Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

  He’d got the impression when he went to the hotel after Rhona’s phone call that the guy wasn’t telling him the whole story. That’s why he’d brought him in. Although an opportunity to question him further had gone now that Slater was involved. Bill wondered how soon Slater and Black would pick up Petersson, and whether he could have a word with him first.

  He glanced at his watch. A couple of hours until the post mortem on the Rosevale remains. Like him, Rhona had had little sleep, but he knew she would be there. Maybe they’d get a chance to talk afterwards.

  He gazed sadly out of his window.

  A few years ago, he would have had a clear line of sight to the railway line that ran west out of Glasgow. The new-look city had put paid to that with its explosion of glossy high rises. He might not be able to take in the old view, but he remembered it well enough.

  Bill had fond memories of visiting Eglinton signal box as a boy. Set high, it had been the only box you had to cross tracks to get to, and he’d climbed what seemed like hundreds of steps to reach it. Up there he had felt like king of the tracks.

  Glasgow was changing. Where once the great railways had ruled, now the new roads were cutting across old streets and railway lines – including the main west coast line he’d looked down on as a boy.

  The last decade had brought other changes, changes Bill neither liked nor understood. The Glasgow hard men he had known were being replaced by something much worse, whose new activities brought in money and misery on a scale Bill could hardly have imagined ten years ago: identity fraud; online paedophilia; human trafficking; prostitution, and – as always – drugs.

  Glasgow bastards were bad enough, but at least Bill knew how their minds worked because most of them had come from similar backgrounds to his. Paddy Brogan’s father would never have countenanced the shooting of a policeman outside his club. That would have been a sacrilege, endangering a lifetime’s work. The elder Patrick Brogan had respected the police enough to make sure he never crossed them on purpose. And he would never have exposed his family and business the way his son had done.

  And that was why Paddy Brogan junior was dead.

  ‘You could press charges,’ said Bill.

  When he had called Petersson, the Icelander had suggested he come over to talk face to face. His voice on the phone had made it clear he was in a great deal of pain, and in person he looked terrible.

  ‘I could, but I won’t.’ Petersson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘My main concern at the moment is McNab, as, no doubt, is yours. You spoke to the night porter?’

  Bill nodded. ‘His description of the man he said left with McNab was fairly minimal. A massive, ugly, muscled guy, he said.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘I think he was lying or not telling the whole truth.’

  Petersson frowned. ‘You know Rhona pretended to be an escort to get in to see McNab?’

  Bill raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘And?’

  ‘And the porter made a play for her. She turned him down, then revealed who she really was.’

  ‘And that pissed him off?’

  Petersson nodded.

  ‘So he could have made it all up to get back at her?’ Bill said.

  Petersson looked serious. ‘Could be, but I don’t think so. It’d be quite a coincidence that his description fitted Solonik. My gut feeling is there’s more. Maybe someone did come looking for McNab and the night porter let him in? Rhona says the porter made a phone call as she was driving away.’

  ‘So we check out his mobile.’

  ‘If he still has it.’

  Bill was silent for a moment before he said what was on his mind. ‘You should have told me what was going on.’

  ‘I work alone.’

  ‘Then why involve Rhona?’

  ‘Come on, Bill. You know Rhona MacLeod better than I do. I’d say she chose me as much as I chose her.’

  That, Bill didn’t doubt. He changed the subject.

  ‘DI Slater’s in charge of Brogan’s killing. He has a London SOCA man with him, DI Black.’

  Petersson straightened up, wincing. ‘Harry Black? Short hair, sharp dresser, looks about twelve years old?’

  Bill nodded. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘He was in charge of the safety detail on McNab and Morrison. When he lost them both, he made a fool of himself.’

  ‘Can he be trusted?’

  ‘Whatever he does will be in his own interest,’ Petersson replied. ‘He needs to redeem himself. Get his career back on track.’

  Bill said nothing for a moment, taking stock of the situation. He was on the outside now, like Petersson. True, he would have access to some information on the Brogan killing and the search for McNab. SOCA would have to rely on local back-up who would be keen to keep him up to date, if only to spite Slater. But it would do no harm to be in Petersson’s confidence too. Bill had no doubt of the journalist’s capabilities, injured or not. After all, he was the one who’d discovered McNab was still alive. And it would be better to keep an eye on him.

  ‘What d’you say we work together on this? In an unofficial capacity, of course.’

  ‘That wouldn’t put you on the spot?’

  ‘Let’s just say you’ve joined my list of informants.’

  ‘And Rhona?’

  ‘I’ll tell her we’ve talked when I see her at the post mortem.’ Bill paused, before asking the question he really came here for. ‘OK, you probably know the way Nikolai Kalinin operates better than anyone. If he did abduct McNab, what next?’

  ‘I don’t think he’d necessarily kill him immediately. McNab has a lot of information he’s interested in. And as long as he has him, McNab can’t turn up in court.’ Petersson looked grave. ‘My guess is Kalinin will make this last as long as possible in order to derive the most pleasure he can from it.’

  ‘He’ll torture him?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  18

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  Chrissy was wild eyed. Rhona had just finished filling her in on Brogan’s shooting.

  ‘We won’t be processing the scene.’

  ‘You won’t, but who says I can’t?’ Chrissy retorted.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  Chrissy pulled out her mobile and made a quick call. Rhona only heard her half of the conversation, but it was obvious what was going on. Chrissy rang off.

  ‘Pull over. I get out here.’

  ‘What about the PM?’

  Chrissy glared at her. ‘We need someone at the Poker Club. What if that stupid bastard McNab did have something to do with Brogan’s death?’

  ‘You can’t cover for him.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing that. I just want to know what the hell’s going on. I’ll pick up a taxi. Call you later.’ Chrissy was already out of the vehicle. Rhona watched her turn the corner on to the main road and disappear.

  McNab, once Chrissy’s nemesis, had become her champion. He had that effect on people. Difficult to be with, but difficult to shake off. Chrissy was right, though; if they didn’t have someone on the ground at the Poker Club, they wouldn’t get the full picture.

  Rhona still had a gnawing feeling that McNab had done something terrible. But why would he kill Brogan now? It didn’t make sense. McNab had been in hiding, believed dead, for months, and could have targeted Brogan at any point during that time. The thought comforted her somewhat. McNab wanted his job and his life back. He had made that plain enough when they last met. He wouldn’t jeopardise that. Would he?

  What did any of this matter if Kalinin had him?

  That was a thought she couldn’t deal with. She tried to focus on the road instead. Today’s journey through the city centre was nothing like the previous night’s. No longer an empty film set, it was now jam-packed with vehicles snaking round the one-way system.

  After phoning Bill from Petersson’s, she’d finally driven home to try to snatch a few hours’ sleep. The Rosevale remains had been scheduled for
removal to the mortuary first thing this morning. Supervising the proceedings had kept her mind occupied, although she’d still tried McNab’s mobile every half hour.

  When the body was finally on its way, Rhona had encased the backboard in a plastic bag and seen it safely to the lab before writing up her notes. There had been little opportunity to speak to Chrissy in private during the proceedings, so she’d skipped over her questions about the trip to the Poker Club, promising the full story on their way to the PM.

  She’d eventually given Chrissy a potted version of the previous night’s events, omitting her visit to the hotel and her conversation with the night porter, deciding to wait until Bill had interviewed the man.

  She was aware she was nursing a forlorn hope that the night porter’s account of McNab’s departure had been designed to get back at her. She’d run the conversation over in her mind a thousand times, wondering if she’d assumed he’d been describing Solonik, because that was her greatest fear.

  Bill appeared in the changing room at the mortuary as she was suiting up. He looked as weary as she felt.

  ‘Fancy a coffee after this?’ he asked.

  ‘If you still have the stomach for it.’

  He looked as if he wanted a heart to heart. Rhona’s own heart sank at the prospect.

  The body was laid out, the curled limbs straightened. The harness had been removed, as had the collar and studs from the nose and tongue. These were set out on a table nearby like a display of medieval torture implements, waiting for forensic examination.

  Now that the pubic region was fully exposed, it was clear that they were dealing with a male: the pathologist was in the process of removing a metal testicle cuff from the dried and ragged remains of the scrotum.

  An hour later, much of what Rhona had already surmised had been confirmed. The victim had not been stabbed, shot or bludgeoned to death. Judging by the intact hyoid bone and no evidence of broken cervical vertebrae, he was unlikely to have been strangled either. All of which brought them back to Rhona’s initial theory that he may have been walled in alive and asphyxiated.

  At this point Rhona asked if she might remove the fingers and take them to the lab for fingerprinting. Dr Sissons greeted her request with wry humour, not something he was normally known for, and declared he would take a short break while she cut them off. The rest of the audience went with him.

  Cutting off the fingers was the worst bit. After that the process of preparing them for fingerprinting was routine. Rhona set to it, glad that she had been left alone to carry out the procedure. The fingers safely stored for removal to the lab, Rhona decided not to stay for the rest of the procedure; her part was done. She told Sissons the corpse was all his, and went looking for Bill. He was waiting in the changing room, stripped of his white suit and talking on his mobile. Rhona changed and washed her hands thoroughly. The lingering scent of the mortuary would have to stay with her until after she’d processed the fingers, then she would have a shower.

  Bill finished his phone call. ‘OK, let’s find a decent cup of coffee. We’ve a lot to talk about,’ he said, ominously.

  The City Mortuary and the High Court being neighbours, it seemed fitting that they should head for McNab’s favourite café. They walked in silence. Whatever Bill was thinking, it wasn’t happy thoughts. Rhona sensed his gloom and anger and immediately assumed the worst. Had he learned more about McNab’s abduction? She glanced round at him as they walked, hoping Bill might put her out of her misery, but he continued to stare straight ahead.

  When they reached the Central Café he urged her into a booth next to the one she’d sat in with McNab.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Black and strong. A mug, please,’ she said.

  He nodded and headed for the counter, returning empty handed. ‘They’ll bring them over.’ He sat down opposite, catching her enquiring look. ‘Let’s wait. I don’t want to be interrupted or overheard.’

  They sat in heavy silence, surrounded by the hum of other conversations. Eventually the coffees arrived, served by a wee woman with a distracted air whom Rhona didn’t recognise. She bumped the two mugs down unceremoniously and swiftly departed.

  Rhona blew on hers and took a mouthful, needing the caffeine hit to face whatever was coming next. Bill studied his own coffee for a few minutes before looking up.

  ‘I went to see Petersson.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I wanted to speak to him before Slater got there.’

  ‘Slater?’

  ‘He’s taking over the Brogan shooting. Him and a guy from SOCA, DI Black.’

  So she wasn’t the only one forbidden to have anything to do with the case. ‘If it wasn’t for Slater—’ she began angrily.

  ‘I know.’ Bill stopped her. ‘I don’t trust him either. That’s why I asked Petersson to work with me on this. Unofficially, of course.’ His next words were tentative. ‘We also discussed Kalinin, and the possibility that McNab was abducted.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain,’ she said, swiftly.

  ‘That’s true,’ he assured her. ‘And I’m not sure I believe everything your night porter says.’

  ‘Petersson told you about the escort thing?’ she guessed.

  He smiled. ‘Good undercover work, Dr MacLeod. I could get you a part-time job.’

  ‘I thought I just signed up for one?’

  The moment of levity over, Rhona waited with trepidation for what was to follow.

  ‘Petersson knows Kalinin’s ways better than anyone.’ Bill was choosing his words carefully. ‘If, and I stress if Kalinin has McNab, Petersson believes he won’t kill him straight away.’

  Rhona’s initial rush of relief gave way to dread. ‘Why?’

  Bill looked down at his coffee again.

  ‘He’ll … hurt him?’ She couldn’t bring herself to say torture.

  ‘The longer Kalinin keeps McNab alive, the better our chances of finding him.’

  ‘But you’re not sure he has him?’ she repeated.

  ‘We have no definite proof, either way.’ Bill met her worried look. ‘McNab’s tough. He’s survived whatever they’ve thrown at him up to now.’

  Rhona wasn’t sure if Bill was saying that to boost her spirits, or his own. She tried to focus on doing something positive.

  ‘So what’s our next move?’

  ‘I’m going to run a check on Matthew Sinclair, our night porter. See if he has any previous, find out who he mixes with. Maybe even threaten him with a sexual-assault charge against an officer in the line of duty. Petersson has his own contacts, and he thinks he can find out if Kalinin has picked up McNab.’

  ‘Petersson can hardly walk.’

  ‘He can sit at his computer. Apparently that’s enough.’ Bill was silent for a moment. ‘Before we leave this, is there anything else about that night you need to tell me, before Slater comes asking?’

  Rhona realised she would probably be interviewed by Slater. God, it would take all her resolve not to spit in his eye. She took a moment to think. She’d been keeping secrets from Bill and Chrissy for months. Even now she hadn’t told Chrissy the whole truth. But had she told Bill everything that had happened that night?

  There was something. She didn’t think it had any relevance to McNab but she would say it all the same.

  ‘When Petersson went off with Brogan and left me in the bar, I saw Edward and Fiona Stewart. I tried to avoid them but Edward spotted me and came over.’ She grimaced at the memory. ‘He made a big thing about telling me he was there with Lord Dalrymple.’

  Bill gave a low whistle. ‘So it’s Lord Dalrymple now. Funny how scum always rises to the top.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I don’t recall any mention of Edward Stewart or Lord Dalrymple having been on the premises when I arrived. I think I’ll check up on that. Maybe, with friends in high places, Dalrymple managed to wheedle his way out, again.’

  Superintendent Sutherland and Lord Dalrymple were old acquaintances. Moving in the upper echelons of society, as
the senior officer did, it would be hard to avoid knowing Dalrymple. But Rhona understood Bill’s disquiet. A lodge house on Dalrymple’s country estate had featured in a murder enquiry. The fact that the evidence for this came from a rent boy, Neil MacGregor, had made it, in Sutherland’s eyes, inadmissible. Neil MacGregor had almost died because of what he knew.

  And two other young men had died; garrotted, their bodies bitten and mutilated. They had caught the guy organising the supply of vulnerable young males and discovered he’d groomed many of the teenagers online, one of them Edward and Fiona’s son Jonathan. Jonathan, one of the lucky ones, had escaped with his life. Of course Dalrymple had insisted he’d had no knowledge of what his lodge house had been used for, and the police had found nothing.

  ‘According to Black, McNab took a gun from the safe house,’ said Bill. ‘We need to know if that gun was the one used to kill Brogan.’

  ‘Chrissy’s inveigled her way on to the forensic team. She’s at the Poker Club now, and she’ll have access to details on the murder weapon.’

  Bill’s face broke into a grin. ‘Bloody hell. I love that lassie. As long as Slater doesn’t recognise her,’ he added.

  ‘Chrissy knows the score. She’ll be careful.’ Rhona glanced at her watch. ‘I have to get those fingers to the lab if I want to lift prints tomorrow.’

  ‘Before you go, I need a quick word about Liam.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said warily.

  ‘Jude’s neighbour in the Hall of Residence thought she heard Jude come back. The warden called Liam. When they took a look, they found the room had been ransacked and Jude’s laptop taken.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘Liam gave me a memory stick he’d removed from Jude’s computer. I had its contents checked. Mostly photos of old cinemas, a sound file of an interview with a former projectionist … and something else.’

  Rhona waited.

  ‘There were about fifty still shots. The tech guy who studied them thought they were digital photographs of individual frames of an old film reel. They ran them together in movie software and it was a film. Two men involved in S and M, shot in black and white. Amidst the debris in Jude’s room we found an empty film canister, labelled ‘Olympia Bridgeton’ and dated a week ago. Whoever ransacked her room took her laptop and possibly the reel of film she was photographing.’