by Lin Anderson
The thought came to him that she had remarked on the putty smell. It reminds me of my childhood, she’d said. Was the remark significant? He quickly dismissed the idea. She had been trying to put him at ease. Trying to make him like her, while the man hovered in the background with a bored look on his face. The DS wasn’t interested in the workshop, he just wanted to bring up the subject of McCarthy not being able to drive, hinting that McCarthy must have had an accomplice.
Maybe he was hinting that he had helped McCarthy?
The notion entered Swanson’s mind and took root. That was why they were here. They thought he’d helped McCarthy dispose of the body. He remembered how frequently he’d stressed that no one visited McCarthy, that he had no friends on the outside except him! They’d tricked him, put words in his mouth.
He went through to the kitchen, helped himself to a glass of red wine from the unfinished bottle and sat down at the kitchen table. The warm, full-bodied liquid swam through him like a surge of new blood, quelling his agitation. There was nothing to tie him to the murder of Mollie Curtis. Besides, he had just helped the authorities by exposing the possibility that McCarthy might have killed another child.
He mulled this over. Maybe the shock of McCarthy’s revelation had upset him so much he wanted to stop his prison visits. A man could only take so much. Visiting a murderer who confesses to further crimes would traumatise anyone.
Maybe he should take a short holiday to recover.
A visit to Venice to study the stained-glass windows? He began to turn the idea over in his head and the more he thought about it the better the plan seemed.
He glanced at the window, where frost sparkled on the glass. It was getting colder by the minute. The forecast had promised sub-zero temperatures to follow the blizzard, lasting through to the New Year. He smiled and took another mouthful of wine, his stomach rumbling a little.
He retrieved what was left of the Christmas pudding from the fridge and slipped it in the microwave to warm, then added brandy butter, watching it soften and run down the sides. He carried the bowl through to the sitting room, switched on the computer and settled down to check availability of flights to Venice.
46
‘Sanctimonious bastard!’ said McNab. ‘Turn left at the crossroads.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere I can get a drink.’
A few miles farther on they found a cluster of houses and a small hotel with its lights blazing. Through the dining-room window they could see people enjoying an evening meal.
They abandoned the car in the first available parking space and headed for the front door. The bar was hot and crowded but moments after they arrived a group were called through to the dining room. Rhona slid into the empty space they provided.
‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked.
‘Coffee.’
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. They couldn’t both drink alcohol and McNab needed an anaesthetic more than she did. He arrived back minutes later with a large whisky and a cup of coffee.
‘Was it true?’ she said as he sat down opposite her.
‘What?’
‘What you said about McCarthy not being a driver.’
‘It was in the case file.’ McNab swallowed a large mouthful and winced as the whisky stung his tender mouth. ‘They assumed McCarthy had buried the body locally.’ He examined the amber liquid left in the glass, swirling it in anticipation.
‘Painkillers would work better.’
‘This is my painkiller.’ He drained the glass.
‘Michael,’ she remonstrated.
‘D’you realise you only use my first name when you’re telling me off about something?’
‘That’s not true.’
He met her eye. ‘Yes it is.’
‘Slater won’t listen to you if you’re drunk.’
McNab set the empty glass on the table.
‘Slater won’t listen to me anyway.’
‘If McCarthy can’t drive then he had an accomplice. There were traces of stained glass in the grave, remember? Swanson works in glass. Maybe he helped McCarthy.’
‘Swanson’s a do-gooder, a pillar of society. On the boards of various charities, the Children’s Panel, a church elder who restores stained-glass windows. I just don’t see him and McCarthy as partners in crime.’
‘What about the putty smell in the woods?’
McNab gave a sigh of exasperation.
‘Did you smell putty?’
‘No, but …’
‘The fragment of glass isn’t enough. It could have got there in lots of ways.’
‘How?’
‘Dropped by someone walking in the woods.’
‘It was under the body.’
‘Dropped there before there was a body.’ McNab acknowledged her frosty look. ‘OK, you’re the forensic expert, what is it you want me to do?’
‘Ask Slater for a search warrant for Swanson’s place.’
‘You are joking?’ He regarded her disbelievingly.
‘You heard the way he reacted to Emma’s disappearance.’
‘He put two and two together, probably my fault.’
‘You don’t believe that?’
‘I don’t know what I believe.’
‘So you’re just going to get drunk and forget about Emma and Claire?’
McNab grimaced as though she had hit him full on his bruised face. ‘If I call Slater with this story on Christmas Day he’ll have me suspended along with the DI.’
Rhona wasn’t convinced he’d given up. She’d seen him like this before. Like a wave crashing on the shore, he went full at it before retreating, steeped in doubt.
‘What if I call Slater?’
McNab looked surprised. ‘It won’t do any good,’ he warned.
She went to look for a quiet spot to make the call. She needed to make the request sound as though it was just the next step in the forensic investigation, and feed Slater the likelihood that the body was Mollie Curtis. She would then remind him that McCarthy didn’t drive so he would have needed an accomplice to transport the body to the woods. That would give her the opportunity to bring up the glass fragment and the fact that McCarthy’s only contact outside the prison happened to work in stained glass. Suggesting a forensic examination of Swanson’s workshop would be the next obvious step.
Mrs Slater answered the phone, sounding festive. Rhona introduced herself then asked to speak to the DI.
‘On Christmas Day?’ his wife remonstrated.
When Slater came on the line she apologised for disturbing his Christmas, then told him about Mollie.
‘Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?’
Rhona ran through the scenario anyway. A deathly silence followed.
‘Who is this contact?’ Slater snapped, eventually.
‘His name is Hugh Swanson.’
‘The prison visitor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is also a Justice of the Peace and a member of the Children’s Panel?’
She remained silent.
‘And you call me on Christmas Day to ask me to authorise a search warrant for this man’s home based on a fragment of glass?’ Slater was having difficulty controlling his temper.
‘That’s not all. DS McNab visited McCarthy …’
‘He did what?’
Rhona rushed on. ‘McCarthy talked about a boy. He said the boy wasn’t his fault. Apparently he had also mentioned a boy to Swanson. And, if you remember, it was Emma that alerted us to the possibility of another body, a boy, being secreted in the woods.’
‘Who spoke to Swanson?’ Slater’s tone was icy.
Rhona didn’t answer.
‘We’ll discuss this at the strategy meeting tomorrow morning. Good night, Dr MacLeod.’
The phone clattered down.
McNab looked up as Rhona entered. She slipped in opposite him.
‘I think I may have got you into more trouble.’
McNa
b grinned.
‘Forget it. Something interesting happened while you were away.’
‘Anya is Misha’s sister. When I described the burned guy to her last night she turned white and puked. Misha made the excuse that the description sounded like a cousin who was in fact alive. I didn’t believe him. I think Anya was closer to the dead guy than that. I gave her my card, asked her to call me when she felt up to talking about it.’
‘And she did?’
‘But not about the skip fire. She heard on the news about Claire. She says she knows her. She sounded really freaked about Claire’s disappearance.’
‘Has she any idea where Claire might be?’
‘She wouldn’t say on the phone. She asked to meet me outside Jury’s Inn on Clyde Street in half an hour.’
McNab was back on the crest of a wave. Either the whisky had taken the edge off the pain or the possibility of finding Claire had kicked him back into action. Considering what he had been through over the last forty-eight hours it was a miracle he was still functioning at all.
As she drove back towards town Rhona wondered whether meeting anyone from the Russian contingent was a wise move after what had happened the last time. When she broached the subject with McNab, he brushed aside her concerns.
‘We drive up, Anya gets in the car. We drive away.’
It sounded too easy. She told him so. ‘Solonik thinks you’re dead. Maybe he’s getting Anya to check out if it’s true?’
‘She could have done that without mentioning Claire.’
As they crossed the Clyde, Rhona saw a small group of guests vacate Jury’s to light up outside the main entrance. She swung left on to Clyde Street. There was no one waiting for them at the allotted spot. Rhona cursed under her breath. A complete circle of the one-way system might take ten minutes with the lights against her.
‘Pull on to the pavement!’ McNab commanded.
To their left was the docking place for the ferry that travelled upriver to Braehead shopping centre. The Clydeside walkway that ran alongside was in shadowy darkness, split at intervals by brighter light. Rhona pulled abruptly off the road and killed the engine, ignoring the angry horn blast from the car behind. McNab opened the door.
‘I think you should stay in the car,’ she urged.
‘If she doesn’t see it’s me she won’t come out.’
He stepped into a pool of light. At first there was nothing then Rhona saw a movement in the shadow of the walkway and a slight figure came into view. It was a young woman, long dark hair framing her face.
‘Anya?’ he called softly.
She came forward, tentatively at first. Rhona heard her register the state of McNab’s face and saw her hand rise to her mouth in shock.
‘Get in the car.’
He held the rear door open. Anya walked swiftly towards them and slid in the back. McNab closed the door then got in beside Rhona, stifling a groan.
‘Go!’
‘Where?’ Rhona said.
‘Head for your flat, but make it the long way round.’
He watched in the rear-view mirror as Rhona indicated and drew out. She did as he’d requested, winding her way up through the city centre in the general direction of home. After five minutes McNab seemed satisfied that no one was tailing them.
‘Find somewhere and pull in.’
‘What happened to your face?’ Anya’s voice was low and accented, her tone concerned.
‘Your brother told someone I was asking awkward questions. They picked me up when I left the restaurant.’
She looked shocked. ‘Misha wouldn’t do that.’
‘You and I both know that Misha’s either mixed up with the Russian lot or he’s shit scared of them. Which is it, Anya?’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘The man who died was called Alexei Petrov.’
‘Who murdered him?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Anya,’ McNab warned. ‘If they were prepared to torture and kill a police officer, what do you think they would do to you or Misha?’
They waited while Anya struggled with herself. ‘His name is Nikolai Kalinin. But he would not have killed Alexei himself. There is a man called …’
‘Solonik?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was a whisper of fear. ‘That is why I called you. I think Solonik took Claire. Claire came into the restaurant one day about six months ago. We chatted. I hadn’t been here in Glasgow long and she became my first real friend. Then she met Nikolai. I didn’t know then what he was like, or I would never have introduced them.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Nikolai became Claire’s lover. She even told him about Emma. Then she stopped coming to the restaurant. She didn’t answer my calls. I saw her one day on the street a month ago. She looked terrible. I asked her what was wrong.’ Anya paused, tears in her eyes. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. Then Nikolai turned up at the restaurant and demanded to know where she was. I couldn’t tell him because I didn’t know.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘He threatened to kill Misha and I still couldn’t tell him.’
‘Where can we find Kalinin?’
She produced a piece of paper. ‘When he orders food from the restaurant we deliver it to this address.’ Her hand shook as she passed the paper to McNab. ‘If he finds out I’ve spoken to you …’
‘He won’t,’ promised McNab.
They dropped her round the corner from the restaurant. As she walked away, Rhona thought how diminutive she looked. Diminutive but courageous. Anya Grigorovitch had taken a big gamble speaking to them. Rhona only hoped they could repay her trust.
‘What if Anya’s right and Kalinin has Claire?’ she said.
‘There’s one way to find out.’
47
‘Slater won’t argue on this one,’ said Rhona. ‘He wants Kalinin. Call the station, bring in some help. You can’t walk in there on your own.’
They were outside the address Anya had given them. A refurbished building in the Merchant City, it rose through four Victorian floors to a modern glass penthouse with a bird’s-eye view of the city.
McNab wasn’t listening. ‘Food’ll be here shortly.’
‘This is madness. You can’t do this on your own.’
‘I’m counting on Kalinin to think exactly that.’
She gave up for the moment. She knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t be persuaded once he had made up his mind.
When a van with the restaurant’s logo pulled up alongside, McNab got out and approached the driver. There was a muffled conversation, then a carrier bag exchanged hands and the van took off. He brought the bag back. The food smelled delicious.
‘What happened?’
‘I told him I would take it up.’
‘You showed him your badge?’
McNab shook his head. ‘He took me for one of Kalinin’s lot. Must have been my good looks.’ He could see Rhona was worried. ‘It’ll be fine.’
She shook her head. ‘Give me the bag.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Kalinin doesn’t know me.’
The man on the desk was in his thirties, and looked very pleased with himself in his smart uniform. Rhona showed him the bag and told him it was for the penthouse flat.
‘You’re new.’
She smiled. ‘Special delivery.’
He grinned. ‘Fancy a drink when you’re finished?’
‘Depends how long I’m up there.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
She felt his eyes on her back as she walked to the lift. Rhona gave him a little wave as the doors closed, muttering Conceited arse through clenched teeth. She pressed the penthouse button and the lift moved swiftly into action, a robotic female voice reciting the floor numbers as they swept past. Eventually there was a ping and the doors slid open on a glass-walled vestibule.
Rhona stood for a moment on the marble tiles, composing herself before she knocked on the only door. She heard footsteps inside and made hersel
f visible through the spyhole. The door was opened by a man in a smart suit. He definitely didn’t fit the description McNab had given her of Solonik. This man was tall and heavily built, with black hair and a pockmarked complexion. He eyed her, then the carrier bag.
‘Your food order,’ she said helpfully.
He looked puzzled and muttered something in what she took to be Russian. She stepped inside as though that were the norm and walked confidently onwards, chattering brightly about serving up. She suspected from the man’s reaction that he understood little of what she was saying.
The penthouse was spacious, open-plan and apparently empty. Rhona went directly to the kitchen area and plonked the bag on a pristine surface. As she began unpacking a voice called from somewhere out of sight and was answered by the man who’d opened the door to her. The result of the interchange was the arrival of another man.
‘I didn’t order any food.’
The owner of the cultured voice matched McNab’s description of Nikolai Kalinin. He was tall, handsome and well groomed, with no trace of an accent.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, puzzled. ‘I’m sure this was the address I was given.’
He was studying her intently from across the intervening counter, more amused than angry. Rhona suspected Claire’s first impression of Nikolai Kalinin had been much like her own – a good-looking, polite guy with a sense of humour.
‘I don’t think we’ve met before?’
‘Misha’s a friend of mine. I offered to help tonight because he was so busy. Looks like I messed up.’ Rhona met Kalinin’s smile with one of her own. ‘Shall I take this back?’
He checked out the contents of the bag, now laid out on the surface.
‘All my favourites, I see.’
