by Lin Anderson
For a split second he thought he’d left it too late. Solonik’s hands had fastened on his skull. It was the second party trick that was on the agenda. McNab’s head became a galaxy of stars. Somewhere in the distance the booming of his blood was forcing itself like a red tide into his heart. Strangled begging spewed from his mouth.
He heard a shouted command. It sounded like God’s voice from Heaven. The intense pressure round his eyeballs eased and he slumped like a rag doll in the chair.
The questions flew at him like bullets. He answered them all. He owed Paddy Brogan nothing. Brogan was a gangster like his father, however cultured the voice and demeanour. Even as he embellished the conversation he’d had with Paddy, McNab knew he was condemning Glasgow to something much worse than the Brogans.
When he finally stopped for breath, he found his supply abruptly cut off as Solonik’s hands moved to his throat. Party trick number three.
The world is a strange place when you return from the dead. Its colours are too bright, its sounds too intrusive after such a deep and profound silence. McNab saw a rainbow with a preponderance of red and violet. It swirled in front of him like an LSD trip. The sound that filled his ears resembled shattering glass, the shards pricking the tender membrane of his eyeball.
Suddenly, vividly, he remembered a street stabbing he’d attended. Blood bubbling from a hidden wound, the eyes of the puzzled youth staring up at him, his spinal cord severed by the blade. McNab imagined his own neck already snapped, these few moments of consciousness all that was left him before oblivion. He was alive in this position, but what if he moved?
As his rigid body approached full consciousness he was aware of a cold so intense it burned. The first part to fully acknowledge returning life was the tips of his fingers. He moved them in wonder, as though they belonged to someone else, then he remembered those other fingers, thick and blunt, grinding into his eyes. Bile rose in his throat and threatened to enter his windpipe if he didn’t move. Coughing and choking, he turned his head. Pain stabbed at his neck and shoulder, but no darkness engulfed him. He vomited a red-hot liquid on to what he now recognised as snow, the liquid’s acidity burning his swollen throat and lips.
He fell back, air rasping in and out of his lungs. Above him was thick velvety darkness, punctured by swirling snow. He reached out first to the right, then to the left. Both hands touched metal. He was in some sort of container, closed on three sides.
He had only just acknowledged this when he heard the thrum of a machine starting up. A burst of headlights turned the black sky a burnt orange as McNab forced his body into a sitting position. He heard the whine of a winch. Something was being raised up.
A red bucket swung overhead.
McNab harnessed the last of his strength and pulled himself to one side as the bucket opened its giant teeth. Dust and stench clogged his throat as the debris rained down behind him.
Then it was over. The bucket swung away.
He spat dirt from his mouth and wiped his eyes. ‘Fuck you!’ he shouted in defiance at the empty sky. His relief was short lived, as the grating sound of the bucket refilling broke the momentary silence. The next load was on its way.
McNab flattened his body to the wall as the bucket swung back, whining and grunting, desperate to unload its next cargo. This time the rubbish hit his back, rattling his body against the metal side and bouncing off his head. One more load like this and he would be buried alive.
37
A white shroud lay over the cottage and surrounding land. The wind had died down, and in its place was a silence so intense Rhona could taste it.
In the cold light of dawn she’d risen as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb Chrissy, whose regular breathing suggested a deep and untroubled sleep. When she’d opened the front door, the snow stood level with her knees. She’d put on a warm padded jacket and a pair of wellington boots from a selection in the back kitchen and a pair of thick gloves.
Stepping out into the crisp deep snow, she was momentarily blinded by the rising sun’s reflection on the crystalline surface. The beauty of the scene rendered her speechless. In the city, snow turned to oily grey soup almost immediately. It never looked like this.
The weaving ribbon of track had been obliterated. There was no evidence of the fences that bordered it, apart from an occasional dark spot that might be the top of a post. She could see a cluster of dark red dots on the horizon, which turned out to be a flock of daubed sheep stranded on higher ground.
The thought struck her that the farmer wouldn’t leave his sheep without food. He would come to feed them, Christmas morning or not. If Mr Jenkins could help them get a vehicle to the main road, maybe they would get home today after all.
A raven swooped above the stranded sheep, its diamond-shaped tail black against a cobalt sky and its caw sharp in the still air. It circled for a moment, then spotted something more interesting. Rhona hoped it wasn’t a sheep trapped in a snowdrift. Then an even worse thought occurred. What if it was Claire or Emma? She set off towards the spot as fast as possible.
She crested a small hill just as the raven came in to land. Rhona ran at the huge bird, flapping her arms frantically. Eventually it rose, crying its displeasure at her interference.
Now Rhona saw what its intended prey had been.
A snow hole had been dug into the hillside, its entrance pointing away from last night’s prevailing wind. Near by lay a man, face down. Blood splattered the snow from a gash on the back of his head.
She pulled off her gloves and knelt beside him, feeling for and finding a strong pulse. He stirred under her touch, his eyes flickering open.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I think so.’ He groaned and tried to sit up. Rhona helped him.
‘You’ve got a bad cut on the back of your head.’
‘A branch came down in the wind, caught me a cracker. I felt really weird when I woke up. I crawled out of the snow hole and must have passed out.’
‘I take it you got caught in the blizzard.’
‘The car got stuck in a drift. I decided to try and make it home on foot. Not a good idea.’
‘I’ve come from a cottage just over the hill. I could dress the wound and give you something to eat.’
He seemed to be contemplating refusal, then changed his mind and struggled to his feet. ‘Thanks, that would be great.’
Rhona offered him her hand. ‘Rhona MacLeod.’
He smiled and took it. ‘Alan MacNiven.’
Chrissy must have been watching for her return because she opened the door on their approach, darting Rhona a quizzical look.
‘Alan here got caught in the blizzard. Dug himself a snow hole and spent the night in it.’
Chrissy looked impressed.
Rhona led him into the kitchen, where he took a seat at the table. She fetched a bowl of hot water, then groaned.
‘The first-aid kit’s in the car.’
‘I have everything you need in my overnight bag,’ Chrissy announced. She departed and reappeared with a kit fit for an expedition up the Amazon.
Rhona cleaned the wound, expecting to pick up small pieces of bark on the gauze. There was none. In fact, the more she studied the cut the less she thought it had been inflicted by a blunt branch. From her experience, the wound had been caused by a sharper implement. She taped a dressing in place.
‘It could do with a few stitches.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’
Rhona studied the man’s grimy face. Their visitor looked young, maybe early twenties, and badly in need of a shave. He also smelled a bit. Still, lying out all night could account for that.
Chrissy was rummaging in the fridge. ‘Anyone for breakfast? Bacon, sausage, eggs, tattie scones?’
‘I’d better be going.’
‘You should eat first,’ urged Rhona. ‘You’ll need your strength to plough through that snow. Besides, Mr Jenkins should be here soon.’
‘Who?’ He looked startled.
&n
bsp; ‘Chapel Mains Farm.’
‘Oh, aye.’
Alan said nothing as Chrissy prepared the fry-up, but clearly the desire to eat was winning over the desire to leave. When the food was set in front of him, he wolfed it down. It looked as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. Even Chrissy, mammoth eater that she was, couldn’t compete.
‘D’you want me to fry some more?’ she offered.
He looked abashed, suddenly realising what he’d done. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise I was so hungry.’
‘Where did you learn to dig a snow hole?’ she asked.
‘I’ve done some climbing in the Cairngorms. Weather can change there pretty quickly.’
Chrissy tried to top up his mug of tea, but he waved her away. ‘Thanks, but I’d better be getting home.’
‘So where is home?’ Rhona asked.
‘A couple of miles south from here.’
‘I expect you know everyone in the area. Small rural communities are like that.’
He shrugged non-committally.
‘What about the woman and her daughter who live here?’
His eyes flicked between Rhona and Chrissy. ‘I thought you two lived here.’
‘We’re from Forensic Services, Strathclyde Police. Claire Watson and her daughter Emma went missing twenty-four hours ago. That’s why we’re here.’
‘You’re the police?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Chrissy pedantically.
He stood up. ‘I don’t know anything about a missing woman.’
‘You didn’t see anyone last night when you were trying to get home?’ asked Rhona.
He shook his head. ‘You couldn’t see an inch in front of you in that blizzard.’
‘Too right,’ Chrissy agreed.
He swiftly took his leave, obviously anxious to be on his way. They watched as he jumped the fence and set off across the field towards the woods. Before he was out of hearing, Chrissy called, ‘Good luck.’ He turned just long enough for her to capture his image on her mobile.
‘What d’you think?’ said Chrissy.
‘He was nervous, but not about us or the cottage.’
‘Until he found out who we were. If he got into a fight last night that could explain the wound.’
‘And his reluctance to talk to the police.’
‘I’ll maybe show this to McNab, just in case,’ Chrissy said.
Rhona shielded her eyes and searched the horizon. The sheep were still there, but no sign of a tractor.
‘I think we should try for the farm.’
‘Where is it exactly?’
‘No idea. I’m going to head for the hill with the sheep on it for a better view.’
‘What about me?’
Rhona glanced down at her assistant’s prominent bump. ‘You stay here. I won’t be long.’
‘What if I go into labour while you’re away?’
‘Do you think that’s a possibility?’ Rhona said anxiously.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve read enough books on childbirth to deliver it myself.’
As she departed Rhona mouthed a silent prayer that that wouldn’t be necessary.
38
McNab had lost all feeling from the waist down. Pinned against the wall by the force and weight of the debris, he was grateful that at least his lungs were still operating, but for how much longer? Each breath he drew was like a fire in his chest. If his back wasn’t broken, a few of his ribs were.
The digger had been silent long enough now for him to believe that its operator had gone. Facing the metal side of the container, he couldn’t see the sky, yet suspected it was getting light. If he could hold out a little longer, maybe someone would hear his cries and come to his rescue.
Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. There was a gash on the back of his head too, and the blood had soaked his collar and run down under his shirt. He licked his swollen lips, wincing as his tongue met an open wound. How the hell had he got into this mess? He shouldn’t have provoked Grigorovitch. He should have taken a simple statement and gone home.
Grigorovitch must have contacted Solonik or Kalinin and told them what had transpired at the restaurant. They had simply come and picked him off, like a rabbit in their headlights.
He wondered why Solonik hadn’t snapped his neck. Maybe I have a guardian angel, he thought. An angel sent to save me on Christmas Eve. A modern version of It’s a Wonderful Life.
When he heard voices near by he opened his mouth to shout for help, then shut it again when he realised they were speaking a language that might just be Russian.
The voices were low and guttural, accompanied by scraping boots and winter coughs. A few jocular pleasantries were being exchanged. There were gangmasters working areas of Glasgow, and Govanhill was one of them. They collected groups of immigrants, mostly Romanians and other eastern Europeans, and bussed them to casual jobs. McNab surmised it might be one such gang waiting for a van.
He decided to take a chance and call for help.
His first strangled shout went unnoticed. The second resulted in a single call for silence, and the voices dwindled to a halt.
McNab shouted as loudly as he could. His voice bounced round the container and echoed back at him. He let the noise die down and listened for a response. The voices had changed tone. They were worried now, criss-crossing one another. One rose to take charge. McNab had no idea what was said but he knew someone was coming to look for him. He shouted again.
Footsteps came briskly towards the container, then stopped. He heard fence wire being rattled, then somebody was up and over, followed by another. A fist banged on the metal side. McNab banged back in reply. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, the strength that had kept him alive starting to drain away at the possibility of rescue.
There was a scrambling sound on the outside of the container, then a clear voice shouted down at him. He tried in vain to turn his head. Someone landed on the debris and crept slowly towards McNab, then began to move the rubble piece by piece. He heard someone else drop inside the container and soon began to feel the weight against him lessen. His body, released from the wall, started to tremble. He filled his lungs with air and allowed himself to believe that he would get out of this alive.
His excavation was swift now. The men conversed throughout in low voices in a language McNab didn’t understand, although it had the sound of eastern Europe. Freed, he was able to turn and observe his rescuers. Two men stared at him in the chilly light of dawn. They were unshaven and bundled up against the cold. High cheekboned and almond eyed, they regarded him with uneasy concern.
McNab repeated the only word he’d gleaned from his visit to the restaurant. ‘Spasibo.’
They looked puzzled, then one smiled as he deciphered McNab’s strangled Russian for thank you. He reached out a hand and McNab grabbed a hold of it as if it were a lifeline. As his body was pulled free, feeling flooded his lower half, quickly followed by pain. But his legs worked. He crawled across the debris that had formed his prison.
The two men helped him up and over the container wall. In the poor light McNab could make out part of a demolition site. Half a dozen men gaped at him through a mesh fence. His rescuers urged him towards the fence, obviously anxious to be out of the yard before anyone in authority appeared. With their help he climbed over, his drop on the other side met by welcoming hands. A gaggle of voices greeted his rescuers, obviously demanding to know what the hell had happened.
When McNab pulled out his ID card the men drew back, frightened. He smiled, shook his head. He wasn’t planning to cause any trouble, even if they were illegals. He repeated thank you in any and every language he knew; English, Russian, French and Italian.
When he was out of sight of the yard, he tried to work out exactly where he was by the skyline and decided he wasn’t that far from Polmadie, the site of the skip fire. His limbs, driven by adrenalin, suddenly gave out and he slid down a nearby wall to sit trembling at its foot. He guided a shaking hand to his pocket, looking for his m
obile. Solonik must have been so confident of his demise that he hadn’t bothered to remove it. The screen was scratched and dirty, but the phone appeared operational. McNab rang Rhona’s number.
39
The wind scouring the hill had stacked snow in deep drifts around the summit. The last section saw Rhona buried up to her waist. When she finally managed to scramble to the top, she was met by a score of puzzled eyes, but the sheep didn’t scatter.
The farm lay due west, tucked in a valley. She could see the smoke curling from its chimney. She could also make out a red tractor and trailer moving laboriously through the snow, distributing hay to other stranded sheep.
Any shouting she did from here would be unlikely to be heard by the driver. She could either wave her arms and hope he spotted her, or else make her way towards him. She decided on the latter.
She took a bearing and set off back down the hill. Trudging through the undisturbed snow was laborious and tricky, a bit like negotiating deep heather. She had no idea how far her foot would descend before it met firm ground, and the ground was pockmarked with rabbit holes.
The tractor had finished its current delivery and was heading for the next cluster of sheep when she entered the field. Rhona’s shout was rewarded by the engine spluttering to a halt. A man climbed down and came towards her.
She introduced herself and asked whether he had seen or heard anything of Claire and Emma.
Mr Jenkins shook his head.
‘I phoned round everyone I could think of as soon as your detective sergeant called me. No one’s seen them. I wondered why the cat had turned up here when it had taken such a liking to Emma.’
‘Is there any mobile reception at the farm, or is your landline working?’
‘Afraid not. The radio says the whole of Scotland and the North of England got hit by the blizzard, so we’re not the only ones cut off.’
He promised Rhona he would be over to try to pull her car out as soon as he’d tended to his sheep.
‘If you want to wait at the farm, Ellen will keep you company.’
Rhona thanked him for the offer but declined, thinking of Chrissy, back at the cottage. She decided to take the opportunity to ask the farmer about the man in the snow hole.
