The three detectives continued to speak for another fifteen minutes. Despite their stated misgivings, the visiting chief inspectors from the forces on either side of the Tayside Police area promised they would work together with DI Novak. She listened to their assurances of co-operation and politely thanked them for their attendance. Inwardly, she sighed at their scepticism, forgetting that that was how she had felt when McBride had first revealed his theory of connected murder victims.
As the two men were about to leave, she made a suggestion. ‘Since you’re co-operating so helpfully, we’d best give the inquiry an operational name – you know how our superiors enjoy these things.’
Brewster shrugged. ‘Please yourself. What do you fancy?’
‘Something with “tri” in it – you know, for three, as in three police forces,’ she explained.
Law made the first offer, ‘What about Trichomonas?’
Brewster looked blank.
Novak smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, nice. You want us to name it after a sexually transmitted disease.’
The chief inspector from Fife grinned but said nothing.
Brewster brightened. ‘I know – Tripe!’ He could barely get the word out for laughing.
‘My turn,’ Novak said. ‘We’ll call it Operation Tribune.’
The two chief inspectors nodded absently. ‘Fine,’ each of them said.
As she bade them farewell at the lift in the corridor outside the conference room, she allowed herself a private smile. The name of a newspaper – how appropriate, she told herself.
39
Nobody used to go to the gym, McBride thought to himself. That was because there weren’t any. They hadn’t been invented when he was growing up. Now the world was full of them – full of perspiring people trying to avoid heart attacks but probably inducing them, full of other sweaty people trying to look cool and wondering who was watching them. Men sneaking glances at panting women in tight Lycra. Women pretending they weren’t doing the same at the guys.
From his position on his static bicycle, McBride had two viewing possibilities. He could observe the half-dozen incredible hulks at the top corner of the Next Generation gym working out with weights the size of tractor wheels or he could concentrate on the four ponytails jogging sensually on the treadmills in front of him. The hulks missed out. They had enough spectators anyway – themselves. They couldn’t take their eyes off their own bulging bodies and moisturised orange faces in the banks of mirrors in front of them. And why did they have to grunt and curse all the time? So he watched the bobbing heads and bouncing buttocks on the running machines.
Occasionally, he glanced at the instrument on his wrist for a read-out of his heart rate. When it dropped below 142 beats a minute, he pedalled faster and kept turning the cranks at ever-increasing speed until it rose another forty beats. By the time his heart was hammering at a steady 182, he was no longer able to study the niceties of the varying body shapes of the ponytails. He could barely see them. Sweat cascaded like Niagara Falls off his forehead and into his eyes and his breath burst from his lungs in tortured gasps. He had looked more attractive on some other occasions – most other occasions.
He was between gasps when a voice spoke to him from behind. ‘There must be better ways of keeping fit, Mr McBride,’ it said quietly. He turned to look at the speaker but already knew the woman who made the words sound like an invitation was Anneke Meyer, the sample collector.
She had emerged from the small studio gym in the corner behind the spinning cycles. The water bottle and the towel she was carrying told McBride that she had just finished a session with her fellow body combat devotees. He would hardly have known it otherwise. The only trace of sweat was a small line of moisture above her upper lip which might have been caused by a tongue being drawn along it. Her golden hair was swept back in perfect symmetry. On top she wore a fitted purple vest with the indiscreet words ‘Just Do It’ discreetly placed over a small but firm breast. On the bottom, dove-grey Lycra pants stretched over her firm thighs and were even tighter on her backside. Only a wider than usual flare of her nostrils told him she had been breathing heavily.
He was glad Petra was not among her classmates that night. This was partly because he knew he looked a wreck but more because of the way he knew his eyes had inhaled the woman standing smiling at his side.
She spoke again before he could recover his breath or composure. ‘So, this is how you keep that magnificent frame in shape.’ She was teasing but, by the way she lingered in her undisguised study of his body, he knew that there was more than a trace of admiration in her comment.
‘I could say the same to you,’ McBride replied, pretending to breath normally. ‘This is a bit of luck. I was going to be ringing you.’ He did not know before he uttered them if the last seven words were true but knew as soon as he spoke them that they should have been.
‘My good fortune too, then,’ Anneke said. ‘For what reason?’ Her pale green eyes danced.
‘For a drink or food – or both.’
‘Being short-changed, am I?’ She gave a low laugh. ‘OK. Well, that will do for starters. When? Where? Isn’t that what you said to me when I was arranging to do the stuff with your mouth?’
McBride nodded.
‘And you said your place, didn’t you?’
He nodded again.
‘Best make it my place this time, then,’ Anneke said. Her eyes stopped dancing and looked straight into his. She waited for a response, her gaze not breaking until he spoke.
‘Tonight?’ he asked.
‘Perfect. How long have you got?’
He could not resist it. ‘Never had any complaints!’ He tried hard not to look like a smirking schoolboy.
She mimicked a seaside postcard. ‘Oooh! You are awful!’ She looked pleased. There was no embarrassment – just what seemed like anticipation.
For the second time on the three occasions they had met, Anneke Meyer dug into a bag in her possession, produced a notebook and then passed him the page she had written on. This time, the precise handwriting detailed her address.
‘Nine thirty, OK?’ she asked gently.
‘Ideal. That will give me time to have a sufficient number of showers to get rid of this sweat,’ McBride said.
She smiled at him, dropping her eyes theatrically. ‘Sometimes sweat is good.’
The air that fills the Carse of Gowrie is all the calendar you’ll ever need. It sweeps down the valley of the Tay in a gentle caress, coming off the river in an easy sigh and spreading across the flat fields all the way to the housing estates on the western boundary of Dundee. In summertime, it carries the scent of strawberries and raspberries and, in autumn, the smell of fresh soil from harvested potatoes. When winter turned to spring, it would bring the bouquet of new grass and wild flowers.
As McBride drove along the deserted country road taking him through Kingoodie, he lowered his window and allowed the cocktail smell of the river and hedgerows to fill his lungs. He sucked it in and breathed it out and wondered again why he’d ever swapped this place for the stench of London. Of course it was the job, the money – and the cosmopolitan women. But, whatever way he viewed it, he’d slowly come to understand what had kept people like Richard Richardson rooted in the place of his birth. The appreciation of the changing year – and with it the promise each new season seemed to bring – was largely absent for those who lived in major cities.
McBride’s thoughts turned to the purpose of his journey and he felt a surge of anticipation at what the rest of the night held. He had not considered where Anneke Meyer might have chosen to stay. If he had, he would not have expected it to be in the heart of the Perthshire countryside. He convinced himself that it told him something about her but he did not know what – unpredictability, maybe.
Although evening had not yet extended into what he thought of as night-time, during the twenty minutes it took him to travel along the narrow local road running parallel to the main highway, he had not passed a single ot
her vehicle. He squinted again at the address she had given him – 2 Cairnie Meadows, Glencarse. If there had not been an elegant sign pointing to a house 200 yards off the main road, he would not have easily found the place she called home. It wasn’t what he had expected either. The two-storey stone building now caug1ht in his headlights had clearly once been a farmhouse and almost certainly the abode of whoever had once owned the extensive fields on three of its sides. Since then it had been converted into what looked like two separate houses, each with new cottage-effect, white double-glazed windows. A garden with high hedges and the smell of fallen leaves extended off the rear. Two doors, each of them also white, led off the broad expansive of gravel in front of the structure. One was clearly the original entrance. The other, where a mock oil lantern glowed, was the access to the new residence that had been created by a sympathetic architect.
McBride swung on to the stone chips and the wheels were still noisily crunching over them when the most recent door opened and Anneke Meyer stepped out. As she stood there, framed in the light escaping from the front door, McBride realised it was the first time he had seen her legs. She was dressed stylishly but for casual effect. Mustard skirt in a soft suede fabric that stopped three inches above her knees. White drapey top that allowed the contours of her nipples to show. Silk scarf tied in a neckerchief. Black high heels. He couldn’t be sure from where he was but McBride decided she wasn’t wearing stockings. Make-up was minimal but skilfully applied. When she lifted a cheek to be kissed and he moved towards her to comply, he caught her fragrance. He did not recognise the brand but it was pricey. Groomed was what she was.
The interior of the house fitted its owner. Groomed it was too. All the walls he could see were the same – not white, not cream, just expensively in between. The floors that had once been stone were now laid in wood, real oak, immaculately sanded and varnished. Three rugs, different but matching, were carefully scattered. The sofa and chairs were buttercup yellow, timelessly modern. Probably designed in Denmark. Lighting was soft but bright enough to illuminate the Monet and Turner prints.
Music played from a hi-fi McBride could not see. He was astonished to recognise the CD as the Isis Project, the beautifully composed work of Englishman Guy Chambers which had been given French lyrics and sung so atmospherically by Sophie Hunter.
He could not conceal his surprise at her choice of entertainment. ‘I’m impressed,’ he told his hostess. ‘I thought I was the only person in the whole of Dundee with that album.’
She smiled, gently nodding acknowledgement of his praise, but saying nothing.
‘Do you know the story behind it?’ McBride asked, desperate to explain.
‘Yes, absolutely,’ she exclaimed with an unexpected eagerness. ‘He wrote it for his daughter Isis. It’s the exploration of an imaginary woman’s life and the journey goes from the innocence of childhood, through adolescence to the confusion and complexities of her life after that. I adore it – probably because I relate to it.’
McBride was starting to view her in a fresh light. He studied the woman whose physical appeal was magnetic and contemplated the depths that might be concealed behind the alluring exterior.
He quickly discovered that, among them, was an ability to prepare an exceptional meal at short notice. She described it as a light supper, indicating that she would have achieved more with greater notice, but McBride relished every mouthful of the mixed dish of smoked salmon and prawns.
As they ate, he delved into her background, probing conversationally but forensically. Her history unfolded piece by piece. She told him she was of mixed Dutch–English parentage and had grown up in Rotterdam but had attended university in the United Kingdom. After graduating from Durham, she had stayed on, working first of all in Birmingham before moving north to Scotland and Dundee.
She spoke lightly and with occasional bursts of laughter until McBride made a reference to how often she returned to Holland to visit her parents. It was not a subject for much discussion. At mention of them, her eyes filled and she struggled to hold back tears. They had perished together in an accident, she explained, and she was still having problems coming to terms with it. Then she adroitly steered the conversation away from herself and on to McBride’s past. It was not a topic he particularly wanted to explore either. At least, that was what he believed.
By the time they had emptied a bottle of wine, he had surprised himself by telling her about the accident that had devastated his own life – of Simon, the little boy whose unfair death continued to haunt him. And he told her something of Caroline. How he had not understood how important she had been until she was no longer part of his existence.
He gave her the outline but none of the details of the two open wounds. No one ever got that close. When he became afraid that he might make an exception, he changed the subject.
‘Tell me about the house,’ he invited her.
‘I’ll do better,’ Anneke responded, rising from the table they had shared for the last ninety minutes. ‘I’ll show you.’ She walked behind him and ran her hand lightly over his shoulders. ‘I’ll give you a guided tour.’
He followed her, taking the hand she held out. They did not progress beyond the bedroom.
40
Most of the time McBride knew what he wanted from women. They were best when they were ladies out of bed and tarts in it. It was an acceptable combination for both of them. In the morning, they could pretend much of what had occurred hadn’t – it made it easier over breakfast and the conversation was simpler.
Sometimes it didn’t work that way. Sometimes the ones who were most willing were the ones who gave least. Their perception of sexual equality was not to share but to submit. In their own minds, they were the perfect partner, giving but asking nothing in return. They would never comprehend that, in bed, those who gave most were the ones who took most. It was a concept with which Anneke Meyer was fully acquainted. Her generosity was limitless and entirely to herself.
From the moment they entered the room at the back of the old farmhouse, she was no longer the possible prey but the undisputed predator. In her new persona, there was no compromise or surrender to convention. She assumed control from the outset. Without exchanging any words with McBride, she walked to a corner of the square-shaped bedroom and unhurriedly removed all her clothing. When she was naked, she placed it in neat folds over the back of a low chesterfield. Then she walked slowly back across the oak floor to the bed which was placed in the centre of the room and lay down, dropping her head on to one of four clinically white, newly laundered pillows placed precisely beneath the brass pillared headboard. She looked across at McBride, soundlessly inviting him to join her.
He hesitated – but only for as long at it took him to divest himself of what he wore. He did not follow her example for orderliness but left his garments where they lay on the floor.
What happened next and for the remainder of the night was not something McBride had experienced with a woman before. He was the entire focus of her attention but, for much of the time, he felt like a spectator.
Her first act was to inspect the part of his body she desired most – not to observe its dimensions but to examine it at close range. She held him firmly and squeezed intermittently, watching for the escape of any fluids. When none appeared, she appeared satisfied and without releasing her hold she reached into the drawer of a bedside table with her other hand and removed several packets of condoms. Continuing to gently massage him, she placed one of the sachets in her mouth and carefully tore the wrapping open with her teeth. She extracted the sheath and put it on him. Wordlessly, she moved over his body until she straddled him. Then she lowered herself on to his loins and covered him until their pelvises touched. Still she did not speak but her eyes never left his as she began to move rhythmically.
They only started to communicate verbally when she finally pulled away and rolled on to her back beside him, her appetite temporarily satisfied.
There was not much need for Mc
Bride’s extensive sexual repertoire during the next few hours. She needed no guidance or instruction and actually added to his ‘box of tricks’ in one or two areas.
When daylight started to fill the room, it signalled the conclusion of her desires. She pulled herself on top of him once more but this time to sit on his chest. She gazed down at him and playfully patted the top of his head. ‘Ten out of ten,’ she declared with an approving nod. ‘You’ve earned a hearty breakfast.’
McBride had only one question. ‘OK, what was all the squeezing and inspection about before the outbreak of hostilities?’
She knew instantly what he referred to. Affecting the tone of a headmistress, she wagged a finger. ‘A girl can’t be too careful. My information is that you’re a serial shagger. Just checking you out for any nasties. Same with all the condoms. Don’t forget I’m a forensic scientist.’
A thought flashed through McBride’s mind. He glanced at the top of the bedside table but could not be sure precisely what he saw. ‘All? Tell me how many – I think I lost count.’
‘Four. Still, not to worry – there’s always next time. Lots of opportunities for improvement.’
She slid out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom leading off the room. When she returned a few minutes later, she had showered and was wearing a white towelling bathrobe. She carried an identical one which she dropped on the bed beside him.
‘His’n’hers!’ she exclaimed.
When he prepared to leave after breakfast, Anneke accompanied him to his car. Apart from her own, it was the only one on the wide sweep of gravel extending the full length of the farmhouse.
‘Your neighbours leave early, do they?’ he asked absently.
‘Don’t have any, meantime. They split their time between here and Majorca. When the sun doesn’t shine here, they go there to look for it.’
McBride opened his eyes wide, gasping dramatically. ‘So no one would have heard my cries for help?’
Lawless Page 18
