by Lin Anderson
Once back at street level, McNab checked his mobile messages and found one from Rhona regarding Daniel Hardy, which made him immediately call the incident room. He was surprised to find Janice still on duty.
‘DS Clark, have you no home to go to?’
‘I could say the same about you.’
‘Okay, we’re both sad bastards. I got a call from Rhona. She says Daniel Hardy’s been seen in Glasgow. Has he contacted the station?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Have we got an address for him?’
‘Yes. Give me a minute and I’ll get it.’
Janice came back on the line and quoted an address.
‘Want me to come with you?’ She sounded almost keen.
‘No need. Go and have a drink with the team. I’ll see you in the morning.’
McNab rang off and checked his watch. It was after ten now. If Daniel Hardy was set on avoiding the police, he was unlikely to hang around at home waiting for them to call. But then again, he wouldn’t be expecting an unwelcome visitor at this time.
The address for Daniel Hardy was a flat in the East End, on the High Street, not far from the location of the first investigation Professor Magnus Pirie had been involved in. The East End had seen a makeover since then, the Great Eastern men’s hostel refurbished, the nearby wasteland where they’d searched for bodies transformed by the erection of brightly coloured blocks of flats. Somewhere below ground the Molendinar burn still ran through its brick-built caverns, taking Glasgow’s fresh water run-off from Hogganfield Loch down to the River Clyde. Thinking about what had happened in those caverns didn’t bring back good memories for McNab, of Magnus, Rhona or himself.
He parked the car near the cathedral precinct and walked down the hill. The refurbishment hadn’t quite reached this section of the High Street, although one or two coffee shops had opened since last he’d been here. McNab was never sure if he welcomed the infiltration of old Glasgow by the latte brigade, yet the place did look better for their arrival and suggested that at least some of the locals now had money to spend on fancy coffees.
None of the coffee shops were open at this late hour. Neither did he encounter a pub, which was a blessing in his current state of mind. He might have missed the shop, intent as he was in following the street numbers to his chosen destination. Ollie had said he would check for covens via local magick shops. McNab realized he should have recalled this one, which had been here on the High Street as far back as he could remember, although he’d always assumed it was simply selling New Age rubbish, left over from the hippy era.
Now he saw it was much more than just joss sticks and hookah pipes. The poster in the window advertised a visit by a well-known Wiccan warlock and a promise of all things required for magick inside. The proximity of the shop to the brother’s flat seemed noteworthy.
One puzzling aspect of Leila’s flat, apart from the dolls and the cingulum, was the singular lack of evidence that Leila had worshipped there. According to Magnus there should have been an altar complete with candles, an incense burner, various dishes and a goblet, together with figures to represent the female and male deities.
McNab noted that the window display offered a selection of such items, the Goddess being available as a picture or a statue, both of which were nakedly beautiful, with long flowing hair and voluptuous bodies.
McNab crossed the road and a couple of blocks further down found the number he was looking for. There were no names on the various entry-phone buttons, just flat numbers, which hadn’t been included with the address. McNab chose a button at random and pressed it. When there was no answer, he tried another. This time he was lucky and a male voice answered.
‘Daniel Hardy?’ he tried.
‘Wrong flat, mate.’
‘Can you let me in, then?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I’m the police,’ McNab said sharply.
The lock clicked free. On the way up the stairs, McNab met his interrogator at an open door. It was a man in his sixties. McNab flashed his ID at him. ‘Which door?’
‘Top landing on the left.’
McNab continued up the stairs, aware of the guy’s eyes following him. Reaching the door in question, he registered that the nameplate wasn’t Hardy but Carter. McNab rapped on the door. It took two more raps for someone to finally answer.
The door was pulled open only to the length of a thick metal chain, thus obscuring McNab’s view of a frightened female face. McNab showed his ID.
‘Detective Sergeant McNab. Is Daniel Hardy at home?’
By her expression she would rather he’d declared himself a mad axe murderer than a policeman.
‘No,’ she finally said.
‘May I speak to you then?’
‘What about?’
‘His sister.’
Through the crack in the door he watched the pale face grow paler.
‘I don’t know anything about his sister.’
‘I’d still like to talk to you,’ McNab said, making it sound more like an order than a request.
He was rewarded by the chain being removed and the door opened. His gatekeeper was a little over five feet, with cropped bright pink hair, black rimmed eyes and a nose ring. She wore a T-shirt with the word ‘Spikes’ on it, which suggested she was a fan, if not a girlfriend.
McNab softened his look. ‘May I come in?’ he said, aware he sounded a little like a vampire requesting entry.
When she eventually nodded, McNab stepped over the threshold into a small hall with a washing line strung along one wall, on which hung a variety of garments including boxer shorts.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
Her eyes flitted about, unsure. She glanced at a couple of doors, dismissing them, while McNab tried to establish if there was anyone else in the flat with her. A block which housed three flats on each landing wouldn’t be spacious. He decided two bedrooms at the most, or maybe only one, with the sitting room made into another. That would leave the kitchen as the only communal room.
Eventually she led him to a door, beyond which was the kitchen. In here was a table and two chairs, with a window that looked out on a small concreted back court. It was tidier than his own place, despite his increased attempts at housekeeping. She took a seat at the table and McNab joined her there.
‘When will Danny be back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is he playing somewhere tonight?’
‘I don’t know,’ she repeated.
‘Yet you’re a fan?’ McNab gestured to the T-shirt.
She immediately folded her arms over the offending advertisement.
‘What’s your name?’
She’d been preparing for another question about Danny and was openly disarmed by this one.
‘Maggie Carter.’
‘May I ask if you and Danny are an item?’
‘We just flat-share.’
McNab wasn’t sure he believed her, but let it go anyway.
‘We’ve been trying to contact Danny because of the death of his sister, which has been widely reported on the news. It’s important we speak to him.’
His words seemed to shatter her defences.
‘He doesn’t want to. I told him to, but he won’t.’ She sounded and looked really upset by this.
‘When did Danny get back from Germany?’
She studied the table. ‘He didn’t go on the tour.’
‘Danny’s been here in Glasgow all the time?’
She nodded.
McNab said a silent curse at the public in general, and Danny Hardy in particular, for pissing the police about. He pushed his card across the table.
‘Tell Danny if he isn’t in touch within the next twenty-four hours, I’ll issue a warrant for his arrest.’
The alarm that caused suggested she would do her best, which is all he could ask.
Outside now, McNab contemplated his next port of call, which should be a further chat with Barry Fr
aser. If he was swift, he might just catch him before the pub shut. Then again, he would be visiting a pub, with a wide range of excellent whiskies on offer – a tempting thought.
21
The night was still young, Mark decided, as he stood glassy-eyed in front of the mirror. Robotically checking his watch, he found an empty wrist.
Fuck. He would have to stop doing that.
But, then again, it was a natural reaction in someone who’d recently had an expensive watch stolen. Emilie had been sympathetic and urged him to report it and make an insurance claim. He’d said he would, but hadn’t, obviously. The last thing he wanted was to make his presence in Glasgow on that night known to the police with the added extra that he’d been wearing a Gucci watch with a black leather strap.
Mark wiped his nose of any excess coke and rubbed his finger along his gums.
Three days now and no one had linked him to those images on CCTV No one at work or Emilie or even Jeff had mentioned the footage. The silence from Jeff’s end had surprised Mark. He’d contemplated calling him, but had decided against it. If Jeff had viewed the police appeal, it seemed he’d decided to keep well clear of involvement. A wise move on both their parts.
Especially since it involved murder.
Thinking the word immediately replayed the image of that room and the curtain of clicking swaying dolls. Mark tried desperately to halt the rerun before it reached the view of what lay beyond those dolls, and failed. There she was. The naked body with its pink-tipped breasts, the auburn mound between the long slim legs. As his eyes rose to the cord round her neck, he felt himself harden.
Why did that happen? Was it because I killed her?
His stomach churned as the numerous vodka shots he’d swallowed threatened to resurface. No way could he do that to a woman. But if he had been out of his head? He’d watched plenty of porn, some of it rough, but that wasn’t unusual among his circle of mates, including Jeff. It didn’t mean he actually wanted to hurt anyone. And, Mark reminded himself, she had been the one to order him about, not the other way round. She had been the one to tie them together. Recalling that aspect of the encounter did nothing to soften his prick. In fact, it made it harder.
Fuck it. He would have to leave the Gents soon or his absence would be noted.
Mark set about imagining his father’s face if he ever found out. The coke would be bad enough. HIGH COURT JUDGE’S SON CAUGHT SNORTING COKE would make a great headline. But hey, HIGH COURT JUDGE’S SON AS MURDER SUSPECT was so much better. Imagining the second headline had the required effect on his erection.
Mark washed his hands, dried them and headed out.
As he climbed the stairs to the main bar, the coke began to lighten his mood. it would be okay, he assured himself. He was sorry about the girl, but it had had nothing to do with him, and if it emerged that he’d been with her that night, a lot of people would be hurt. No, devastated. Emilie for one. His father, for obvious reasons. His mother, who he definitely didn’t want upset, not in her present condition.
He had no choice, really.
As Mark weaved his way through the crowd towards his colleagues, a figure suddenly stepped out in front of him.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, mate?’ Mark said, his stomach dropping to his feet.
‘Don’t fucking mate me, you bastard,’ Jeff blazed back at him.
‘Keep it down,’ Mark hissed as a couple of heads turned in their direction.
‘Whatever happens, we were never in that pub?’ Jeff sneered. ‘Whatever happens?’
‘Let’s go outside,’ Mark said. ‘And talk.’
Jeff lifted the shot in front of him on the bar and downed it. Mark wondered how many had gone the same way. Jeff could drink him under the table, and he looked pissed as well as mad. A volatile combination. Jeff was known for his bad temper, when provoked. Mark had rescued him from a number of angry Glasgow encounters where Jeff had taken offence for some throwaway comment. But tonight he was the target of Jeff’s anger.
He led Jeff past the tables out to the centre of the paved Grassmarket, where they served lunches under the trees. A cool wind from the Forth was rattling the leaves, reminding them that autumn was on its way. Mark shivered as he tried to marshal his thoughts. How much was he planning to tell Jeff? How much was it safe to tell him? Maybe a lie would be better? Whatever he said must convince Jeff to keep quiet. If neither of them came forward, the police had nothing more than that crappy video, and that would take them nowhere.
Jeff was glaring at him, his fists clenched by his side. ‘What the fuck have you done?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ Mark said. ‘Nothing,’ he repeated.
‘That girl’s dead.’
‘I know.’
‘You were the last one to see her alive.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘You went back with her. You’re on CCTV.’
‘I didn’t go back to the flat. She blew me off.’
‘What?’ Jeff looked incredulous.
‘She said it was a joke to see if I’d fall for it.’ Rising to the lie, Mark rushed on. ‘You saw the look she gave her mate. I think they had a bet on, like we do sometimes.’
‘You didn’t fuck her?’ Jeff said.
‘No way. She blew me off,’ he repeated.
Mark watched as the lie took root.
‘Why didn’t you come back then?’ Jeff said suspiciously.
‘Cos you looked as if you might make it. You were getting on much better than me. Remember?’
Jeff did remember.
‘And you did get it, didn’t you?’ Mark reminded him.
Jeff nodded.
Mark clapped him on the back. ‘I didn’t want to fuck up your fun.’
Jeff eyed him. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Keep schtum, as agreed.’ Mark warmed to his argument. ‘Someone will have seen her after she left me and tell the police. They have no way of finding us. The video’s crap.’
‘What about the other girl?’ Jeff said.
Fear leapt in Mark’s chest. ‘You’re not in contact with her?’
‘No way.’
‘Good. So, we lie low. And say nothing. Agreed?’
Jeff slowly nodded.
‘Let’s go back to my place. Have a drink together. The booze here is way overpriced,’ he added, knowing that Edinburgh prices were a favourite gripe of Jeff’s.
He watched Jeff agree, and was relieved. He would get him to stay over. Make sure everything was still okay in the morning. Besides, it was better if they weren’t seen together by his colleagues. Just in case. He would make an excuse tomorrow about his disappearance. Tell them Emilie called, keen for sex.
Mark congratulated himself as he led a now docile Jeff in the direction of his flat. He’d been fucking brilliant back there. Defused the situation and convinced Jeff that he’d never been in the dead girl’s flat.
It would all blow over. They would find the guy that did it, because it definitely hadn’t been him.
22
As he approached his front door, a figure stepped out of the shadows. McNab, immediately on alert, felt instinctively for a gun he didn’t possess, a result of undercover work he’d rather forget.
‘It’s only me,’ Freya said apologetically as she entered the light.
To say he was surprised to see her there was an understatement. He’d given her his card with a mobile number and the station number. He had definitely not mentioned where he lived.
‘How did you find out my address?’
She gave him a disarming smile. ‘My job is to find out things about people who lived centuries ago. Finding you was less difficult. Besides, you mentioned where you ordered your pizza from.’ She pointed across the street. ‘After that it was easy.’
McNab was impressed. ‘You haven’t any relatives in the Italian Mafia?’ he said.
‘I’m from Newcastle, remember?’
He met her smile. ‘Only a little less scary.’
‘Can I talk to you in private?’ she said quietly.
‘Want to come inside?’
‘Please.’
Opening the door, McNab said a silent thank you for the fact that the place didn’t smell of stale food and whisky – a definite upside to his new-found sobriety.
Freya glanced about. ‘You live alone?’
‘Always,’ McNab said firmly, then regretted it.
When she came back with, ‘Me too,’ and an understanding look, something shifted inside him.
God, he was on dangerous ground.
‘Fancy some coffee?’
‘That would be great. Black, please.’
‘Take a seat,’ he said as he spooned fresh coffee into the filter.
McNab heard her settle behind him and imagined her there on his sofa, wishing the circumstances were different. Memories of Iona, his last attempt at a relationship, resurfaced. Admittedly, Iona had been about sex. Only sex. Most of their sex had been fuelled by whisky and in her case coke. Something he’d chosen not to notice at the time, preferring to believe the big pupils were all about her excitement at being screwed by him.
As the boiling water filtered through the coffee grains, McNab fetched two mugs from the cupboard, keeping his eyes averted from the whisky bottle that stood alongside. He hadn’t avoided The Pot Still and Barry Fraser tonight to come home and repeat his earlier mistake.
‘I wouldn’t mind a tot of whisky in mine,’ she said from behind him.
‘Sure thing,’ McNab said and lifted the bottle out.
Everything went into slow motion after that. He poured a decent measure in her coffee, then the bottle headed towards his own mug. His fumbled attempt to prevent this resulted in a spill on the kitchen surface. When the sharp scent of the spilt whisky met his nostrils, McNab fought a desire to scoop it up with his finger and lick it.
He turned away swiftly and carried both mugs over, setting hers down on the coffee table in front of her.
‘Hope it’s not too strong,’ he said.
‘My father used to make me a hot toddy when I had a cold. He swore by them. I didn’t like the taste of whisky then, but I like it now.’
‘A hot toddy in Newcastle?’
