by Lin Anderson
He’d spent the hours since leaving Rhona’s bed in front of his computer. He didn’t normally find it difficult to separate pleasure and work. In her case he had revelled in the combination of the two, although he was well aware that had she not deemed him useful, he probably wouldn’t have reached her bed. But he was glad he had, and hoped to be there again soon.
He reread the intercepted message. It had taken a long time to hack into the system and find something, longer still to decode what he’d found. Those years at university honing his programming skills, his ambition to write the next generation of computer games, had served him well. Creating a complex digital world of adventure through online gaming had been fun, but not half as much fun as poking around in other people’s digital lives. In truth, his career might have gone either way; he could have made a very good living from hacking, or chosen to use his skills another way and bring down those who operated on the wrong side of the law. The trouble was that those who operated outside the law weren’t always bad, at least not in his eyes. So he’d revised his moral code. He went after those he decided were bad. People like Kalinin, but also those in the establishment who saw themselves as above the law. All of which made him a lot of enemies. Now, reading this message had produced the same icy chill as that plunge through the ice when he was nine.
He wondered whether Rhona MacLeod had any idea what she was dealing with. He knew about her visit to the Russian’s penthouse flat in search of a missing woman, Claire Watson. He’d been impressed by that, although he’d deemed it foolhardy. He also questioned why the policeman, McNab, had allowed such a thing to happen. He could only assume that neither of them had known the true nature of the man they’d decided to challenge. The Russian had a well-documented propensity for torture. Torturing men he saw as part of the job; women, Kalinin tortured for pleasure.
Petersson rose and went to the small kitchen area. He opened an overhead cupboard, brought out a half-full vodka bottle and poured a double shot. He took the clear liquid into his mouth and swirled it around before swallowing. The blast of warmth that hit his chest did nothing to remove the creeping chill. The message changed everything, and he would have to adjust his plans accordingly. He felt the familiar throb of his purple scar. Even now, two years later, he could still relive the moment when the knife had entered, could taste again the blood that had spurted into his mouth.
He dragged his mind back to the present. He hadn’t died then and he had no intention of dying this time, but it was risky getting involved with Rhona MacLeod, especially now. The existence of the message he’d intercepted had made him uneasy about the Russian mafia investigation after the death of DS Michael McNab, and DI Slater’s role in it. It had also raised questions about Dr MacLeod herself.
He put the vodka back in the cupboard and rinsed the glass before calling her. She answered almost immediately. When she agreed to meet in the museum café, he had no idea what he would say to her. He would have to decide on the way.
Rhona spotted Petersson sitting by the window in the conservatory area and composed her expression before going to join him. He sensed her approach and looked up. She expected a smile of welcome at least, but he looked too preoccupied for that. She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite.
‘I haven’t ordered yet.’ He pushed the menu card towards her as the waitress came over.
She gave it a cursory glance, her hunger evaporating.
‘Coffee will do. A pot.’
He gave their order, waiting until they were alone again before he spoke.
‘Something’s happened.’
‘To do with Kalinin?’
‘Almost certainly.’
His expression was unnerving her. ‘What?’ she asked sharply.
‘Tell me what you know of Fergus Morrison.’
Rhona hesitated. Whatever she said now was common knowledge, so she wasn’t giving anything away.
‘Private Fergus Morrison went AWOL after seeing a friend blown apart in Afghanistan. When he was living rough in Glasgow, he witnessed the murder of a man named Alexsai Petrov by Kalinin. Morrison used Petrov’s body to fake his own death by hanging his dog tag round the neck and setting fire to the skip he was in. We found the body and I forensically identified it as Petrov.’ She paused. ‘But you know all that.’
He was waiting for her to continue.
‘Morrison agreed to give evidence against Kalinin. He was put in the witness protection scheme.’
‘Fergus Morrison is dead,’ said Petersson.
‘What? But how?’
‘He was shot.’
‘When did this happen?’ If it had been in Glasgow, surely she would have heard about it?
‘London, a week ago.’
She looked at him, surprised. ‘What was he doing in London?’
‘Slater had him transferred to a safe house there after they got McNab.’
Why had Slater not told her he’d sent Morrison south? Then again, why would he? He was aware of her antagonism towards him and, unlike Bill, he wouldn’t deem it necessary to include her in any decisions that might be made in the Kalinin case. After all, she was only an expert witness, not a police officer. Even if she was the one who’d held McNab in her arms and watched him die.
The coffee arrived. Rhona watched as Petersson poured two cups and pushed one towards her. When she attempted to lift it, she realised her hand was trembling. She replaced the cup without drinking.
‘Morrison was the only witness alive who could place Kalinin at the scene of crime,’ she said.
‘Which is why he was assassinated.’
Assassinated. It sounded so melodramatic.
‘Kalinin’s clearing the decks of anyone who has anything on him.’
A terrible thought occurred to her. ‘Anya. What about Anya?’
Anya Grigorovitch, the young Russian woman whose lover, Alexsai, had been Kalinin’s victim.
‘I went to the Russian café. Anya and her brother Misha are no longer there.’
‘Then where are they?’
‘I hoped you might know.’
He was staring at her intently.
‘I don’t.’ If she had known, would she have told him? ‘I need to speak to Bill about this.’
‘I thought Slater was handling the case?’
‘Not any more,’ she said with relish.
Petersson looked put out. It was obvious he was used to being the first one in the know. Rhona felt at an advantage for the first time since she’d walked into the café.
‘Fergus Morrison’s death isn’t common knowledge, for the moment,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘I presume they want Kalinin to think he’s still alive.’
Rhona studied this man she knew nothing about, apart from his reputation for exposing those who thought they were above the law. Did she believe him?
‘How do you know all this?’
His voice dropped even lower. ‘I have a CHIS contact.’
CHIS – Covert Human Intelligence Sources. In layman’s terms, a dedicated police unit for handling snouts and grasses. She shouldn’t be surprised that Petersson had such contacts in his line of work.
‘If this is true and they’re worried about Kalinin taking out contacts up here, shouldn’t Bill be told about it?’
‘If you mention it, he’ll want to know how you found out.’
Rhona wondered what she was getting into. If Bill was back on the job and progressing the Kalinin case, maybe she should back off and leave it to him?
Petersson appeared to be reading her mind. ‘Believe me, your DI’s got no hope of nailing Kalinin.’
‘Slater might have given up, but Bill won’t,’ she said firmly.
‘Like McNab didn’t?’
The warning in Petersson’s words left her cold. ‘He was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ she said.
‘No. McNab was in the right place at the right time. Kalinin made sure of that.’
19
&nbs
p; David Murdoch was waiting in an interview room, and Bill took a moment to study him through the one-way glass before going in. He was tall and rangy, long legs in tight jeans stretched out under the table. His hair was carefully arranged, a poker-straight fringe combed sideways, no doubt held in place with gel or spray. The hairstyle seemed to be constantly on his mind. He periodically smoothed the fringe as though in the interim it might have had the audacity to curl.
Bill had read David’s statement. He’d studied all the statements, and they matched; David, Owen and Sandie all agreed that Kira had wanted candyfloss. They hadn’t been willing to wait in the queue, so they’d gone to the dodgems without her. When the ride was over and Kira still hadn’t reappeared, they’d crossed to the Waltzers. After that ride, David had gone looking for her.
Bill checked the boy’s personal details. David Murdoch was seventeen years old. His mother was dead and he lived with his stepfather. He had no brothers or sisters. He was in the fifth form at school, doing a mix of subjects, including Maths at Intermediate level – so not a match for Kira’s mathematical ability. Bill wondered what they’d had in common.
David stood up as he entered, looking worried.
‘Hi, David. I’m Detective Inspector Wilson.’ Bill held out a hand. ‘Thanks for coming in to see me.’ The hand in his was soft, and he caught a trace of scent – or was it hair gel? They sat down.
‘Why do you want to see me again?’ asked David.
‘I’ve taken over from DI Slater, so I thought we should talk.’ Bill paused. ‘I’m very sorry about Kira, David. I know you were good friends.’
David nodded wordlessly.
‘Can you tell me how you met?’
A glimmer of light appeared in David’s eyes.
‘It was in the park. She was sitting on a bench, reading a book. She spoke to me first,’ he added defensively.
‘You had things in common?’
‘Music, books. We both read a lot. And we liked the same films.’
He bowed his head so that the fringe obscured his eyes. Bill suspected they had filled with tears.
‘Do you feel up to telling me what happened the night she died?’
There was a snuffle from behind the curtain of hair. ‘I told them everything in my statement.’
‘I know. It’s just that it’s much better for me to hear it from you personally.’
David took a deep breath and began, echoing his previous statement. Was this just a well-rehearsed story, or were the events carved in his memory? This was the problem with recalling incidents; people began to repeat them like a mantra, and it could become hard to tell what was a true memory and what had become familiar through repetition. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking David’s horror and revulsion when he reached the point in the story where he’d discovered Kira’s body.
He stuttered to a halt. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ Bill gave him a chance to recover, then said, ‘I keep wondering why Kira didn’t come back to you. Why she went into the Hall of Mirrors on her own.’
David looked up, similarly puzzled. ‘I wondered about that too. I asked her to go in there with me earlier, for a laugh. She wouldn’t.’
‘You didn’t mention that in your statement.’
‘I didn’t think it mattered,’ he said, perturbed.
‘Everything matters,’ Bill told him firmly. ‘Every second you were together that night matters.’
David looked worried. ‘No one asked me about it before.’
‘Is there any reason you can think of why she might have gone in there?’
David shook his head.
Bill changed tack. ‘Did Kira have a boyfriend before you?’
A flush crept up his neck. ‘Kira wasn’t exactly my girlfriend. I mean, we didn’t, we weren’t . . .’
‘Having sex?’
He nodded. ‘We cared about each other, but not in that way.’
A thought crossed Bill’s mind. He decided to voice it outright. ‘Forgive me asking such a personal question, David, but I promise it is relevant. Is that because you prefer boys?’
David blushed a little, then looked as though he might deny it. Finally, he said, ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’
Which helped explain why David seemed happy to accept Kira’s pregnancy, Bill thought.
‘Did Kira tell you who the baby’s father was?’
David shook his head.
‘Did you ask?’
‘We didn’t question one another about anything. If she’d wanted to tell me, she would have.’
They must have made a strange couple, but it seemed to have been working.
‘Was Kira still planning to go to Cambridge to study Maths?’
‘She’d decided to do Medicine here in Scotland so she could keep the baby.’
‘I thought an adoption had been arranged?’
‘She talked about that at first, but then she changed her mind. You can’t take a baby from its mother if she doesn’t agree,’ David added fiercely, sounding as though he was quoting Kira.
If Kira’s father had had his heart set on having the baby adopted and for his daughter to take up her place at Cambridge University, it seemed he would have had a fight on his hands.
‘Why did Kira change her mind about the baby?’
‘She found out she was adopted.’ David subconsciously put his hand up to his mouth, as though he’d said something he shouldn’t.
‘She told you she was adopted?’
‘I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but it doesn’t matter now.’ A flash of anger crossed his face. ‘Her parents didn’t tell her. She found out by accident. Can you believe that?’
‘How did she find out?’
‘She heard them talking about her, and the baby.’
‘Did her parents realise Kira knew?’
David shook his head emphatically. ‘No. She kept waiting for them to tell her, all through the pregnancy, but they never did.’
So the Reese-Brandons hadn’t been completely straight with him. Maybe they’d simply thought the fact that their daughter was adopted could have nothing to do with her death. They were probably right, but it did throw some light on why Kira was so determined to keep her child.
‘When you found Kira, did you look at her hands?’
A spasm of pain crossed the boy’s soft features. ‘I just saw the blood and what they’d done to her stomach.’
‘There was a message in mirror writing on the palms of her hands.’
‘What?’ David’s mouth fell open.
‘You know what I mean by mirror writing?’
‘You can only read it in a mirror.’
‘Can you write like that?’
He looked frightened. ‘No!’
‘Can anyone you know do it?’
‘Kira . . .’
‘Kira could do it?’
‘She tried to. She said Leonardo Da Vinci was a mirror writer. She was a big fan of his.’
Bill thought about Kira’s school records. She had been good at everything. Science and Maths, but also languages and music. It wasn’t surprising she was a fan of a polymath like Leonardo.
‘Do you think the person who killed her wrote on her hands?’ David whispered.
Bill didn’t answer.
A film of sweat had blossomed on the boy’s brow, making his heavy fringe stick to his skin. It was warm in the interview room, but not overly so.
‘Don’t you want to know what was written on Kira’s hands?’
‘I . . .’
‘Or perhaps you already do?’
‘I never saw any writing, I swear it.’
Bill waited a moment before continuing. ‘I understand Kira was in a girl gang?’
David looked startled. ‘It wasn’t a gang. Kira and her mates just got together sometimes.’
‘To do what?’
‘Play music, talk.’
‘Anything else?’
The dark flush was back, creeping up the bo
y’s neck to blossom in his cheeks. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘What did this gang call themselves?’
‘They didn’t have a name.’
‘That’s not what I heard.’
David darted Bill a look as though trying to read his mind.
‘I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but the gang was just a bit of fun. Kira was popular. Other girls liked to be associated with her.’
‘They liked copying her, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Her clothes, hair, that sort of thing. Sometimes even the expressions she used.’
‘What about the daisy tattoo they all had done?’
David’s head, which had been sinking towards his chest, shot up. His face was completely scarlet now. ‘I never saw her tattoo.’
‘But you knew about its existence?’
‘Kira did it for a laugh. The others copied her.’
‘She didn’t tell them to have it done?’
‘Kira didn’t tell people to do things, they just did it to be like her.’
‘So the Daisy Chain gang all got pregnant, to be like Kira?’
There was a stunned silence.
‘She didn’t ask them to.’
‘So it wasn’t a pact?’
David shook his head again, vehemently. ‘Kira thought they were stupid. She said so.’
It was the first time in their conversation that Bill believed him.
20
The video footage was high quality, as you’d expect from Kira’s BlackBerry – or, to give it its full name, the BlackBerry Bold Snakeskin 24k Yellow Gold Luxury Mobile Phone. According to DS Clark, it had cost a grand. Bill couldn’t conceive of spending that amount on a phone.
‘It’s not the dearest.’
He looked at her in amazement.
‘The most expensive one I found online was half a million pounds.’
Bill forbore thinking about such extravagance. Bad enough that parents doled out a grand on a seventeen-year-old.
The mobile had been discovered near the spot they’d found the Reborn. Janice had supervised a forensic search of the area, which wasn’t easy given the thick covering of ground ivy. They had to be grateful that it wasn’t mid-summer when the ivy would have been supplemented by even more undergrowth.
