Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

  Entering the pub, he was struck by how weird it was to be in a room stained brown by nicotine yet free from smoke. The ceiling still sported the extractor fan, now blissfully silent, as a reminder. Even as he considered this, two men pushed past, unlit cigarettes in hand, headed outside to feed the craving.

  McNab surveyed the room discreetly. Three shortish middle-aged men stood at the bar in a familiar stance, bellies out. One was speaking in an irritated, finger-jabbing manner, growling guttural sounds, obviously complaining about something. The others nodded intermittently, jowls set. Round the corner to the right, an elderly man was sitting on a barstool. There was a recently poured pint of lager in front of him, still glistening with condensation. He continued to eye its foamy surface although McNab was pretty sure he had been seen and noted. He made his way to the bar.

  ‘What are you for, big yin?’

  ‘A pint of lager.’ He wasn’t asked to specify a particular type or to study a menu of imported varieties which might be served with slices of lime stuffed in the neck of the bottle. A pint of Tennents was placed in front of him. McNab handed over a modest sum in comparison to Merchant City prices, then took a long, slow mouthful.

  He took a place to the right of the seated man, who didn’t acknowledge him, but went on contemplating his pint. The nearby trio were pontificating on the dire state of Scottish football, using language that would have made his mother turn in her grave. Fifteen minutes later the lone man lifted his glass and made for a table near the toilets. Five minutes later, McNab followed. He took a seat with his back to the room. The other man had pulled out a Daily Record from his pocket and was studying the sports pages. Without looking up he said under his breath, ‘You look like shite.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you too.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’

  ‘Some people wouldn’t let me rest in peace. They dug up my grave.’

  ‘You should have been cremated. It would have been safer.’

  Niceties over, McNab allowed himself a proper look at the man across from him. Jaundiced skin hung loosely on his skull as though it might slide off at any moment. The nose had been broken so many times it sat at an angle. There was a vicious scar above the right eyebrow and both ears had the appearance of having been pummelled often and for long periods. Kev ‘Boxer’ MacMillan might have had the body of a fighter twenty years ago, but not any more, although the big knuckled hands looked fit to throttle someone if required to do so.

  ‘You’re chancing your luck showing your face round here.’

  ‘Anything to see an old mate.’

  There was a deep throated chuckle like a drain emptying.

  ‘Who dug me up?’

  ‘Nae fuckin idea. But from what I hear the plan is to bury you again. Alive, this time.’

  Boxer said this with such conviction it made the hairs stand up on McNab’s neck.

  ‘I need a name,’ he insisted quietly.

  ‘You need your head looked at.’

  A tense silence fell between them, the background chink of glasses and murmur of voices only serving to heighten it. Eventually Boxer relented. ‘From what I hear, Paddy Brogan did the hiring.’

  McNab felt the heat of anger rise in his chest. He’d assumed Brogan had stayed well clear of this and left the search for him to Kalinin. How stupid was he?

  ‘Bastard!’

  ‘Never trust the Irish, especially the Fenians.’ Boxer threw him a pointed look.

  McNab slipped a twenty into the folds of the newspaper, now lying on the table. The movement was acknowledged with a brief nod.

  ‘I’ll use it to drink to your short-lived resurrection.’ Boxer slipped the note deftly into his pocket and turned his attention back to the football pages.

  McNab drank down the rest of his pint and headed for the door. Outside, he passed the same two men, apparently on another fag break. As he eased past them, one took out his mobile and made a call. McNab crossed the road, seeing a bus into town approaching. He flagged it down and jumped on, forgetting he needed the right change for his fare. After a brief contretemps in which he wished he could flash his police badge again, he paid over the odds and took a seat. From the window he saw the guy outside the pub end his call and watch the rear of the bus as it headed west.

  So all roads led to the Poker Club. In his nightmares he was never away from the place. Dashing down corridors looking for a way out, dragging a pregnant and terrified Chrissy with him. Every corner they turned, a smiling Solonik stood waiting, blocking their way. McNab would grind to a halt, his eyes fixed on the huge ham-like fists, watching them rise and flex. Then one of them would slam into Chrissy’s swollen stomach, smashing the tiny body within. Whatever the scenario, and there were many, the nightmare always ended in the same way. The oncoming car, the screech of tyres, Solonik’s grinning face above the gun.

  Despite his best efforts, the shot rang out again in his head, just as it had done in the graveyard. This time he couldn’t dive for cover, although his body still reacted, jerking as the imagined bullet slammed into his back. He looked round into the alarmed face of the young woman seated next to him. McNab opened his mouth to offer some jokey explanation but nothing emerged, so he rose and made for the front, pressing the bell. When the bus drew to a halt he sprang off and began walking quickly away down the nearest side street, adrenaline still pumping a desire to run.

  After a few hundred yards, his mind began to calm and the twitching in his limbs lessened. He forced himself to consider the situation more methodically. So Brogan had organised the gravediggers. No doubt some wee punks looking for drug money. He had no quarrel with them, and didn’t give a shite who they were. It was Brogan he wanted to see. And the angrier he grew, the stronger his need to confront Brogan became. He’d given the job to Petersson, but McNab knew he could do it better. He knew Brogan and what it would take to persuade the bastard on to the witness stand. But did he have the nerve to do it?

  Glancing round, he realised he was back near Glasgow Cross. If he headed across the river he could be at the Poker Club in fifteen minutes. He checked his watch. Wouldn’t it be better to arrive in the evening, with the rest of the punters? Dressed in a penguin suit he might merge with the crowd better. He could suss out the situation before making a move.

  He patted his pocket. He also had the ready cash for a few games. Despite the circumstances McNab felt his spirits rise at the prospect of playing poker again. The best outcome would be if he met with Brogan and managed to persuade him to shop Kalinin and thereby avoid being implicated in McNab’s attempted murder. The worst scenario? Brogan handed him over to the Russian. The thought made McNab’s blood momentarily run cold, before the fear this induced restored his anger. If Brogan saw him alive and strong he just might consider his position. Using a third party like Petersson, although the safer option, held less chance of success.

  McNab found himself warming to the whole idea. But a visit to the Poker Club as a punter would require a tuxedo, his previous suit having been ruined by his untimely death. He gave this some consideration. He was in a part of town that boasted a large number of charity shops, but he doubted they sported many tuxedos on their racks.

  Alternatively he could hire a suit for the night. There was a hire shop in Howard Street down near the river. He’d used it before. He immediately reminded himself that if he were to go there he would need to use his alias, William McCartney. Dead men weren’t a likely source of repeat business.

  Energised by the prospect of confronting Brogan, he quickened his pace towards Howard Street. He smiled to himself as he imagined taking some of the bastard’s money into the bargain.

  12

  She had exactly fifteen minutes to shower and change.

  The smell of dust and decay permeated her nostrils, skin and hair. Despite the forensic suit, the dead always left their scent on you, whether fresh and bloody or, like today, old and mummified.

  She shampooed twice, and would have gladly stoo
d there for another hour, letting the warm water take the ache and smell from her body, but she didn’t want to be in the shower when Petersson arrived.

  She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. The dress she’d chosen lay spread out on the bed. Black, sexy without being too obvious, it seemed to her to fit the bill. The Poker Club clientele were not the same men who frequented Brogan’s housing scheme betting shops, but the moneyed of Glasgow and its surrounds. The ones with homes in the West End, or expensive new riverside apartments, or the even wealthier owners of larger houses equipped with stables and paddocks in the lush Renfrewshire countryside.

  She dressed, applied make up and dried her hair, all without an interruption from the door buzzer. Then she headed for the kitchen, opened a bottle of white wine and poured herself a glass.

  It was all so reminiscent of the night this had begun, when McNab had arrived in his tuxedo to pick up Chrissy. Rhona recalled how happy they’d both been. How keyed up by Kalinin’s arrest and by the successful resolution to the case they’d been working on.

  McNab had tried to persuade Rhona to go with them, but she’d declined, a decision that had seemed insignificant at the time. How life can change in a moment, she mused. Turn left, instead of right, say yes instead of no. The randomness of it seemed out of place in her scientific world.

  She thought about Jude, Liam’s friend. What decision had she made, or what random act had changed her path? Everything pointed to her being in the vicinity of the body before she disappeared. Was that significant?

  The buzzer interrupted her thoughts and she went to answer.

  ‘Come on up, I’m ready.’

  She left the front door open for him and went to fetch a jacket. When she re-entered the hallway he was there at the open door. The sight of him dressed in the tuxedo made her stomach flip, and not in a pleasant way. He didn’t really resemble McNab, but the height and build were the same.

  ‘Changing your mind?’ Petersson said.

  ‘Not at all. I was just admiring the outfit.’

  ‘And I, yours.’

  Rhona looked quickly away. ‘This is strictly business,’ she said.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘What about money?’

  ‘I never charge for the pleasure of my company.’

  The sincerity in his voice made her laugh.

  ‘I’ll deal with our float, and claim it back on expenses,’ he said. ‘Can you play poker?’

  ‘Chrissy tried to teach me, but she says I’m no good. My face gives me away.’

  ‘Then you can stand behind, with your hand on my shoulder, but don’t look at my cards.’

  Rhona found her spirits lifting. Maybe this outing would prove useful, although she was still of the mind that she could have done it alone.

  ‘Have you heard any more from McNab?’ Petersson said.

  She shook her head. ‘He’ll be waiting for you to speak to Brogan.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Then let’s get on with it.’

  She alighted from the taxi at the exact spot outside the Poker Club where she and Chrissy had scoured the gutter looking for a bullet casing. The pool of blood that had stained the tarmac was long gone, but Rhona could have drawn its outline, so clear was the memory.

  Petersson paid the driver and took her by the arm.

  ‘OK?’

  She nodded and he led her towards the pillared entrance. A set of glass doors slid open to accept them. As Rhona stepped across the threshold, she was momentarily blinded by the light, and thought of the spider escaping from the hole in the brickwork on to her hand. Only in this instance, it was she who was entering the spider’s parlour.

  ‘Funny how dirty money can be washed so clean,’ Petersson said as he surveyed the marble foyer. He gestured towards the chink of glasses and the sound of laughter emerging from nearby double doors. ‘A drink?’ When she nodded, he led her in that direction. ‘I think champagne is in order, don’t you?’

  Rhona watched Petersson weave his way through the crowd towards the bar, his tall blond figure causing a ripple of interest from both women and men. The place and its clientele exuded wealth and a few expensive perfumes. You obviously didn’t gamble here unless you could afford to lose.

  She spotted a discreet sign for the Ladies and gestured to Petersson she was headed there.

  She washed her hands and dried them on an individual snow-white hand towel, before dropping it in the basket provided. No one had come in while she was there, so there were no interesting conversations to listen in on. She emerged and checked the corridor. Now she was here, she might as well take a quick look round. The door at the far end said ‘Private’ which seemed a good start.

  Rhona pushed it open and found a set of stairs. She followed it to the first level, where through a glass door she could see the sweep of the main staircase in the distance. The corridor leading there had at least three doors, all of them closed. Rhona stood for a moment outside the first. From within came the murmur of voices, no doubt a poker game in action. Suddenly the neighbouring door opened and a man appeared. Dressed in the mandatory evening suit, he looked surprised and a little annoyed to discover her there. Rhona smiled innocently.

  ‘I was looking for the Ladies.’

  He muttered something in a language that could have come from anywhere in Eastern Europe and steered her pointedly towards the staircase.

  Petersson was waiting near the door when she reappeared. He handed her a glass.

  ‘Anything interesting happening in the Ladies?’

  ‘For once, no. Heard anything in here?’

  ‘Brogan’s on the premises.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘I just asked.’ Petersson smiled. ‘I’m seeing him in ten minutes.’

  ‘How did you wangle that? Don’t tell me, you “just asked”?’

  ‘I gave the go-between my card. Well, Henrik Erlendson’s card.’

  ‘Who does Brogan think you are?’ Rhona said, aghast.

  ‘He knows I’m from Iceland and that I have some money I want to spring clean.’

  ‘You would make a very good criminal.’

  ‘Some people already think I am.’

  The exchange was cut short as Rhona spotted a couple entering by the double doors from the foyer. The man was tall and fair haired, with just a touch of grey at his temples. The woman on his arm was groomed to perfection. As they surveyed the room, Rhona stepped behind Petersson.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Someone I know.’

  ‘An old boyfriend?’

  ‘Liam’s father.’

  ‘Really?’ Petersson sounded intrigued. He eased round, still shielding her from view.

  ‘It’s probably better if he doesn’t see me.’

  ‘I agree. Shall we head for the foyer?’

  He tucked her arm in his and, completely obscuring her from view, walked them towards the exit. They were almost there when a voice rang out.

  ‘Mr Erlendson?’

  Petersson turned, still keeping Rhona behind him.

  ‘You asked to see me?’ A pair of cool eyes examined the Icelander.

  Petersson assumed his new identity swiftly, and when he spoke his voice was strongly accented. ‘Mr Brogan?’

  They shook hands. Brogan’s eyes flitted to Rhona. ‘And this is?’

  When Petersson hesitated, Rhona jumped in, hoping that Edward was sufficiently far away not to hear, and sufficiently engaged in his own conversation not to pay attention.

  ‘Eve.’

  Brogan gave her a shrewd look. She imagined what he was thinking. Was she worth any effort or was she merely arm candy? While Rhona wondered which she should be aiming for, Petersson made the decision for her.

  ‘Will you wait here for me, sweetheart?’ he smiled down at her.

  Rhona considered saying she’d rather tag along, then decided to give Petersson his chance. If it didn’t work out, she would take hers. Brogan was eyeing th
em with interest, having registered their unspoken conversation. To compensate, Rhona gave Petersson’s arm an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Rhona watched them exit, her back still turned to where she believed Edward to be. In this crowd, surely it would be possible to remain unobserved? She could seek a seat in the corner, nurse her champagne and await developments. The hope was short-lived.

  ‘Rhona?’ The voice and its tone had that quality she knew so well, containing notes of both affectation and surprise. Rhona turned and took in the full view.

  ‘Edward.’

  ‘How strange to meet you here.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ She heard the irritation in her voice.

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘You aren’t a gambler, as I recall?’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘I enjoy an odd game of poker. Sharpens the mind.’ He sounded pleased with himself, as always. ‘Although we’re here in another capacity tonight.’

  Rhona waited in silence, because he was bound to tell her what it was.

  ‘Lord Dalrymple invited us.’

  The name was familiar, but not in a pleasant way. Back then he had been simply Sir James. Rhona could see that Edward was waiting for a comment on Dalrymple’s elevated status, but she had no intention of obliging him. She remained silent.

  ‘You remember Sir James?’ Edward pressed her.

  ‘The man who was involved in the rent-boy case?’

  Anger suffused Edward’s face. ‘You know perfectly well that’s not true.’

  ‘Do I? Wasn’t there a porn video shot in his gatehouse? A rent boy being tortured, I seem to remember?’

  ‘That had nothing to do with Lord James.’

  ‘DI Wilson seemed to think it did.’

  Edward threw her a warning look. ‘You’re on dangerous ground, Rhona.’

  ‘Is that the lawyer in you talking, Edward?’

  They were saved a further deterioration in the exchange by Fiona’s arrival. Rhona had to admit that Edward had chosen the perfect mate for himself; confident and cultured, with exactly the same outlook on life. If Fiona had her way Edward would, in time, don an ermine-trimmed robe just like Lord James.