Final Cut

by Lin Anderson

  There was something in the way the guy used Rhona’s name, as if he actually knew her.

  The shrieking woman behind him let rip again.

  ‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’

  ‘We’re really busy. You couldn’t …’

  ‘No.’ McNab wasn’t in the mood for compromise.

  ‘OK.’ Grigorovitch was picking up on his ill temper and seemed about to match it with a tantrum of his own.

  He turned on his heel and walked towards the back of the dining room. They passed a small stage where three musicians were preparing to play. Back here the party people were slightly more subdued, or maybe they hadn’t drunk enough vodka yet.

  The Russian swept through a beaded curtain, letting the strings of beads rattle back on McNab. On the other side things were much quieter. The man took a swift right into a small office, just short of a stairway heading upwards, and shut the door firmly behind them.

  ‘I only have a few moments or my clientele will riot. I let one of the chefs have the night off, so I’m taking his place.’

  ‘The guy who ate here before he died—’ McNab began.

  ‘We are not the only place to serve Russian food.’

  ‘Dr MacLeod thinks he ate here.’ McNab deliberately avoided calling her Rhona.

  ‘Many young men eat here who would fit Rhona’s description.’

  Now Grigorovitch was really pissing McNab off.

  ‘You have receipts for that night, credit and debit card records?’

  The man looked mildly uncomfortable. ‘Yes, of course, but some pay in cash.’

  ‘Which doesn’t go in the till?’

  He’d hit a raw nerve.

  ‘There are many people who live hand to mouth in Glasgow, especially migrants from eastern Europe. I feed them, they pay cash.’

  ‘And no one knows the difference?’

  Grigorovitch didn’t answer.

  ‘You like to gamble?’

  McNab’s change of tack caught him by surprise.

  He considered before answering. ‘Coming to live in a foreign country is a gamble.’

  ‘Poker. You play poker?’

  The man’s handsome face clouded. Clearly he was wondering where this was going.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he conceded.

  ‘Your clientele from eastern Europe. They like to gamble too?’

  ‘All Russians like to gamble.’ The smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘What’s upstairs?’

  The reply was quick, maybe too quick.

  ‘Nothing, a store.’ A shrug.

  ‘Can I take a look?’

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  McNab followed him out.

  They climbed the stairs slowly. Either Grigorovitch had arthritic hips or he was in no hurry to reach the top.

  McNab addressed his broad back. ‘You don’t happen to know a man called Solonik?’

  He couldn’t see the face, but the Russian’s neck and shoulders stiffened.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  They had reached the upper landing. There was only one door. Grigorovitch produced a key from a collection hanging below his white apron and slipped it in the lock.

  ‘What about a Mr Nikolai Kalinin?’

  A muffled intake of breath.

  ‘You recognise the name?’

  They were still outside the door, waiting to go in.

  Grigorovitch was choosing his words carefully. ‘It is a common Russian name.’

  The small landing was a bit too cosy for McNab’s liking. He was tall, but Grigorovitch was taller. He wasn’t comfortable with that, especially at close quarters. He made a noise in his throat that suggested they move inside. The other man pushed open the door and flicked on a light switch.

  It was primarily a storeroom, but a circular table sat centre stage, illuminated by a hanging lamp. Near by stood a fridge and a small well-stocked bar.

  McNab took his time looking round. He could feel Grigorovitch’s discomfort and was enjoying it.

  ‘Solonik been here to play? Or maybe Kalinin?’

  ‘I only invite friends.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ hissed McNab.

  Grigorovitch muttered something guttural. McNab didn’t have to understand Russian to know he was being cursed.

  ‘I want the names and contact numbers of the people who use this room.’

  The Russian’s expression was stoic. He’d known what would unfold, even as he’d climbed the stairs.

  The sounds of a ruckus erupted below, and Grigorovitch looked pleadingly at McNab. ‘If you would like to have something to eat while you wait, I will sort out the kitchen and then write your list.’

  McNab contemplated the idea. He was ravenous and was being offered food. There wasn’t much to think about, and there were worse places to spend an hour on Christmas Eve. A list of Russian gamblers resident in Glasgow would be his pay-off to Slater for not visiting any more establishments. He could eat, then go home.

  He nodded curtly. The relief on Grigorovitch’s face was obvious. If he hadn’t been frightened of revealing his gambling den, what had put the fear of God in him?

  ‘I will find a place for you in the back area, if you don’t mind listening to Russian music?’

  McNab would gladly listen to screeching hyenas as long as they were accompanied by food.

  Grigorovitch showed him to a tiny table, tucked in a dark corner next to the small stage. It looked like the place where the musicians sat down for their break. A girl with liquid brown eyes watched from the stage as her employer scooped up a red shawl and pulled out a seat.

  McNab wasn’t a music buff, but the young woman’s hands were moving swiftly and the sound was very nice, so she must be good. She was certainly attractive, in a Gypsy-bohemian way.

  ‘I’ll send out some food,’ Grigorovitch told him.

  McNab wondered what he’d get. Leftovers most probably, scraped from returning plates and with spit. He didn’t give a damn. He would eat a scabby hen at this moment and lick his lips afterwards.

  The vodka arrived before the food. The Amy Winehouse lookalike plonked a bottle down together with a small shot glass.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The best, courtesy of the boss.’

  McNab contemplated the walk home in the thickening snow, with no hope of a taxi. Somehow it didn’t put him off. He’d done his bit. Now he was off duty and it was Christmas Eve. The waitress stretched her blood-red lips into a smile and poured him a shot. The cold-misted bottle was still a quarter full when she plonked it down on the table. McNab was beginning to enjoy himself.

  The ice-cold vodka slid down. McNab was pleasantly surprised. He could have held out, demanded whisky, but hell, when in Rome … The alcohol met his unlined stomach and seeped quickly through to his bloodstream. No wonder they called it a shot. It was like a bullet in the belly, with no burning, no pain, just warmth. He sighed. Even if the food was shite, the vodka would go some way to making it taste better.

  The food turned out to be delicious, though in the semi-darkness it was tricky to work out what it was he was eating. He made a guess at pork, with some sort of sour sauce. It was delicious. He refilled his glass. The trio of musicians were finishing their set with a flourish and he joined in the applause. What with the food and the vodka, he was beginning to get in the seasonal mood. The dark-eyed girl came for her shawl, which hung over the adjacent chair.

  ‘That was very good,’ said McNab.

  ‘You like Russian music?’ Her voice was husky and low.

  ‘What I’ve heard so far.’ He smiled.

  The young woman glanced swiftly at the almost empty vodka bottle.

  ‘I haven’t drunk all that. I’m just naturally friendly.’

  She wrapped the shawl round her shoulders.

  ‘Food’s good, too.’ McNab wanted to keep her there. ‘Pity I don’t know what I’m eating.’

  ‘Piglet,’ she said helpfully. ‘Typical Russian Christmas di
sh, although it’s not yet Christmas.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Not long to go now.’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘Western Christmas yes, Russian Christmas no. We have to wait until the seventh of January.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘So can I offer you a Western Christmas drink?’

  She thought about it for a moment.

  ‘Since you’ve stolen our table, yes.’

  McNab pushed his cleared plate to one side. ‘We’ll need another glass.’

  She indicated she would fetch one from the bar. He watched the two female heads come together, then she arrived back with a fresh bottle and a second glass.

  ‘Amy Winehouse over there told you I was a cop.’

  She nodded. ‘But that’s not why we served you pig. It is a traditional dish, just as I said.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I am Mikhail’s little sister, Anya.’

  ‘DS Michael McNab. Pleased to meet you. Your brother has promised me a list of his gambling associates as soon as the kitchen cools down.’

  She looked perplexed.

  ‘He doesn’t gamble, does he?’

  ‘I am not my brother’s keeper.’ She had already poured two shots. She took hers and swallowed it swiftly.

  ‘You’re a good violinist but a poor liar.’

  She glanced somewhere over his shoulder, not meeting his eye.

  ‘Who uses the room upstairs?’

  She shrugged. ‘Men. I don’t know who they are.’

  ‘Don’t know, or won’t say?’

  Fear fluttered in her eyes. He leaned in. ‘We found a man in a rubbish skip on the south side of Glasgow. Someone had set fire to him after breaking his neck. We can’t explain exactly why, but his head blew up in the heat. The forensic team had to scrape his brains off the walls. Seems he ate your brother’s borscht shortly before he died.’

  Her face had turned the colour of putty, but McNab kept going.

  ‘He had a pack of marked cards in his back pocket.’ McNab described the dead man to her, including the tattoo. She rose abruptly, her face pale with shock. She was going to vomit. McNab followed her to the ladies’ loo and held the door open. She made the sink, just. He waited for her to clean up before he spoke.

  ‘You knew the dead guy?’

  She mustered herself. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Is “maybe” strong enough to make you sick?’

  ‘It was a terrible thing to tell someone.’

  ‘Especially if they knew who I was talking about.’

  Tears ran down her cheeks.

  ‘Come back to the table. You need to sit down.’

  She walked as though in a daze. When they re-entered the dining room, Grigorovitch was waiting, his expression a mixture of concern and fury. A volley of Russian ricocheted between them, his voice the dominant one. Eventually she seemed to brighten a little. Grigorovitch ushered her through to the kitchen and turned on McNab, furious.

  ‘You have upset my sister very badly.’

  ‘She just found out someone she knew was murdered.’

  ‘She made a mistake.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The man she thought you were referring to is alive.’

  ‘Who did she think I was referring to?’

  ‘A cousin. Vassili Grigorovitch.’

  He was lying on several counts. From Anya’s reaction, McNab was sure she hadn’t been mourning a cousin but a lover, whose name probably wasn’t Vassili.

  ‘If you know the identity of the dead man and you are withholding that information from the police …’ McNab left the threat hanging in the air.

  Grigorovitch stared at him impassively.

  ‘Here is the list of my card-playing friends.’

  He glanced at the six names, most – for him – unpronounceable.

  ‘I have included their phone numbers.’

  McNab wondered how many of the mobiles would function when he rang them.

  McNab dipped his head against the wind. Glasgow’s downtown grid-patterned streets might be a replica of New York, but tonight it was definitely more like Chicago, gusts meeting him on every corner. In the warmth and comfort of the noisy restaurant, he’d had no idea what the weather was doing outside. It looked as though the Russians had brought their winters with them.

  He stepped back from the edge of the road as a car swept by too fast for the conditions and he was sprayed with kicked-back snow. He shouted obscenities at the tail-lights. He shielded his eyes, looking for his own car, tempted to drive home despite the vodka. The alternative of sleeping in the car was almost as risky if some keen plod discovered him there and decided to breathalyse. Drunk in charge of car keys with intent to drive. Slater would just love that.

  He decided death by exposure was the preferable option and stared up into a galaxy of whirling snow-stars, trying to get his bearings. His brain, buzzing with the vodka, attempted to map out the route to his flat, and failed. One step at a time. First he would get to George Square. He struggled towards the Trongate and took a left into Argyle Street.

  The east wind was like a banshee, screeching down the streets on a mission to knock over everything in its path. McNab imagined Rhona at home in her flat by now, curled up nice and cosy in that big bed. Then the thought struck him that Rhona’s flat was a lot closer than his own. He stepped into a doorway and pulled out his mobile. He would feed her the story of the Russian Restaurant as his excuse for not getting home. Slater’s persecution of him would surely generate some pity and she wouldn’t deny him shelter from the storm, not on a night like this.

  When the screen informed him Rhona’s mobile was unreachable he swore under his breath. He could just take a chance and turn up. Her flat was on his way and if she wasn’t there he could keep on going. He tried the number once more and got the same result. An irritating worry began to niggle at him. It had been snowing a bit when he left Fern Cottage, but not enough to cause concern. There’d been plenty of time for her to get out before the real storm hit, which was when he’d been in the restaurant. And she wasn’t on her own there.

  God, he hoped Chrissy hadn’t taken it into her head to go down there. When he’d called the lab, he had made it plain how off the beaten track the cottage was, no place for a pregnant woman. Chrissy had appeared to take that on board, but he’d left before the forensic vehicle arrived so he couldn’t be sure.

  He tried calling her and got the same result as with Rhona’s phone, then he called a couple of other numbers just to make sure the problem wasn’t confined to the forensic team. He was relieved to find he was right: it looked like the storm was the cause.

  McNab stepped out into the wind. The sooner he got to Rhona’s flat the better. The snow was deep underfoot, more like a Canadian midwinter cityscape than Scotland. There were no snowploughs or gritters to be seen. Glasgow had battened down the hatches and was riding out the storm – indoors.

  When the black four-by-four appeared from the white-out, he waved it down. If it was going his way, a lift would be very welcome. Maybe he should flash his warrant card, commandeer the vehicle as far as Rhona’s.

  His luck was in. The car slid to a halt yards in front of him, smoked glass blocking his view of the occupants. The rear side door swung open. McNab felt the heat escape and hit him in the face. So that was what warmth felt like. He’d almost forgotten, even in the short walk from the restaurant.

  McNab pulled out his warrant card and asked for a lift. A voice suggested he get in. He happily obeyed, his eyelashes too thick with snow to make out his saviour. He struggled inside, conscious he was showering snow everywhere.

  ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ he said, wiping his eyes.

  The other occupant of the back seat did not reply. McNab stared at Solonik, the blood freezing in his veins.

  36

  Solonik pressed his thumb hard into McNab’s right eyeball. Lights flashed, pain roared in his ears. He would have heard his own scream, i
f the gag hadn’t swallowed it. Tears streamed from his other free eye, coursing down his cheek. Salt leaked into his mouth. He had the sensation of drowning in his own spit.

  A shout from behind and the pressure abruptly ended, but not the pain. It was like having a hot coal burn inside your head. McNab knew he was whimpering but couldn’t stop himself.

  He heard a cultured voice. ‘He can put both eyes out simultaneously. It is a party trick of his. That and snapping your neck.’

  McNab attempted to focus his mind elsewhere to prevent it conjuring up images of what would happen next. He thought about Rhona, his pleasure when he managed to make her laugh.

  There was no laughter in here.

  Solonik was standing, still as stone, waiting for the nod to continue his work.

  ‘What d’you want?’ McNab attempted to speak past the gag.

  ‘Brogan.’ The voice released the word slowly, rolling the ‘r’. ‘Why did you visit Brogan?’

  McNab mumbled through the dirty cloth in his mouth.

  Solonik untied the gag.

  When his voice finally emerged from his aching throat, it sounded punch drunk. ‘I was checking his licence.’ When lying, stick as close as possible to the truth. ‘He gave me a copy to take away. It was all in order.’ True enough, apart from the puncture marks.

  ‘Are you a gambler, Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘Now and again.’ That was also true.

  Solonik was pointedly taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves. His arms were a mass of intricate tattoos that rippled as he flexed his huge hands.

  ‘If he presses a little harder, Solonik will blind you. Or he may choose to scoop out your eyeballs instead. Another party trick of his.’

  McNab felt nausea rise in his throat.

  ‘Assaulting a police officer is a serious offence.’

  ‘By the time they find you, Solonik will no longer be in the country.’

  As the big Russian resumed his stance in front of him, McNab met the cold empty eyes defiantly. He had no illusions. Solonik would do what he was told, without compunction and with great pleasure.

  He was drawing back his hands like a tightening spring. There was nowhere to go and nothing McNab could do, except tell the truth.

  ‘Brogan told me who killed the guy in the skip.’