Blood Torment

by T F Muir

  ‘Because you lied about talking to your sister,’ Jessie said, ‘and denied having another phone, I’m taking this for further investigation.’ She handed the mobile to Mhairi. ‘Next time we meet, I’ll be expecting honest answers to some straight questions. And I would advise you to contact your solicitor, if you’ve not already done so.’ She turned and walked from the kitchen, leaving Andrea sobbing behind her.

  But as she walked into the hallway and past the staircase, she had the oddest feeling of having just been duped.

  CHAPTER 24

  Gilchrist surfaced from Aldgate Underground into the city-centre heat of a rush-hour London evening. Fellow travellers bustled around, swarming up and down the Underground staircase like bees raiding an infested hive. Traffic rushed along the street with noisy purpose, plugs of metal that shunted in stop-start bursts between traffic lights. Glass walls towered by his side, reflecting the heat and noise and the discordant march of a thousand feet.

  Compared with the quiet of the Fife countryside, he could be in a foreign country.

  He took several seconds to get his bearings, then removed his mobile and dialled Lloyd’s. He’d called Novo’s office earlier – at 1 p.m. and 3.30 p.m. – to make sure she hadn’t left the building on some impromptu overseas jaunt. But he needn’t have worried. She’d been tied up in meetings on both occasions.

  This time he asked to speak to her in person.

  He walked along Aldgate High Street while he waited for the connection to be made, and had to press a hand to his ear to block out a burst of traffic noise.

  ‘She says she doesn’t want to speak to you.’

  ‘Tell her she has no choice. She needs to speak to me as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘She says she’s adamant, sir.’

  ‘Tell her.’

  ‘One moment.’

  When Novo eventually came to the phone, she said, ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘We interviewed your sister, Andrea, this afternoon, and we have her other mobile, the one she took out under the name of Katarina Davis.’

  ‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

  ‘Don’t you think it odd?’

  ‘Is this the urgent matter? To ask if I think it odd that my sister has two phones?’ She snorted a derisive laugh. ‘Goodbye, eh . . . who did you say you were again?’

  Gilchrist smiled at her attempt to minimise him, then said, ‘You continue to avoid—’

  But the connection was already dead.

  He slipped his mobile into his pocket and eyed the street for a taxi. He saw one, tried to flag it down, but the driver appeared to ignore him, as if he’d been warned not to pick up irritated Scotsmen wearing leather jackets on a warm April evening.

  He slipped off his jacket, undid his tie, and carried on walking.

  When he arrived at Lloyd’s office in Lime Street, he checked the time – not yet 5.30 – and entered the steel and glass building, trying to calculate how much it cost to build such a glittering monstrosity, but coming up blank. The air-conditioning had him slipping on his jacket again. He studied the address board on the wall, but could not identify Novo’s office with any certainty, so he pulled out his mobile and dialled her office.

  He recognised the receptionist’s voice. ‘This is DCI Gilchrist,’ he said, ‘and I would remind you that I’m a detective with Fife Constabulary.

  A pause, then, ‘Yes, sir. How can I help you?’

  ‘Can you tell me what time Ms Novo will be leaving the office this evening? As she refuses to take my call at work, I thought I might try her at home.’

  ‘She’s actually just about to leave, sir.’

  ‘Going straight home, you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  He thought it best not to bring attention to himself, so he thanked her and ended the call. Then he strolled to a spot in the entrance foyer, and stood with his back to the wall with an unrestricted view of the lifts and door.

  It did not take long – five minutes – before he recognised Novo from one of Jackie’s downloads. She looked older in real life, as if the daily pressure of working in the country’s nerve-centre had aged her. And not as slim as he’d imagined, either. Where her sister, Andrea, was thin – not skeletal, more undernourished and uncared for – Novo’s white silk blouse and navy-blue jacket looked business expensive but one size too tight. A matching skirt hugged tanned thighs, and her high heels gave a solid definition to a pair of well-shaped legs.

  Her hair was much blonder than Andrea’s, and in better condition, tied back in a loose bun that exposed wisps of dark hair and a freckled neck still ruddy from a recent visit to some place in the sun. She was accompanied by two men in ubiquitous dark business suits, who spoke far too loudly for their surroundings, their harsh voices echoing as they joked and laughed, as if willing their female associate – or, maybe, boss – to join in the fun.

  But Novo’s bitter lips told Gilchrist that she was having none of it.

  He followed them out of the building and down the entrance steps, keeping a good distance back, blending in with others leaving the office, just one more employee in a field of employees at the end of a working day. As they neared the junction at Leadenhall Street, he worried that they might hail a taxi. He could hail one himself, even call Novo on her mobile if he had to – number courtesy of Jackie, the best researcher in the world – but if Novo got wind that he was anywhere near London, she would kill the call.

  Still, it was an option.

  As the trio crossed the street, one of the men, the taller and older of the two, bumped his thigh against Novo’s once, twice – deliberately, Gilchrist thought – but when he tried a third time, she sidestepped him with practised ease, and turned her head to talk to her other companion.

  Gilchrist followed them – now a party of two and straggler of one – as they crossed Leadenhall Street and entered Creechurch Lane, a narrow one-way street that seemed more road than lane. When they paused at the window of a restaurant, Gilchrist walked on, mobile to his ear, just another one of London’s eight million souls making a call home. The younger of the two men held the restaurant door open, and had more than a casual glance at Novo’s rump and legs as she entered.

  The older man followed her inside, and something passed between the two men – a subtle smirk, a secret shared, an evening to look forward to?

  Gilchrist walked on, and caught them moving towards a seat by the window. Novo squeezed in beside her door-opener, both facing their lonely associate opposite, who seemed resigned to his position as an outsider – although the memory of that passing smirk suggested his loneliness might be only temporary.

  Gilchrist reached the end of Creechurch Lane, then called Jessie.

  ‘You spoken to her yet?’ Jessie asked him.

  ‘Just about to.’ Gilchrist eyed the lane. Despite the short walk, sweat dampened his shirt, and he edged into the cooler shadows. Groups of threes and fours sidled along the road, as if intent on slaking their thirst in the nearest bar. ‘Anything on that other mobile?’ he said.

  ‘Our IT guys are checking it out, but they’re telling me it looks like it’s hardly been used at all. The only number it’s ever dialled is Novo’s. Strange, don’t you think?’

  ‘What did she say about Mark Davidson staying over?’

  ‘Another denial. What else? But she kind of semi-caved in the end.’

  ‘Not an open admission, you mean?’

  ‘Precisely. But I’d love to be a fly on your wall tonight.’

  ‘Let me get back to you,’ he said, and strode back along the lane.

  Through the window, Novo and her male companions were deep in conversation, heads huddled over the table. Both men had clouded schooners of beer as light as lager, while Novo was stirring a straw in a tall glass topped with ice and rimmed with a pink umbrella, a slice of lime and another of orange.

  Inside, the restaurant was redolent of curry spice, and echoed with the ring of cutlery and glassware chin
king. Several customers sat at a long bar that fronted a shelved gantry filled to the brim, behind which an ethnic barman in a white shirt polished glasses.

  Gilchrist approached Novo from behind, swung in, and sat opposite her.

  The older companion flashed a panicked glance at the strange man by his side, and said, ‘That seat is taken, if you don’t mind,’ voice purring with public school eloquence.

  ‘I do mind,’ Gilchrist said, and showed him his warrant card.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Novo gasped, and reached for her handbag as she slid from her seat, the younger of her associates scrambling after her.

  ‘You can leave if you like,’ Gilchrist said as she pushed to her feet, ‘but I don’t think you would like either of your companions to hear what I have to say.’

  ‘Would you like me to get rid of him for you, Rachel?’ the younger man said. He was standing by her side, eyes glowing with a strange light, as if anger was burning within him.

  Gilchrist grinned up at him. ‘This’ll be interesting.’

  The younger man slipped his mobile into his hand, and swiped the screen.

  Gilchrist turned to the man by his side. ‘I’m a Detective Chief Inspector with Fife Constabulary in Scotland and I’m investigating—’

  ‘How dare you.’ Novo’s voice was loud enough to have a couple seated at the bar turn and stare at her.

  Her young associate froze, mobile in hand, mouth opened in a silent: What?

  ‘How dare I what?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Explain my presence?’

  ‘You have no jurisdictional right in London—’

  ‘I have every right to investigate a missing—’

  ‘Will you excuse us?’ Novo snapped to her companions.

  The younger man held out his mobile, as if to let her see it. ‘I can call the police.’

  ‘He is the police, you idiot.’

  Gilchrist slid from his seat to let the older man push past.

  ‘Call later, Rachel, darling,’ he said, thumb and little finger at his ear.

  And with that parting comment, Gilchrist found himself alone with Novo.

  He took his seat, and watched the two men spill on to Creechurch Lane, mobiles in their hands, and stride towards Leadenhall Street like two strangers.

  Novo seemed in two minds whether to stay or not, until Gilchrist held out his open palm, a silent invitation for her to join him. She jostled into her seat, thumping her bag down beside her, then lifted her glass. ‘I’ve a good mind to throw this over your face.’

  ‘It’d be a waste of an expensive drink.’

  She eyed him over the rim of her glass, with a laser look that could have cut through steel. Then she took an angry mouthful, almost finished it, and returned the glass to the table with a hard thud that should have cracked it. ‘I resent your interrupting my evening, and I resent your trying to embarrass me in front of—’

  ‘Cut the cackle,’ Gilchrist snapped. ‘I’ve had enough of listening to you and other members of your family trying to fob me off. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It makes no difference to me. But what I will say is, you and me are going to have a heart-to-heart.’ He leaned forward, close enough to see hairs on her upper lip, blackheads on a fine nose, flakes of mascara on caked eyelashes.

  ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer in the search for a missing child, Katarina Davis, your twin sister’s daughter, your niece, and not once have you asked how that investigation is coming along.’

  From her burning glare, he had her attention, all of it.

  ‘And I’m here to find out why.’

  CHAPTER 25

  Novo held Gilchrist’s look as long and as hard as she could, until a tremor tugged at the corners of her mouth and she reached for her glass and pressed it to her lips. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, then drained her drink, and flashed a look at the bar.

  Silent, Gilchrist watched while a waiter appeared at the table.

  ‘Same again,’ she snarled at him.

  Gilchrist’s thirst obliged him to grab the opportunity; he asked for a bottle of Sam Adams, but had to settle for a Cobra. ‘Large one,’ he agreed.

  ‘Perhaps I should phone my solicitor,’ she said.

  ‘That’s your prerogative, of course. But I don’t believe you’re involved in Katarina’s abduction,’ he said, just to settle her down. He gave her a short smile, but it was only one-way. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me about Dimitri?’

  ‘What’s there to tell?’ she said. ‘I fled Scotland to get away from one abuser, only to end up with another.’ She opened her handbag and scrabbled through it, then snapped it shut, as if remembering that the restaurant was non-smoking.

  ‘Did Dimitri know Andrea?’ Gilchrist tried.

  Her lips pursed.

  ‘I think he did,’ he suggested. ‘And I think they met.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Why would she give her daughter a Russian name?’

  Novo narrowed her eyes, as if seeing him from another angle. ‘Maybe she likes Russian names. How would I know? I never see her.’

  ‘But you talk to her.’ He studied her through the movement of her eyes, and came to see that here was a woman who thought quickly on her feet, who would manipulate the truth, who could never be trusted, who would seduce you as soon as ditch you, just to get what she wanted.

  ‘So what are you saying?’ she said.

  ‘I’m asking you about Dimitri.’

  ‘If he met Andrea?’

  ‘More than that.’

  ‘More than what?’

  ‘How close was he to Andrea?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out?’ she said, then tightened her lips as her eyes searched for the waiter again.

  He tried to keep his surprise hidden. Had she just confirmed his suspicions?

  ‘When we first spoke,’ he said, ‘you came across as someone in control. And when I saw you in the office lobby this evening, I thought that too. But now . . . ’ He let his comment hang between them. ‘Now I see I was wrong.’

  The waiter returned, placed another highball tumbler before her, then poured Gilchrist’s Cobra into a fluted glass, as if it were vintage champagne.

  When the waiter left, Gilchrist said, ‘So Andrea and Dimitri were . . . for want of a better word . . . close?’ He paused for a few beats, but she was giving nothing away. ‘Was that why you divorced him?’

  She frowned for a moment, as if caught off-guard, or appalled by the question. Then she seemed to recover, and said, ‘One of the reasons.’

  He decided to go straight to the heart. ‘Does he know Katarina is his?’

  Her eyes flashed at him. ‘You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  If this evening was anything to go by, he thought, possibly not. But he said, ‘Dimitri fathered Katarina, I think.’ The Russian name had been the inescapable clue, but it seemed odd to him that her eyes softened at his comment, and she eased her glass to her lips and took a ladylike sip.

  He took a mouthful of beer, too, conscious of having to pace himself, or he’d be on his second glass in no time. He watched Novo’s gaze dance around the restaurant, and could not help but feel that he was missing something, some major part of the story without which nothing made sense. He waited until her gaze returned, then said: ‘Tell me about Andrea.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Slut,’ she hissed.

  ‘That sounds heartless.’

  ‘Being brought up in a heartless environment called home made me cold-hearted, too. Just like my mother.’

  Well, he couldn’t disagree with that. ‘If Andrea had Dimitri’s child,’ he pried, ‘why do you keep in touch with her?’

  It was such a simple question, but one that seemed to carry a load. Novo
grimaced as if crushed by a ton weight. Then she unclipped her handbag, removed a packet of tissues, and ripped one free. She folded it around her finger and dabbed the corners of her eyes. Then she sniffed, and crumpled the tissue in her hand.

  ‘Andrea has no one to talk to,’ she said.

  Gilchrist returned her gaze, surprised by the ease with which tears appeared. ‘So she calls you on the morning her daughter disappears, for what? To have a chat?’

  ‘She was upset.’

  ‘Not when she dialled 999 she wasn’t. I’ve listened to that recording.’

  ‘It’s how she handles difficult moments,’ Novo said. ‘The Davis way of showing pain to the public. They don’t.’ She reached for her drink, gulped more than a sip. ‘God help you if you show any weakness. No Davis can ever do that.’

  ‘Except that you’re doing that right now.’

  ‘I’m no longer a Davis,’ she snapped. ‘I got out of that family before I lost my sanity.’

  ‘And Andrea didn’t.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Something settled behind Novo’s eyes, as if she’d remembered some long-forgotten incident. Then she returned her glass to the table, and stared at it. ‘She’s not a well woman, Mr Gilchrist. My sister is the weaker of the two of us. She always was. Growing up, we were as close as . . . ’ She gave a flicker of a smile. ‘ . . . Twins, I suppose. Two peas in a pod. We even had the same thoughts at the very same moment, as if our brains were linked in some way.’

  ‘Not a well woman,’ he said, trying to nudge her back on track.

  ‘No, she’s not. Psychologically she’s . . . ’ Novo shook her head. ‘Damaged.’

  Gilchrist waited for more to follow, but Novo looked spent, as if the thought of her sister being damaged was now affecting her. ‘But you’re not,’ he said. ‘You’re strong. And you’re strong for Andrea. Is that why she called that morning?’

  ‘She was upset. She didn’t know what to do. She was in tears. I told her to call 999 and report Katie missing.’

  Katie. No longer Katarina. He sipped his beer while he worked through the rationale. When he returned the glass to the table, he said, ‘So how do you think having her only child abducted will affect Andrea?’