Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

  ‘Gun attack in Glasgow Club.’

  The words swept past and disappeared, to return seconds later. Rhona grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned up the sound.

  ‘A shooting at a well-known Glasgow nightclub has left one man dead. The incident happened in the early hours of this morning. The popular club was in the news just two months ago, when a police officer was gunned down outside the building. Detective Sergeant Michael McNab’s killer has not yet been brought to justice. More recently the same police officer’s grave was exhumed by person or persons unknown. Speculation is that his remains have been removed. It is not yet known if this new attack is connected to DS McNab’s murder.’

  Rhona froze. Please, God, no.

  The remote clattered to the floor as she grabbed for her mobile. All concerns about calling Bill had dissolved in the panic of the moment. She brought up his number and dialled, only to be immediately forwarded to voicemail. She didn’t wait to leave a message, so pulled up Petersson’s number next, then McNab’s most recent number.

  They too went to voicemail. Frantically, she tried to focus her thoughts. Just because there had been a shooting didn’t mean it had anything to do with McNab, but instinct and intuition were telling her the opposite. There was no other choice, she would have to go down there.

  The Poker Club, a beacon of light, was surrounded by vehicles, with a cordon already set up. Rhona abandoned her car beside a line of no-parking cones. Retrieving her forensic bag from the boot, she pulled on a suit before approaching a uniform on guard duty.

  ‘Dr Rhona MacLeod. Forensic.’

  The fresh-faced uniformed policeman gave her a quizzical look. ‘You’re here fast.’ He checked her ID then lifted the tape for her to slip under.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Up the main staircase, on the left.’

  Crossing the marble lobby, Rhona registered that it all looked the same, from the glittering chandeliers to the thick carpet that hugged the elegant staircase. From the bar came a hum of conversation, although the clinking of glasses had ceased.

  Her distant self surmised that those present at the time of the shooting were in there, their details being recorded, their statements taken down. She wondered if Edward was one of them, and momentarily imagined his reaction to that, then remembered that Dalrymple was a golfing partner of Superintendent Sutherland, therefore unlikely to have been kept hanging around.

  She hesitated at the top of the stairs. On her left was the glass door to the corridor she’d visited earlier. It was closed, with a uniformed policeman standing outside. He nodded at her and indicated ahead without speaking. She walked on. Already she could smell it. A thick aroma of gunshot residue and fresh blood.

  Rhona approached the open door, the death smell pervading her senses and stopping her heart. It took every grain of strength she had to step across that threshold. Even more to lift her gaze.

  Patrick Brogan was seated at a magnificent mahogany desk. Across the red leather surface, his arms, stretched out, palms facing upward, suggested a supplicant’s pose. The bullet’s impact had thrown his head backwards so that his startled gaze was directed at the ornate ceiling.

  Relief flooded Rhona, followed immediately by foreboding as she recalled the last words she and McNab had exchanged.

  What are you going to do?

  What I came here for.

  Had he come here to kill Brogan? All the time making her believe he’d come to persuade Brogan to testify against Kalinin?

  She remembered McNab’s sweating anger when he’d discovered her in the foyer. The strong grip of his hand on her arm as he’d propelled her up the stairs then pinned her against the wall. He hadn’t wanted her there. Why? To keep her safe or to make sure she wasn’t present when a murder took place? The thought sickened her even more than the death smells in that room.

  Another thought flickered through her mind. What of Petersson? What role had he played in all of this?

  She turned, hearing footsteps, then Bill appeared in the doorway. He looked surprised when he recognised her eyes above the mask.

  ‘I saw it on the twenty-four hour news,’ she said before he could ask and turned her attention back to the body, unable to meet Bill’s gaze. Would he ask why she was up at that hour of the morning?

  Keeping her voice steady, she said, ‘What happened? Do we know?’ and said a silent thank you when she heard his voice emerge sounding normal.

  ‘Someone found him like this around two-thirty. No sound of a gunshot reported.’

  Petersson went to see him after eleven. I went home just before midnight.

  ‘So no witnesses?’

  ‘Everyone in the place is deaf and dumb with the memory of an Alzheimer’s sufferer.’

  She wanted to say, ‘I was here. Petersson was here. So was McNab.’ She heard the words in her head but they wouldn’t pass her lips. Rhona opened her mouth to try again, but was prevented by the arrival of another suited figure whose cool ice-blue eyes regarded her over his own mask.

  ‘You were quick getting here,’ Dr Sissons remarked.

  ‘News travels fast,’ Bill said, saving her from an explanation.

  Rhona stepped aside to allow Sissons a view of the body. Despite her distress, she’d already noted the stellate nature of the entrance wound, suggesting Brogan had been shot at point-blank range.

  Sissons confirmed her thoughts.

  ‘No other injuries apparent.’ He looked to Rhona for affirmation and she nodded. ‘You have a time frame?’

  ‘He had a meeting with someone around ten, then went for a walk round the gaming tables. Seen in a poker game on the upper level at one o’clock or thereabouts. Retired to his office after that. Found at two-thirty like this.’

  ‘Two shootings in as many months. Not a place I’d choose to spend an evening,’ Sissons remarked dryly.

  Rhona waited for Sissons to depart, then got in quickly before anyone else should appear.

  ‘I need to speak to you. In private.’

  Noting the tone of her voice, Bill threw her a sharp look. ‘What about?’

  She nodded towards the corpse. ‘This.’

  Bill crossed to the open door and disappeared outside for a moment. She heard him call over the officer by the stairs and order him to let no one else up. Then Bill closed the door.

  ‘OK,’ he said, waiting.

  Rhona took a deep breath. ‘I was here earlier tonight.’ Before he could respond, she rushed on, ‘I came with Einar Petersson.’

  ‘The journalist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Suspicion began to dawn. ‘I take it you two weren’t on a date?’

  ‘McNab told Petersson that Brogan was in the car the night he was shot.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He asked Petersson to try to persuade Brogan to come forward as a witness.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Petersson made an appointment to see Brogan, ostensibly as an Icelandic banker who still had money to invest.’

  ‘Money laundering?’

  ‘It was his way in, that’s all.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said sternly.

  ‘McNab was here too.’

  ‘For Chrissakes!’

  ‘He just turned up,’ she said, hoping it was true but still suspecting the two men had been in it together.

  ‘The stupid bastard. The stupid bloody bastard …’

  She quickly intervened. ‘When he found me here, he was very angry and insisted I leave. I agreed when he promised he and Petersson would come by my place after he saw Brogan.’

  ‘But they didn’t turn up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And that’s why you were awake and watching the news in the middle of the night?’

  She nodded. The seriousness of the situation rendered them both silent for a moment.

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Around midnight.’

  Bill made an exasperated noise in his throat. ‘Why didn’t he come t
o me?’

  ‘He wanted to keep his moves quiet. He thinks Kalinin’s got someone working on the inside.’

  Bill didn’t look surprised.

  ‘Anyone else know you were here?’

  ‘Chrissy.’

  ‘She’s in on this too?’

  ‘She doesn’t know Brogan was in the car. Only that Petersson wanted to speak to him about the shooting.’

  Bill took a minute to digest this then said, ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

  Rhona could sense his unease and, far worse, his disappointment in her. She shook her head. ‘No, that’s it.’

  ‘You can’t officially process this scene. You know that, don’t you?’

  Rhona wasn’t going to argue. She’d come because she’d feared that McNab was the victim. Now she feared he might be the killer.

  15

  The centre of town was devoid of traffic. Caught between late-night revellers and the morning rush hour, the grid-like layout resembled an empty film set, doubling for New York or Chicago. A lone hooker leaning against a lamppost sprang to attention when she saw the car, then lost interest when she realised the driver was a woman.

  Rhona drew up on a double yellow line outside the hotel on Bath Street. She had no idea if McNab was still staying here, but there was one way to find out. She should have told Bill about this place and her earlier assignation here with McNab. She hadn’t lied, merely omitted a few details. That had been the pattern for a while now and with every conversation she felt herself dig a deeper hole.

  She locked the car and climbed the steps, to find the glass door locked. She could see no one in reception so she rang the bell for the night porter. Eventually a figure appeared from the shadows. A young man with his dark hair in a ponytail approached the door, his eyes bleary from sleep. He’d no doubt been kipping in some back room somewhere. Rhona realised she had no idea how she planned to handle this. As he unlocked the door, she made up her mind not to play the official card.

  ‘Room 803. I forgot my key,’ she said in a breathless, worried manner.

  He eyed her warily.

  ‘Mrs McCartney, Room 803,’ she said brightly. ‘My husband’s up there now.’

  The guy looked her up and down in a pointed fashion. Rhona was suddenly aware she was still wearing the outfit she’d visited the Poker Club in. And that he didn’t believe her story.

  ‘Got some ID, Mrs McCartney?’

  Rhona decided to play him at his own game. She smiled knowingly. ‘OK. Discerning Escorts. Ordered on company expenses.’

  She let her coat part so he could see the dress. Now he smiled and stood aside to let her enter. ‘Wish I worked for his company.’

  Rhona slipped past and walked swiftly to the elevator. He called after her, ‘Shall I warn him?’

  ‘No thanks. He knows I’m coming.’

  She stepped into the tiny lift and selected the button for the top floor. Now she was in, what next? If McNab was there, what would she say? If he wasn’t, what would she do?

  The lift doors pinged open as a soft female voice informed her she was on the eighth floor. Rhona got her bearings then headed right. She found herself muttering, ‘Be there’, as she approached the door. She stood for a moment, composing herself, then knocked.

  When there was no answer, she tried the handle. The door moved under her slight pressure, swinging open. Inside all was dark and silent.

  ‘McNab,’ she called softly. When there was no response she reached for the light switch and flicked it on. Waited, then called again, knowing it was of little use, but hoping just the same. Maybe he was upstairs, asleep, drunk, exhausted?

  The narrow staircase that wound to mezzanine level was in shadow, her footfall swallowed by the deep carpet. She hesitated before turning at the top. Moonlight through the upper section of window lit up an empty bed.

  She felt her heart stop, then start again.

  McNab wasn’t here but he had been and not that long ago. His dinner jacket was over a chair by the bed, and the sharp scent of his aftershave was still in the room. Rhona found a row of switches near the headboard and pressed them all on. In the dazzling brightness she studied the room.

  McNab hadn’t checked out. There were clothes hanging in the wardrobe space, a pair of shoes below. A holdall sat on the luggage rack. So where was he, and why was the door unlocked? She was seized by the thought that McNab had left swiftly and suddenly. But why? There was no disorder. No evidence of a struggle. No blood.

  She had an image of McNab being frog-marched out, a gun pressed to his back. But why not just kill him here? Because Kalinin wanted him alive? To do what?

  The theories were coming thick and fast. Kalinin had dispensed with Brogan and taken McNab; McNab had shot Brogan and gone on the run.

  But where did Petersson fit into any of these scenarios? Rhona tried his number and got voicemail again. She would go round to Petersson’s flat, she decided. That was the obvious next move.

  Halfway down the stairs, she heard the room door open and close again. She stood in the shadows, waiting. A second click told her the door was now locked. She peered gingerly around the corner and breathed out when she saw the night porter waiting by the door.

  He gave her a sly smile. ‘No one in?’

  ‘Yeah, too bad,’ she answered nonchalantly as she descended the rest of the stairs. ‘So I can head home.’

  ‘So soon?’

  She observed his stance, the look in his eye. God, she didn’t have time for what was about to happen. He confirmed her fears almost immediately.

  ‘Seems a shame, since it’s already been paid for.’

  ‘For Mr McCartney only.’ Rhona attempted to pass him, but he blocked her.

  ‘Come on,’ he wheedled. ‘It’s no skin off your nose. I get laid, you get paid.’

  Enough was enough. ‘Fuck off, or—’

  ‘Or what? You’ll make a scene? Then I’ll call the cops. Tell them I have a hooker on the premises rifling through a customer’s room.’

  Rhona met his eager gaze and decided there was no alternative. She reached into her coat pocket, extracted her ID and thrust it in his face.

  ‘I am the police.’ She watched with pleasure as he read the card, his face contorting in surprise, shock, then anger.

  ‘You bitch,’ he finally muttered under his breath.

  ‘The door,’ she commanded.

  He turned the key. The look he gave her as she pushed past suggested he could have cheerfully throttled her. They had reached the wider space in front of the elevator.

  ‘Did Mr McCartney leave alone?’

  He blanked her.

  ‘The police will be here soon. DI Wilson won’t be pleased when I tell him you didn’t co-operate.’

  He considered the veiled threat.

  ‘Especially if I mention the sexual harassment of his forensic officer.’

  His eyes clouded with fury. Rhona thought for a moment she had pushed him too far.

  ‘Was McCartney alone?’ she repeated.

  He regarded her for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘He left with this massive guy. Big ugly bastard.’ He watched as this news took effect, registering that he had scored a hit. He decided to embellish and watch her squirm. ‘The big guy didn’t look happy, and your Mr McCartney was sweating like a fucking pig.’

  The lift had arrived. ‘I’ll go first,’ she snapped, ‘and alone.’

  Rhona stepped inside and didn’t turn as the doors closed, not wanting the porter to see her face. The news that McNab had left with someone who looked like Solonik frightened her more than the assault she had narrowly escaped.

  As she pulled away in the car, the porter was watching from the door and making a mobile call. Who the hell was he phoning? Not the police. Kalinin? Solonik?

  It suddenly struck her that as soon as Kalinin believed McNab was alive, she would have been on the Russian’s radar. He knew she and McNab were close. He would have suspected McNab might get in
touch with her, if only to let her know he wasn’t dead.

  Rhona glanced in the rear-view mirror. Maybe she’d had someone on her tail all along? Maybe that’s how they’d discovered where McNab was hiding out in Glasgow? Maybe this was all her fault?

  The drive from Bath Street to the West End took no time at all. Byres Road was still slumbering, even the normally busy traffic lights at University Avenue were clear to cross. As she entered Petersson’s road, she spotted a light on in his flat and her heart leapt. Please let him be there. Rhona left the car double-parked and headed for the door and pressed the buzzer. Moments later someone picked up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me, Rhona.’

  He let her in. She climbed the stairs two at a time to find the door to his flat standing open.

  ‘Einar?’ she called on entry. When there was no reply, she checked in the kitchen, the sitting room and finally the bedroom where a light shone from the en suite bathroom.

  ‘Einar, are you in there?’

  There was a horrible retching sound.

  ‘Einar, are you OK?’

  Another long and distressing retch, then an expletive. Rhona tried the door. It was locked.

  ‘Open the door.’

  A rush of water hit the sink as a tap was turned on full force. She heard splashing and groaning, then eventually the snib on the door was pulled back and the door slowly opened.

  Petersson stood before her, his face as pale as his white blond hair. The tuxedo jacket was stained with mucus, the shirt and tie awry. He swayed a little and Rhona grabbed him to prevent him falling.

  ‘You need to lie down.’

  He nodded and she helped him across to the bed. He groaned as she eased him on to it. Apart from his ghastly pallor, she could see nothing obviously wrong. No bruising or bloodstains.

  ‘What happened?’

  Petersson drew himself up against the pillows and the movement made him wince in pain. ‘I took a kicking.’ He unbuttoned his shirt to expose a mass of red bruising and the imprint of at least three shoes.

  The sight horrified Rhona. ‘You need to get checked out at Accident and Emergency. There could be internal injuries.’