Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

  Rhona headed downstairs, and was relieved to see Chrissy already sitting at the bar, with her partner Sam behind it. They’d met here when Rhona and Chrissy were investigating a case involving child trafficking and Sam, a Nigerian, had helped them solve the abduction of a little boy.

  The pair were an unlikely coupling, and not just in looks. Sam, of Fulani extraction, was a committed Christian; Chrissy, a lapsed Catholic with a drunken father and a gaggle of brothers who, according to her, should all be committed. Love against the odds.

  Chrissy looked round and waved her over. As she skirted the tables, Rhona became aware that she was being observed. Sitting at a corner table was the woman she’d seen in Sean’s car when he’d come to pick up the rest of his things from her apartment.

  ‘She’s here,’ Chrissy said as an opening.

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘Even though they’re not together any more.’

  ‘Oh, really? That didn’t last long.’ Rhona felt oddly pleased about that.

  ‘I knew it wouldn’t,’ Chrissy told her smugly.

  Sam gave her a welcoming smile. ‘Good to see you again, Rhona. The usual?’

  ‘Yes, make it a large glass, please.’

  ‘Sean knows you’re coming,’ whispered Chrissy conspiratorially.

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘Did you want me to lie?’ Chrissy widened her eyes in mock innocence.

  Rhona shrugged. ‘I don’t care either way.’

  Chrissy and Sam exchanged a look.

  ‘Are we talking in here?’ She glanced around. The place wasn’t full but the noise level was fairly high even before the music had started. She also didn’t much fancy watching Sean play. She would have to see him sometime tonight, but rather later than sooner.

  ‘Sean suggested we use his office.’

  ‘He’s in on this?’

  ‘He knows about McNab’s grave being dug up, but then who doesn’t? And he’s aware that McNab’s in hiding until the trial.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Rhona said.

  Chrissy nodded.

  Sam had moved off to serve a group of customers further down the bar.

  ‘What about Sam?’ asked Rhona.

  ‘Sam doesn’t ask, because that way he thinks I won’t have to tell lies. He doesn’t want me to stain my soul.’ Chrissy smiled indulgently. ‘My own personal priest.’

  ‘You look happy enough.’

  ‘I am. And so will you be when I tell you what I’ve found out so far.’

  ‘The gun used to kill Brogan … ?’

  ‘… was not the one taken from the safe house,’ Chrissy finished.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ It didn’t take McNab out of the picture altogether for Brogan’s murder, but it did improve his chances, especially after the latest discovery. ‘I take it you’ve heard about the body in the river near Harbour Place?’

  The smile slipped from Chrissy’s lips. ‘What body?’

  ‘The night porter from the hotel. Matthew Sinclair. Shot through the head, just like Brogan.’

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Bill and Petersson. Petersson was walking better, but even the discreet lighting couldn’t hide his colourful facial bruising.

  ‘What the hell happened to your face?’ asked Chrissy.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Shall we head for the back room and bring everyone up to date?’ Bill suggested.

  ‘The gun used to kill Brogan wasn’t the one taken from the safe house? You’re sure?’ Bill asked.

  ‘We’re sure,’ replied Chrissy.

  ‘So, McNab is in the clear?’

  ‘Not exactly. His prints were found in Brogan’s room. Yours,’ she pointed at Petersson, ‘were not.’

  All eyes turned to the Icelander.

  ‘I thought you said you were in there?’ said Rhona.

  ‘I was. I just made certain I didn’t leave any prints.’

  That made sense. The question was, why would McNab leave his?

  ‘Where were McNab’s prints?’ Rhona asked Chrissy.

  ‘On both the door handles of the en suite toilet.’

  ‘What was he doing in there?’

  Chrissy shrugged. ‘Taking a piss?’

  ‘That’s the only place he left prints?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rhona said what they were all thinking. ‘If McNab was OK about leaving his prints, then he can’t have gone there to kill Brogan.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Bill. ‘And the fact that the night porter was dispensed with in the same way—’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ interrupted Petersson.

  ‘The man who let Rhona into the hotel, and who said that McNab had left with someone resembling Solonik, turned up dead in the Clyde with a bullet through his head. Just like Brogan.’

  Petersson paled under his bruising.

  ‘I ran a check on him,’ Bill continued. ‘He had a few minor infringements, mostly by association with a character called Johnny Lang. Lang is involved in serious organised crime. Drugs, girls and guns. He’s not at the top of the ladder, more of a fixer. His calling card seems to be his predilection for power drills. He finds applying them to skulls can be very persuasive.’

  Rhona nodded. ‘The night porter’s skull had a wound above the left ear which could have been made by a drill.’

  ‘Well then, it looks like the Russian employed a local to do his dirty work. So we bring in Johnny Lang,’ said Bill.

  ‘That’s not a good idea,’ Petersson said quickly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The copy of the CCTV footage I showed Rhona came indirectly from Sinclair.’

  ‘And now Sinclair’s dead.’

  ‘If the body was weighted down then they didn’t intend for you to find it, at least not so soon,’ Petersson said. ‘Now that you have, anyone linked with Sinclair may be in danger.’

  ‘You?’

  Petersson conceded this with a nod. ‘But I’m primarily thinking of McNab. If Kalinin believes there’s the slightest chance we’ve found a trail leading to him, then he will execute McNab sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Assuming he hasn’t already done so,’ Bill said grimly.

  ‘I believe Kalinin is holding McNab alive.’

  ‘You have evidence to prove that?’

  ‘No. Just an intimate knowledge of Kalinin’s methods.’

  ‘If what Rhona suggests is confirmed at post mortem, Lang will be on top of the list of suspects. He has to be brought in,’ insisted Bill.

  Petersson looked in danger of further argument, then seemed to master his emotions.

  ‘OK, but in the interim there might be another way of getting to Kalinin. I’ve been working on the CCTV footage and I have a possible number plate for the car McNab left in. If I’m right about the number it belongs to a fleet car-hire company, based here in Glasgow, called “Way to Go”. They appear to be bona fide. One of the directors is Stan Brown.’

  Bill looked surprised. ‘Stan Brown is a long-term friend of the Brogan family,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. He also has money invested in the Poker Club,’ Petersson told him. ‘And he owns a construction company involved in the new flyover.’

  ‘Stan Brown and Paddy’s father were like brothers.’ Bill shook his head. ‘I can’t see him having anything to do with Paddy’s death.’

  ‘Times change.’ Petersson sounded exasperated. ‘As do the rules. Who knows what Kalinin has on Brown? What he has on any of us?’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘That you are still underestimating the man. He is clever, brilliantly so. And ruthless. We are his enemies, so he knows our weak points. McNab barged in, that’s why he was caught. You, Bill, he’ll try to bring down professionally. Maybe he’s already using Slater to do this. And as for Dr MacLeod, you have already thwarted him and he won’t like that.’

  A stunned silence followed his impassioned outb
urst.

  ‘What about you?’ Rhona asked.

  He didn’t answer at first, then seemed to make up his mind. ‘I too have my Achilles heel. Someone very dear to me. I shield her to keep her safe. Because of this we are never seen together in public. Does Kalinin know about her? I hope not.’

  Maybe it was the way Petersson steadily held her gaze, but Rhona believed him. Petersson was frightened for the woman he was talking about. Very frightened.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ Bill said.

  ‘Let me check out the hired car. If it was the car on the CCTV then we have a lead, but the longer we keep that a secret, the better for McNab.’

  ‘You don’t want me to check the number plate officially?’

  ‘McNab suspects there’s a mole working against him in the police force. I’d rather we didn’t take the chance that he’s right.’

  Rhona could tell Bill was struggling over this.

  ‘We did say we’d keep it between the three of us,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Hey, what about me?’ Chrissy protested.

  Her indignant expression broke the stalemate.

  ‘OK,’ Bill conceded. ‘But if the post mortem links Lang to the Sinclair murder, I’ll have no choice but to bring him in. You have until then.’

  Rhona would have liked a moment alone with the Icelander, but never got the chance. As soon as the meeting broke up, Bill cornered her.

  ‘Can you hang around for a bit? We need to talk.’

  ‘The cinema case?’

  Bill nodded. ‘Will I get us both a drink?’

  ‘I could use one.’

  ‘Wait here.’

  With Bill gone, Rhona stood alone and suddenly awkward in what was definitely Sean’s domain. She’d been in here many times, but always with Sean. Now she felt like an interloper.

  When the door opened, she was taken aback to see Sean rather than Bill.

  He looked equally surprised. ‘Sorry, I thought you’d finished. I saw Bill at the bar.’

  ‘He went to get us both a stiff drink.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t good.’

  Sean broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘You planning on sticking around to hear Sam’s set?’

  Rhona’s first instinct was to decline, then she thought better of it. ‘I might just do that.’

  He looked surprised and pleased. ‘Great. I’ll see you later in the bar.’

  What was she doing, Rhona thought as the door closed behind Sean. She could imagine the grin on Chrissy’s face when she heard Rhona was planning on sticking around for a while. Chrissy would take it as a personal triumph.

  Well, Rhona consoled herself, it was either stay here with Chrissy and Sam for company, or else go home alone and spend the night worrying.

  ‘I’ve told Liam to leave the cinema searches to the police from now on.’

  ‘He’s a determined young man. I’ll give him that. Can’t think where he gets it from.’

  Rhona ignored him. ‘I’ll take a look at the coat he found.’

  ‘He’s sure it’s Jude’s?’

  She shook her head. ‘He only said it looks like one she’s got.’

  ‘I interviewed the men in charge of the furniture for the charity shop. One of them, Angus Robertson, maintains he saw Jude the night she disappeared outside the corner pub next to the shop, arguing with a young man. He described the man as in his twenties, tall, blond, wearing a green jacket with a hood.’ He let the description sink in.

  ‘It does sound like Liam,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘Even down to the clothes.’

  ‘So Liam’s lying about meeting Jude?’

  ‘Just hear me out. If we assume Liam is telling the truth, then two possibilities present themselves. Either Angus saw Jude with someone who looks like Liam, or Angus is lying.’

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘Maybe he saw Jude with someone, but he doesn’t want us to know who that person was.’

  ‘But why describe Liam?’

  ‘He may want to deflect attention from someone else, maybe even from himself. If he saw Liam in the shop asking about Jude, he had a description to use.’

  ‘Or he’s telling the truth and Liam is involved in Jude’s disappearance?’

  Rhona recalled Liam’s constant anxiety, his determination to find Jude. She was reminded of an English case some years before, where a student had reported his girlfriend missing. The police had eventually discovered her body under the floorboards of his flat.

  ‘I have no idea who my son really is,’ she said.

  ‘From what I know of him, he has a lot of you in his character. Genetics don’t disappear just because you weren’t there when he was growing up.’

  ‘What about the half that comes from Edward?’ Rhona countered. ‘Liam’s father is one of the most inveterate liars I’ve ever met. He could persuade himself of anything if it suited his purpose.’

  Bill, sensing the extent of her worry, said, ‘OK, let’s leave Liam for the moment. I made contact with the former manager of the charity shop. “Admiral” Nelson.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘According to Angus, the Admiral wasn’t above helping himself to items which had value before they reached the shop floor. Mr Nelson was helpful enough, but didn’t want to admit to having a key, or discuss whether people might have had access to the cinema while he was managing the premises.’

  ‘You think he knew something was going on in the projection room?’

  ‘I think he’s reticent with the truth. However, I have the mobile number of a woman who used to be his cleaner, Moira. I have the feeling she might have quite a lot to say about the Admiral. When are you seeing Liam?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He told me not to call.’

  ‘He’s just upset.’

  Rhona shrugged. ‘I don’t think I’m cut out to be a parent.’

  ‘Join the club.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re a great dad.’

  ‘I’m an absent one. It’s Margaret who does all the work.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Which reminds me, it’s time I went home.’

  It was strange sitting in the Jazz Club again, listening to Sean play his saxophone. Rhona had thought it would disturb her, but it didn’t. Initially Chrissy had shared her table, but when Sam went back behind the bar, she’d asked if Rhona minded if she went to sit with him.

  And Rhona hadn’t. Maybe it was the copious amounts of wine she’d drunk. Maybe it was the music, or the fact that the ‘other’ woman had left, but she felt all right about being there. Eventually she realised the true reason for Chrissy’s departure when Sean appeared at the break to sit with her.

  ‘Do you mind?’ He grinned.

  ‘It’s your club.’

  ‘I’ll go if you want me to,’ he said, serious now.

  ‘Sit down,’ she ordered.

  Sean placed a bottle of red and two glasses on the table and eyed her glass of white pointedly. ‘I never did refine that palate of yours, did I?’

  ‘Nor did you get me to like jazz.’

  ‘But you enjoyed the set tonight?’

  ‘You were playing tunes I recognised.’

  ‘That was my intention. Would you like to taste the red?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He poured two glasses.

  ‘I may be a little drunk,’ she said, as she took a mouthful.

  ‘A state I have rarely seen you in.’

  ‘You always could drink more than me.’

  ‘I’m a man. And Irish. My bones soak up the alcohol.’

  Rhona heard herself say, ‘Chrissy tells me the romance is over.’

  ‘It is. And yours?’

  ‘It wasn’t a romance. It was sex.’

  ‘Then we have that in common.’

  ‘I hope you made it plain to the person in question,’ Rhona said, glancing towards the other woman’s now-empty seat.

  ‘I hope you
did too,’ Sean replied.

  ‘I’ve found with men it’s always about sex.’

  ‘It wasn’t, not with you and me.’

  His declaration silenced Rhona for a moment. ‘We screwed up,’ she said, as though she’d just discovered the fact.

  ‘I screwed up,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘With me or with her?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘It takes a man to admit his mistakes.’

  ‘It takes a woman to remind him of them.’

  ‘Touché.’ She tried to smile.

  He studied her. ‘What’s really wrong? Is it McNab?’

  ‘Yes.’ She could have stopped there, but didn’t. ‘But it’s not just that. Liam doesn’t want anything more to do with me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She shrugged. ‘I had no time for him. I was working. I wasn’t there when he needed me. Just the usual.’

  ‘That can be mended.’

  ‘You think so? Like we can be mended?’

  Sean gave her a long hard look. ‘Do you mean that or are you actually drunk?’

  ‘Maybe I needed to be drunk to say it.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘No. Probably why the wine has gone to my head.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘What about your second set?’

  ‘Sam can fill in for me.’

  They walked together through the cold night air. Rhona felt able to talk to Sean about Liam; he’d been there when she’d begun her search for her son, and when Liam had come looking for her. He had kept him in the flat until she’d come home and held together what could have been a disastrous evening. He’d saved her relationship with Liam once. Maybe he could do it again?

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked him.

  ‘It’s late for a restaurant. I can feed you at my new place. If that’s OK with you?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘if you prefer a carry-out kebab to my home-made spaghetti …’

  Sean was right. She was being stupid.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Good, because we’re here.’ He indicated the next door along and produced a key.

  ‘You’re only round the corner from the club!’ she said.