by Lin Anderson
‘No word, yet.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
Bill waited for a break in the traffic then did a U-turn and headed for the Clydeside Expressway.
26
‘You need to phone Rhona. Tell her what we found.’
‘It might not be Jude’s.’
‘You said you recognised it.’
‘I said it looked like Jude’s jacket, but I don’t know for certain.’ Liam lapsed into silence, staring into his pint.
They’d abandoned the cinema and after considerable difficulty on Liam’s part, climbed back over the fence. Their lookout had been waiting for them. Liam had got in before Ben, revealing they’d found nothing, just some old clothes.
‘No sign of the lassie?’
‘No sign,’ Liam said.
‘So you don’t think she got inside?’
Liam eyed the fence. ‘She’s too wee to get over that. Unless whoever she was with had a key for one of the front doors, I don’t see how she could have.’
Their new friend looked pretty disappointed. ‘Sorry to get your hopes up,’ he told Liam, with sincerity.
Liam felt equally sorry.
‘Well, good luck, pal. I hope the lassie turns up soon.’
After the exchange they’d taken refuge in a nearby pub, ordered a couple of pints and taken them into a corner. There was no one to overhear anyway. The place was empty apart from two old guys sitting silently studying their drinks at the bar.
‘But you said …’ Ben began again.
‘It looked like her size and Jude did have one that colour, but there was nothing in the pockets to say it belonged to Jude.’
‘Then why did you take it?’
Liam wasn’t sure himself. When he’d opened the door to the projection room he’d been terrified of what he might find there. Then he’d seen the coat on the floor and for a moment he thought Jude was wearing it. He’d rushed over, shouting her name like a maniac, before realising the coat was empty.
‘You need to give that coat to your mum. Maybe she can DNA it or something. See if it is Jude’s.’
‘First of all, she’s not my mum.’
‘You said …’
‘My mum’s name is Elizabeth Hope. Rhona is the woman who gave me up for adoption as soon as I was born,’ he said sharply.
Ben stared at him. ‘Who the fuck cares about that? It was years ago. It’s now that matters. It’s Jude that matters. Not the I’m fucked up because my mother gave me away routine.’
Liam winced as the words hit home. Ben, perhaps registering just how harsh he’d been, fell silent. The silence was painful. After Ben had managed to keep his mouth shut for longer than ever before, he opened it again. Before he could start, Liam cut in.
‘I’ll call her.’
Ben looked taken aback, then said, ‘Good on you, mate,’ and took a long slug of his lager.
Liam pulled out his phone. There were two messages waiting, both from Rhona. He didn’t bother listening, just did a call back. The mobile rang long enough for him to think it would go to voicemail, but then she answered. Liam realised immediately he had no idea what he was planning to say.
‘Liam, I’m glad you called. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.’
‘Oh?’ he said, stupidly, as though he didn’t know.
‘Where are you?’
Liam hesitated. ‘Govanhill.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Near the Picture House?’
How did she know that?
‘Inspector Wilson told me about the Olympia.’
So she’d discussed him with the policeman? And no doubt with the journalist, too. The son she hadn’t wanted, come back to haunt her.
‘We broke in,’ he said.
‘And?’ Her calm reaction demolished his attempt to shock.
‘We found a coat, it looks like Jude’s.’
Rhona had never known him as a child, so had never had to chastise him, but Liam could imagine that look on her face now.
There was a moment’s pause.
‘Did you leave it where you found it?’ By her tone, she wanted him to say yes.
‘No.’
Another pause.
‘Where is it?’
‘In my backpack.’
‘OK. Don’t handle it any more. Was there anything else in the cinema that suggested Jude might have been there?’
‘No.’
The moments of strained silence that followed gave Liam a really bad feeling.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve just had a call-out, so I can’t come and pick you up.’
He knew she meant pick the coat up. Then it struck Liam what she was really saying. A call-out for Forensics surely meant that someone had found a body. Whose body?
‘You’ve found her, haven’t you?’
The second’s hesitation was enough to make his stomach rise. He forced back the nausea. ‘Haven’t you?’ he repeated, hearing a tremor in his voice.
‘No. That is, I don’t know. A body’s been reported in the river behind the Rosevale. I’m headed down there now.’
‘No!’ he shouted. Ben was staring at him, alarmed. Liam was already on his feet. ‘I’m coming.’
‘Don’t.’ Rhona’s voice was firm. ‘They won’t let you through.’
‘I’m coming,’ he shouted, even though he’d already shut the phone.
Liam slung the backpack on his shoulder and made for the door, Ben following. Once outside, he was unsure what to do next. How the hell did he get to Dumbarton Road from here?
‘The station,’ Ben suggested.
Liam nodded and looked round, trying to get his bearings. Were they on Cathcart Road? If so, which direction was the station? His head felt unnaturally light, as though his feet weren’t anchored on the ground.
‘This way.’ Ben took his arm, swinging him to face the opposite direction.
Liam took off, the torch in the bag slamming against his back. Shallow breathing soon brought a stitch like a knife in his side. Ben overtook him then slowed enough to let him catch up. They panted into the station. The half-hourly service was due in four minutes. Liam bent double, sucking in air.
Ben didn’t ask what had been said on the phone until they were seated on the train.
‘They’ve found a body in the Clyde, down behind the Rosevale.’
Ben’s face drained of colour.
‘She didn’t say it was Jude,’ Liam said, to convince himself as much as Ben.
‘Shit.’ Ben was shaking his head as though doing so would make the whole thing go away. ‘We’re going down there?’
Liam nodded.
Ben took refuge in the practicalities. ‘OK, we’ll get the train into Central then pick up the underground to Partick. We can walk from there.’
The rest of the journey seemed agonisingly slow and complicated as they hurried through the thicker pedestrian crowds of the city centre to the packed underground platform, caught a train to Partick Cross, then set off on foot towards the Rosevale.
The charity shop was locked up and in darkness when they walked past. They used a pedestrian crossing to cut through the rush-hour traffic and made their way over towards the new harbour development. In the distance a group of police vehicles was parked near the river’s edge, a cordon already up and manned. As they approached, it became obvious that there was little chance of getting any closer than the half dozen residents who’d abandoned their balcony view to try to discover what was going on below.
Liam, desperation and fear giving him courage, headed for the uniformed officer standing guard at the tape.
‘Sorry, police personnel only beyond the barrier.’
‘My name’s, uh, Liam MacLeod. I’m Dr Rhona MacLeod’s son. She asked me to meet her here.’
The uniform digested this.
‘I’m sorry, son, you still can’t come on site.’
‘Is my mum here?’
The uniform looked taken aback by the
use of the word ‘mum’.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘If she is, can you tell her I’m here? It’s very important.’
His request was considered. ‘I can’t leave my post, but if you stand back from the barrier, I’ll see if I can send her a message.’
Liam retreated, Ben in tow. They climbed a small bank of mown grass and stood at the top. Liam was tall, but he still couldn’t see over the vehicles to the activity near the water’s edge.
‘Well done, mate.’ Ben slapped him on the back.
‘I want to know if it’s Jude. Rhona owes me that, at least.’
27
The body was partially wrapped in black plastic. It bobbed face down in a corner, trapped between the smoothness of the newly built walkway and a jutting peninsular of waste ground. A portion of the boarding erected to hide the wasteland from expensive waterfront apartments had been dismantled, offering access.
Rhona picked her way across the weed-strewn rubble. No doubt the intention had been to continue building waterfront apartments here, perhaps as far as the gleaming silver mound of the new Museum of Transport. Whether that would happen in the current recession remained to be seen.
For now, the body floated somewhere between Glasgow’s industrial past and its yet-to-be-decided future. Rhona stood for a moment surveying the scene, noting the relative ease of access for a vehicle. The low metal railing of the walkway, simple to climb, fall or be pushed over.
SOCO photographers were recording the scene before an attempt was made to retrieve the body. A police diver floated near by, awaiting instructions. Rhona recognised the figures of Bill and Janice standing halfway down the stony bank. Bill spotted her arrival and waved her over.
‘Male or female?’ she asked, as soon as she was within earshot.
‘We’re just about to find out.’
Bill gave the signal. The diver approached the plastic mound and, catching a hold, attempted to roll it. It took a couple of attempts before the corpse flopped on to its back, long dark hair obscuring the face. The diver pushed the hair to one side. The exposed face was that of a man, and one Rhona knew. In the middle of his forehead was a neat, dark hole.
‘It’s the porter from the hotel,’ she said, in a rush of relief.
Liam was standing with another boy on a small incline behind the other onlookers. Rhona passed under the tape and walked swiftly towards him. Taking his arm she led him to one side.
‘It’s not Jude,’ she said quietly and felt the tenseness in his body dissipate.
‘Who …’ he began.
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes, but believe me, the body has nothing to do with Jude or her disappearance.’ She met his eye.
‘OK.’ He nodded.
‘I have to go back now.’
‘But I need to talk to you about Jude.’
‘This isn’t a good time.’
‘Can I come round tonight, then?’
Rhona was about to agree then remembered the meeting scheduled for the Jazz Club. That had to take priority. Rhona shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. That’s not possible either.’ She watched as Liam’s face fell. ‘What if I call you tomorrow? Arrange something?’
‘You’ve given up on her, haven’t you?’ he said accusingly.
‘No. Inspector Wilson …’ she began.
‘Is he there? Can I speak to him?’
‘He is, but believe me, now isn’t the time.’
‘What about the coat we found?’ Liam swung a bag from his shoulder and began to unzip it.
Rhona stopped him. ‘Leave it in the bag.’ She held out her hand.
‘But my torch is in there!’
‘Liam,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s better if you leave the cinema searches to the police from now on.’
He stepped back as though she’d punched him. ‘I’m sorry. I know how worried you must be …’
‘No, you don’t,’ he said sharply.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll talk about it then.’
The look he gave her was bordering on dislike.
‘Don’t bother.’ He turned on his heel and walked away.
Rhona made to go after him, then stopped herself. Nothing she could say at this moment would make things any better. She couldn’t tell him that the body was the night porter, and he’d been shot in the head just like Paddy Brogan. The discovery meant that any hope they’d had that McNab might have left the hotel of his own free will had just evaporated.
Dipping back under the tape, she was struck by the thought that this was what it must be like if you had a family. Bill spoke to Margaret, she knew that. But he didn’t tell her everything, or she wouldn’t sleep at night. Most people never encountered true evil. And that’s how it should be. Liam would just have to think badly of her, for the moment at least.
An incident tent had been erected in her absence and the body placed inside. Now that it was fully exposed, it was obvious an attempt had been made to weight it down. A length of barbed wire had been wound round the black plastic sheet. Whatever had anchored the wire to the bottom had broken free, maybe with the power of the incoming tide, or simply the flow of the river. This meant that it hadn’t necessarily been dumped at the place it had been discovered.
Initially a body dumped in water would sink, resurfacing once decay began and the gases it generated made it buoyant. According to Bill the night porter had been interviewed by Slater only yesterday, which made the time frame for his murder short. Whoever killed him hadn’t intended he be found this quickly, if at all.
While she took her set of photographs, Rhona decided that when she met Bill this evening she would explain about Liam’s search of the Govanhill Picture House, tell him about the coat which might be Jude’s and reassure him that her son wouldn’t be entering any more deserted cinemas. Rhona hoped Liam would actually heed her on that; she recalled his surly reaction to what had been more of an order than a suggestion, and suspected ordering him not to do something might just make him all the more determined.
Her visual recording complete, she began an examination of the head. The man’s long hair, caught back in a ponytail when she’d first met the porter, had given the initial impression that they were dealing with a female; that and his slender build, noticeable even through layers of plastic sheeting.
She swabbed the various orifices then checked the sides and back of the head. There was an exit hole at the rear and another opening on the left-hand side of the skull. Rhona cut away some hair for a closer look, realising she’d seen such a wound before, after a gangland attack over drug territories. A power drill had been used to torture a rival gang member, piercing the skull and entering the brain to devastating effect.
This wound hadn’t penetrated as deeply but it bore the same hallmarks. It seemed whoever killed the porter had had fun with him first, or had set about extracting information.
Rhona recalled leaving the hotel and seeing the porter make a mobile call. Had he endangered himself by telling her about McNab and the mystery man he’d left the hotel with?
Bill had said he’d check out if the porter had form, or possibly Glasgow underworld connections. Maybe his death had nothing to do with the Russian. Maybe he, like the previous power-drill victim, had just crossed into enemy territory.
It sounded plausible enough, but in her heart she didn’t believe it. It would have been too much of a coincidence; the bullet wound in his forehead linked his murder to Brogan’s, and therefore to Kalinin and McNab.
Her examination complete, she called in an officer and told him the body could be taken to the mortuary. When she emerged from the tent Bill was nowhere to be seen, but a text on her mobile reminded her of their meeting later at the Jazz Club. She would have to keep her emerging theories to herself until then.
28
McNab never forgot a face.
Despite his half-shut eyes, the hazy outline of the one currently inches from his own was in
stantly recognisable. They said the brain automatically recalled certain faces because the owners had brought you either pain or pleasure.
McNab remembered this one because it was hideous.
‘Sergeant McNab. Long time no see.’
The face came closer and McNab caught a blast of rotten breath. With all the money Johnny Lang made dealing, you’d think he could afford a dentist. But that would put him on the other end of a drill for a change, which was something Lang obviously didn’t fancy.
‘Hi, Johnny, How’s it going?’ he slurred thickly.
Johnny smiled, or at least twisted the corners of his mouth upwards. Another foetid blast hit McNab’s face. What the hell did Johnny need a power drill for, when he could kill by breath alone? The semi-delirious thought brought a cackle of laughter from McNab’s split lips.
Johnny didn’t appreciate the joke.
‘You laughing at me, Mikey boy?’
‘What d’you think?’
McNab wanted his fearless alter ego to shut up, but he just kept on. Maybe the pain had become like a drug? Or maybe pissing the bastards off gave him such a shot of pleasure that it diluted what followed.
Johnny hung there so that they were nose to nose for a bit, then withdrew and eyed McNab from a more fragrant distance.
Then he moved behind the chair. Fear slithered like a snake up McNab’s back, tightening its hold on his spine. He preferred to see what was coming and pre-empt it, if not with his fists then with words. This way he felt exposed.
McNab heard a faint click then the whine of a motor. The whine became a shriek as it approached his left ear.
‘I like a thick skull like yours. Lasts longer.’
‘Fuck off!’ McNab spat. Anger flooded his veins with adrenaline.
‘OK, pal. Let’s start with the woman who’s screwing Petersson.’
McNab twisted furiously in his chair.
‘Settle down, now. What do you think, Mikey? Does she know he’s the one that handed you over?’
29
Rhona hesitated at the top of the steps leading to the Jazz Club. She was early – should she go down anyway and hope she wasn’t the first to get there?
The truth was she didn’t fancy arriving to find Sean with her replacement. She’d spent too much time imagining that when they were still together. Her suspicions were never proved, of course, and Sean had always strongly denied it; with the benefit of hindsight, she had come to believe she may have falsely accused him. Certainly Chrissy had told her so often enough.
