchen, Tom following her, rubbing himself against her legs. From the window, she would watch the sunrise, because going back to bed no longer seemed an option.

  She put on the coffee and made herself a bowl of cereal, pouring some of the milk into a dish for Tom, something he had been hoping for, as displayed by the joyous sounds he was now emitting.

  Despite her carefully chosen answers, she’d been thrown by Ava’s last question. She’d often admitted to herself how work obsessed she was, but it was more difficult to admit that to others.

  She poured herself a coffee and sat on the window seat to watch the sun come up.

  Their work on the items taken from the staff and visitor quarters on the ship was nearly complete. They now knew that the male who had washed ashore had slept in one of the deck containers, as had Nadia, so that part of her story was true. But it seemed the staff might have been used in other ways, for Chrissy had also found samples of Nadia’s DNA in the bed used by the games’ two victims. Nadia was young and pretty and, in essence, a prisoner, where her guards could demand anything of her, if the alternative was to be the victim in a killing game or thrown overboard.

  If she had been working illegally, that would prove even more difficult for her, should she come in for questioning. The fact that she wanted to tell her story at all showed great courage.

  Rhona watched as the first rays of the rising sun found the resident statue of the Virgin Mary in the convent garden below, bathing her in early morning light.

  Had she been religious, she would have called it a sign. In her case, Rhona just hoped it might be.

  69

  The water was flat calm, the two black heads of the visiting seals bobbing like corks, their eyes feasting on him as he walked the shoreline.

  Nadia had wanted to return to the Orlova, arguing that no one would look for them there. Dougie hadn’t been so sure.

  Fear had driven Nadia’s desire to run. He had been less keen, but he’d known that if he refused, she would have run away alone
and unprotected. And he couldn’t have let that happen. So he’d brought her here, knowing that eventually someone would come for them. He only hoped that it might be a friend rather than an enemy.

  But how would he know the difference unless he chose them himself?

  So he was planning to do that without telling her, knowing he had a limited time before his mobile and his power pack both ran to empty.

  She would feel betrayed, but it had to be done, he told himself again.

  He had succeeded in hiding the tent, and they’d not lit a fire. What food he’d brought was almost done. But someone would spot them eventually. And he couldn’t watch the sky and the water forever.

  He brought out his mobile. Now he had to decide who to call. His guilt at not telling Ava he was alive rose again to engulf him. He’d wanted her to release the material and she’d not been sure, and Nadia wouldn’t agree to wait any longer. So they’d fled, setting fire to the boathouse to cover their tracks. He was sorry about that, nearly weeping as they’d sailed away, the flames melting into the distance.

  ‘I’ll rebuild it,’ he’d promised himself, ‘when this is all over.’

  The phone signal was poor. Walking out into the water, it grew a little stronger. Had he kept the Fear Not, he would have taken the boat out past the headland and called from there.

  What if he’d lost his boat forever? For a moment, he considered everything he had lost in such a short time. His mum, his dad, soon his home, and now the Fear Not.

  But not Ava, a small voice reminded him.

  Thigh-high now in the water, he found a signal. Maybe just enough. He imagined he could see the house at Houton Bay, jutting out into the water. He imagined Magnus on his jetty, his dinghy tied alongside . . . and pressed the call button.

  When he re-entered the tent, she was still asleep, Finn beside her as commanded. He chose not to disturb her, but silently compared her life up to now with his own.

  He’d considered he’d had it bad, but it was nothing in comparison to what she had endured. While listening to the recording she’d made with Ava, he’d suspected there was more being left unsaid. Now he knew the other things she’d been forced to do on the Orlova.