Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

  As she was considering this, the man dipped his head decisively and set off in the direction of Glasgow Cross. Rhona gave him a few moments, then headed in the same direction.

  The Saltmarket was busy with midday traffic and pedestrians. The normality of the scene didn’t ease her concerns. If she was aware that the Central Café was a hang-out of McNab’s, wouldn’t others know it too? And what if she was the one being watched and she led them to him? Her stomach flipped at the thought. Then she told herself she was overreacting. If McNab imagined for a moment this place was being watched, he wouldn’t be here.

  When she opened the café door, a strong smell of fried food and vinegar met her head on. The queue at the shop counter was three deep. She could hear Rocco’s Italian-accented Glasgow patter as he served up.

  Rhona turned into the seating area. McNab wasn’t at the usual window table. Very wise. She scanned the room and spotted a familiar figure in the far corner.

  He gave her a wide smile as she slipped in opposite, while she examined the face that was both familiar and strikingly different. The auburn hair was cropped close to his skull, and he’d acquired glasses. But the wry look he threw her was all McNab.

  ‘How are you?’ she said.

  ‘Not bad for a dead man. I was having a bit of bother keeping up with the new hair colour – the beard kept growing out ginger.’ He studied her face. ‘You know about the grave?’

  ‘I picked up a message from Chrissy when I came out of court. How did you find out?’

  ‘An early morning visit to the cemetery.’

  Rhona wondered why he would visit his own grave; perhaps he’d suspected it might have been tampered with.

  ‘Now they know for definite you’re alive,’ she said.

  ‘They’ve known since they got to the soldier. No one Solonik tortures stays silent.’ McNab looked pained, clearly remembering that only too well.

  ‘If that’s true, why bother digging up the coffin?’

  He shrugged. ‘To show me they know?’

  A shudder of fear went through Rhona.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Look so worried.’

  ‘There’s plenty to worry about.’

  ‘Hey, I’m upright and I’m warm, that’s more than you believed possible a few weeks ago.’

  All the time she’d believed him dead and wished for the miracle of this moment. Now Rhona could only think of losing him again.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Dr MacLeod,’ he said softly.

  She drew her eyes from his. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

  ‘I need a reason?’

  ‘You told me you wouldn’t be in touch before the case came to court.’

  ‘I changed my mind when I saw the grave.’ He paused. ‘I want you to contact Petersson.’ Einar Petersson was the investigative journalist who had discovered McNab’s resurrection and eventually persuaded Rhona of it. McNab pushed an envelope across the table. ‘Give him this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something that will help the case against Kalinin.’

  ‘But why not give it to Bill?’

  ‘The boss would have to go through the proper police channels. Chances are Kalinin’s mole would pick up on it.’

  Rhona slipped the envelope into her pocket just as her mobile rang. She didn’t answer.

  ‘I’d rather you let the Serious Crime Squad hide you,’ she said.

  ‘I tried that once, remember? This way I have no one to blame but myself if it all goes wrong.’

  Rhona didn’t want to think about that possibility. She avoided McNab’s gaze and looked back over her shoulder at the counter. The lunchtime queue had dispersed and there was only one customer remaining – a young man in a hooded top and fancy trainers. She put her hand on McNab’s arm and leaned in so he could hear her lowered voice. ‘That guy at the counter. He was hanging around outside the court. I think he might have followed me here.’

  McNab craned round her for a look. She saw him tense up when the man shoved his hand in his pocket, but then a small plastic bag was produced and emptied onto the counter. A pile of pound coins clattered out.

  ‘Can you change these for notes, mate?’

  Rocco muttered an expletive that held a note of admiration. ‘A good morning’s work, eh?’

  Relief flooded Rhona and she laughed. ‘He tried to beg a pound off me. Swore on his mother’s ashes it wasn’t for drugs.’

  The guy was accepting his earnings in notes, about thirty quid’s worth. He turned, sensing their interest, and met Rhona’s accusing glance. A cheeky grin split his face when he realised who she was.

  ‘You said you’d nae cash, so you were lying too,’ he called over.

  He reached for the sausage supper Rocco had wrapped in the interim and headed for the door.

  In the silence that followed, Rhona’s mobile rang again. She frowned and pushed the button to send the call to voicemail.

  ‘You need to get back to work, Dr MacLeod,’ said McNab.

  She nodded and got to her feet.

  He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll see you in court.’

  Rhona wanted to embrace him and urge him to stay alive. Instead she left without looking back, her heart thumping, her mind in turmoil. When the mobile rang yet again on the way to the car, she answered.

  ‘Didn’t you get my message?’ Chrissy’s voice was shrill with excitement. ‘McNab’s not dead. The coffin they dug up was empty!’

  The split second it took Rhona to respond was enough to alert Chrissy. ‘You knew?’ she said accusingly.

  ‘We’ll talk when I get to the lab.’

  The strangled sound on the other end suggested Rhona’s explanation would fall short of anything likely to placate Chrissy.

  ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  Chrissy had already hung up.

  Rhona took the route that ran parallel to the river. A low mist hung over the Clyde, obscuring the walkway that bordered it. She drove past the shadowed pillars where she and McNab had met with a young woman called Anya Grigorovitch; Anya’s lover Alexsai had been murdered on Nikolai Kalinin’s orders. Rhona recalled McNab’s bristling anger that night, and his determination to bring the Russian gangster and his associates to justice.

  And he had thought he’d succeeded. In fact, he and Chrissy had been invited to Paddy Brogan’s Poker Club that night to celebrate. On the house, Paddy had said, as a thank you to McNab for getting the Russian contingent off his patch. Then DI Slater had released Kalinin and he’d headed straight to the Poker Club.

  Rhona could still picture her frantic attempts to stem the unremitting flow of blood from McNab’s body, and hear his last words as the life faded from his eyes. He had told her he loved her.

  He’s alive, she told herself. And he’s going to stay that way.

  Rhona could feel the icy atmosphere as soon as she entered the lab. She didn’t blame Chrissy, who had been distraught at McNab’s death – he had saved both her and her unborn child, and as far as she’d known he had given his own life to do so. That’s why she’d named her baby boy Michael, and had insisted on giving Michael Joseph McNab a proper Roman Catholic funeral, just in case his soul needed saving.

  Chrissy looked up from her work. ‘How long?’ she demanded.

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘This is what all these meetings with Petersson were about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rhona could see the distress on Chrissy’s face.

  ‘How could you not tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t believe Petersson at first. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Eventually the things he was saying turned out to be true.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘McNab was revived in the ambulance; but then, according to hospital records, he died on the operating table.’

  ‘But he didn’
t die, did he?’ said Chrissy.

  Rhona shook her head. ‘He was moved south, hidden in a safe house at the same time as Fergus Morrison.’ She hesitated. ‘Kalinin discovered where they were hiding Morrison. He had him tortured to find out if McNab was alive.’

  ‘But I was the one who persuaded Fergus to hand himself in and testify against Kalinin,’ Chrissy said, dismayed. ‘I told him he would be safe.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. Someone on the inside is feeding Kalinin information. That’s why McNab left the safe house.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘A few weeks ago,’ Rhona lied.

  ‘And you never told me?’

  ‘I couldn’t afford to take the chance.’

  ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘DI Wilson and Superintendent Sutherland.’

  A look of hurt betrayal crossed Chrissy’s face. ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘You would have wanted to tell Sam.’ Rhona couldn’t imagine Chrissy keeping a secret from her partner, especially one that involved the saviour of their son.

  ‘Sam can keep a secret,’ Chrissy said stoutly.

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ said Rhona, with conviction.

  ‘You managed well enough,’ Chrissy fired back.

  The truth was she’d been desperate to tell Chrissy, but the first meeting she’d had with McNab had convinced Rhona of the danger in telling anyone. To have found out about the safe house, Kalinin had to have an informant in the force, maybe even in the Serious Crime Squad. That meant anyone who knew that McNab was alive was in danger.

  ‘Well, anyway, the whole world knows now,’ Chrissy said. ‘It’s in the early edition of the evening paper.’

  The banner headline said it all.

  STAR WITNESS BACK FROM THE DEAD.

  Below was a photograph of McNab, the way he looked before the makeover. ‘It’s from Bill’s fiftieth birthday party at the jazz club. Look, you can see the stage in the background.’

  ‘How the hell did a newspaper get hold of that picture?’ Rhona’s immediate thought was that someone at the club had been responsible. Maybe even her ex, Sean Maguire, who partly owned the place.

  ‘Now everyone knows what he looks like,’ Chrissy pointed out.

  ‘McNab doesn’t really look like that any more. I hardly recognised him myself.’ Chrissy was regarding her anxiously. ‘His voice is the same, though. And his jokes.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’

  They lapsed into silent thought.

  ‘What happens now?’ Chrissy asked eventually.

  ‘He stays in hiding until his court appearance.’

  ‘With SOCA?’

  Rhona shook her head. ‘He’s doing it on his own.’

  Chrissy muttered an expletive. ‘Who does he think he is, James Bond?’

  ‘He doesn’t trust anyone. Not after Morrison’s death.’

  ‘He trusts you,’ Chrissy retorted. Her voice held a hint of accusation.

  Rhona was reminded of the envelope – she needed to call Petersson. But not in front of Chrissy. She had already lied and said she hadn’t seen McNab for weeks. She would have to keep up the pretence.

  ‘I’d better get down to some work. Anything new come in?’

  ‘An urgent request from DI Wilson to forensically examine an exhumation. Guess whose?’

  Rhona tried Einar Petersson’s number before starting up the car. It rang a couple of times then switched to voicemail, so she left a brief message asking him to call her back.

  The drive to the cemetery gave her time to contemplate this latest development in the Kalinin saga. Having met the man and experienced both his charm and his cruelty, she didn’t doubt he’d do everything in his power to find and kill McNab, just as he had Fergus Morrison. McNab thought he could hide out successfully on his home turf, but if Kalinin suspected he was here he would use all his resources to locate him.

  She swung through the cemetery gates and drew up in the car park alongside an incident van and a couple of police vehicles. Retrieving her forensic case and suit from the boot, she locked up then set off towards the distant knot of people.

  Despite the bunches of spring flowers adorning the graves, winter hadn’t loosened its grip on Glasgow yet. The path was frosted underfoot and the surrounding grass was still patched with snow.

  Rhona hadn’t been back to the cemetery since the funeral. She remembered thinking, standing there in the full grip of winter, that McNab should have been cremated. Then they would have said goodbye to him inside, in the warmth, instead of gathering to freeze on this hillside.

  Standing at his actual grave had been the most painful part of all. But Chrissy had insisted on the full works. A Roman Catholic service, a proper burial. At the time Rhona hadn’t had the strength or the will to suggest an alternative. And the ceremony had helped in a way. The lowering of the coffin, Bill and five other colleagues holding the ropes. The words intoned as Bill scattered the first soil on the casket. Every action an acknowledgement of the man McNab had been.

  The man he is, she reminded herself.

  The tent was up, protecting the scene from the elements and any curious onlookers. The delights of a Glasgow cemetery on a raw day had brought a surprising number of visitors. Exhumations were rare, let alone ones that revealed there had been no body in the first place.

  Bill had spotted her arriving and was on his way to intercept her. They hadn’t spoken about McNab since that night in the pub when the team were celebrating catching the killer in their most recent case, the ‘daisy chain’ murders. The DI had told her then, against Superintendent Sutherland’s strict orders, that McNab was alive. Rhona had already known, but hearing Bill say it had made it all the more real. Now it looked as though all their secrecy had been in vain.

  ‘I tried to get in touch as soon as I found out about this,’ he said, eyeing her worriedly.

  Rhona hoped her expression didn’t show just how concerned she was herself. ‘I was in court all morning.’ She began kitting up.

  ‘Chrissy didn’t come with you?’

  ‘She found out I knew McNab was alive and didn’t tell her.’

  ‘And she’s not well pleased?’

  ‘The understatement of the year.’

  ‘So I’m in for the cold shoulder too?’

  ‘You have an excuse, you’re a policeman.’

  ‘Has McNab contacted you?’

  Rhona hesitated. She ought to tell Chrissy and Bill the same story. ‘Yes. I met up with him after you and I spoke in the pub.’

  She didn’t mention her initial shock at McNab’s changed appearance, or the hours they’d spent together in a hotel room.

  ‘SOCA are furious with him.’

  ‘They failed to protect Fergus Morrison. What did they expect?’ she snapped.

  ‘If he gets in touch again, will you tell him I want to speak to him?’

  ‘I tried that already. He said he would see us both in court.’

  Bill shook his head. ‘Let’s hope he’s right.’

  Fully suited now, Rhona pulled up the hood and tucked in her hair.

  ‘OK, let’s take a look.’

  Bill pulled aside the tent flap to let her enter.

  She stood for a moment, breathing in the place. In normal circumstances she would be called out to examine a body, with all the accompanying scents of death and decomposition. In here she could smell only damp wood and freshly dug earth.

  The coffin lay at the foot of the grave, the lid alongside and the interior exposed. Petersson had been right: the casket had been loaded with weights. It seemed strange to consider how often she’d pictured McNab’s pale face and still body in this box, six feet underground.

  The routine for examining an exhumation was straightforward. She would DNA-swab and fibre-tape the coffin in situ. Then it would be wrapped in clear plastic or tarpaulin to completely enclose it, belted top and bottom and lifted out with a Simon hoist or by six support officers. Because of the soil on the coffin
surface, there was less likelihood of fingerprints, but she would use cyanoacrylate just in case.

  As for the surrounding soil, there was tool mark analysis to consider, as well as footprints, tyre prints and soil sifting. The likelihood was that Kalinin had contracted out the work to members of a local gang, maybe someone already known to the police. And the average Glasgow criminal did love his expensive trainers. Rhona ran her gaze slowly round the open gravesite, spotting at least three sets of prints. They could belong to whoever discovered the open grave and reported it, or hopefully, to those who had dug it. Soon enough she would find out.

  4

  ‘Jude! Are you in there?’ Liam pounded the door, knowing instinctively that she wasn’t inside.

  He pulled out his mobile and tried her number again, but it switched to voicemail almost immediately.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’

  Jude’s OCD could be a pain at times, but at least it meant she was a stickler for punctuality and answering phone messages.

  The next door along the corridor opened and a head popped out.

  ‘You looking for Jude?’ It was a girl wearing what looked like 3-D glasses.

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Not since yesterday. She was in photography class, but rushed off straight after.’

  ‘Do you know where she was going?’

  ‘Nope. But I don’t know if she came back last night. I didn’t see her in the kitchen or the common room.’

  ‘Have you asked around?’

  She put her head on one side, puzzled. ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘When she comes back can you ask her to give Liam a call? Tell her it’s urgent.’

  She shrugged her shoulders, said ‘Sure,’ and disappeared inside.

  Exasperated, Liam made for the lift. The elderly man on duty in the small office raised an eyebrow when he appeared. When he had let Liam in earlier he’d introduced himself as Charlie.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I know Jude. She’ll turn up. She’s one of the sensible ones.’

  ‘What happens if she doesn’t?’ said Liam.

  ‘The policy of the student residence is to call home after a couple of days. We explain to the parents that their son or daughter hasn’t been seen for a while, then we leave it up to them.’