Final Cut (21 page)

‘We need a shovel.’

‘Well, we haven’t got one.’

‘Says who?’

Chrissy headed back to her car and appeared carrying a shovel. ‘Part of my emergency getting-to-hospital-in-a-snowstorm pack.’

Rhona could have kissed her. ‘What else do you have in the boot?’

‘My overnight bag in case I get caught short, and stuff for the baby.’

‘You’re amazing.’

‘I know.’

Chrissy looked frozen. ‘Get back in the car,’ said Rhona. ‘I’ll sound the horn when I’m ready to move off.’

She began clearing the road. The snow was soft and light, which explained why it was travelling so well on the wind. Five minutes later she had cleared a way through.

She sounded the horn and Chrissy flashed her lights in response. The next section of track had little snow covering, protected as it was between two high banks. She was beginning to think they might make the main road after all when she turned a corner and ran straight into another drift.

Her abrupt halt brought Chrissy to within inches of her. If this kept happening it would take for ever to reach the turn-off. She could dig a way through and try to keep going, but there was no guarantee they would make the road in the worsening weather. The farther they got away from the safety of the cottage, the harder it would be to make their way back there.

The cottage had food and water, and heating if they lit the fire. She could call McNab and let him know what had happened. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d spent the entire night at a crime scene, and at least on this occasion they wouldn’t be working. Rhona headed for Chrissy’s car to give her the good news.

‘I think we should go back. The weather’s getting worse and we’d be safer at the cottage.’

‘Walking?’

‘There’s no way we’ll get turned.’

‘OK, but I want to take my overnight bag.’

‘All right, but I’ll carry it.’

Rhona suggested they don forensic suits and boots over their clothes to keep them dry. God knew what they looked like, Rhona carrying Chrissy’s bag, the small intense beams of two forensic torches shining the way.

Battling against the wind with the snow swirling in their faces, they could hardly see a foot in front of them. Had it not been for the fence wire on either side, they might easily have ended up in a field. The cold was working its way through Rhona’s forensic suit and all subsequent layers. If they were out in this for much longer there was a real danger of hypothermia.

Chrissy had said nothing for the last half-hour, except for uttering the occasional curse when she’d slipped or had to fight doubly hard against the wind. Rhona was beginning to doubt whether leaving the car had been the right decision after all. They could have bundled up together, kept each other warm and sat out the worst of the storm.

Chrissy had resisted any attempts to help her by taking her arm. She must be tired by now. Rhona shot her a worried look, but could make out only the shadowy form of the suit and the curve of her cheek in the thickly falling snow.

‘Not far now,’ she heard herself say, although she had no idea how true that was.

‘I’m definitely going to Lagos after this.’

They were nearly on the cottage before they saw it.

‘My God!’ exclaimed Chrissy. Drifting snow had piled up against the walls, almost to the windows in some places.

‘Come on.’

The fought their way round the back. Rhona’s frozen fingers struggled to turn the handle, then they were tumbling in, desperate to get out of the wind. She closed the door and slid the bolt. The sudden silence left them shouting at one another.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Chrissy always favoured religious curses when things got really bad.

‘That’s what Bill would have said.’

‘Good Catholics know how to blaspheme. What would a Protestant like yourself say in such circumstances?’

‘Bloody hell?’

Chrissy shook the snow from her body. ‘Not in the same league. You light the fire,’ she ordered. ‘I’m going to find food.’

There was kindling in a basket and a small supply of cut logs. There would be more in the woodshed, but that would mean going outside again. Rhona decided it was better to do it now before she took off her suit.

Thankfully the shed was only yards away, otherwise she would have been crawling there. She filled a basket and unloaded it just inside the back door, then went for a second load, determined to make sure there was enough to last them through the night.

She set and lit the fire, stacking the remaining logs near by. They would sleep here in the sitting room. There were a couple of small couches, a bit cramped but better than the back seat of a car. They just needed something to cover them. She eventually found a couple of blankets in a linen cupboard under the stairs. When she returned to the sitting room the fire had caught and was burning well. Already the air temperature had risen. Rhona went in search of Chrissy and found her putting a casserole dish in the microwave.

‘There’s loads of cooked stuff in the freezer, so we won’t starve.’ Chrissy nodded at the range. ‘I don’t understand why that’s not on. Any idea where the oil tank is?’

‘Near the back door.’

‘I’ll take a look.’

‘Chrissy,’ Rhona warned, but Chrissy was already pulling on a coat she’d found somewhere. She was gone only minutes.

‘There’s plenty of oil. Probably the wind blew out the pilot light.’

She reached for a nearby box of matches, knelt down and opened the left-hand door.

‘Are you sure you should be on your knees like that?’

There was a grunting sound then Rhona heard a pop followed by a small roar.

Chrissy pulled herself groaning to her feet just as the microwave pinged behind her. ‘Right, a quick stir then in again for a further five minutes and dinner is served.’

They carried their plates through to the sitting room.

‘I hope Claire doesn’t mind us eating her food.’ Chrissy’s remark brought them both up short.

‘I think they both left this place alive,’ said Rhona. ‘We’ve done enough to know that.’

There hadn’t been sufficient blood to suggest a fatal wound, and no evidence that Emma had been hurt. Until it was proved otherwise, they had to believe that Claire and her daughter were alive.

‘You need a stiff drink,’ Chrissy declared. ‘There’s a couple of bottles of red in the cupboard. I’ll have to make do with tea.’ She gave a long-suffering sigh and headed for the kitchen to fetch the wine.

After consuming two large plates of food, Chrissy stretched out and fell fast asleep on the sofa. Rhona was relieved to see that her white, strained look was gone, replaced by two round rosy cheeks. She took the plates through to the kitchen then tried her phone again. There was still no signal. The phone in the hall gave her a dead tone, so it looked as if the wind had brought a line down somewhere. There would be no contact with McNab or anyone else tonight. She would just have to make herself comfortable until the storm blew itself out and she could walk to the farm.

She fed the fire and lay down herself. Now that they were enclosed within the thick walls, the howling of the wind had become a distant murmur. Rhona closed her eyes, allowing the steady tick of the clock and the hiss and crackle of the fire to lull her into sleep.

35

McNab pulled up in front of the Russian Restaurant. He was on a double yellow line, though you couldn’t see it for grey slush. He glanced at his watch. There would be no parking attendants around at this time, especially on Christmas Eve.

He glanced in at the steamed-up windows, feeling like Tiny Tim in
A Christmas Carol
. The place was packed with what looked like office parties. Boozy faces under paper hats. McNab wished he was one of them. He could do with getting drunk and disorderly. The way things were going he would finish late, pick up a chippie or a pizza and drown his sorrows at home. Merry Christmas.

Slater had left him in no doubt that he would be going the way of his DI if he fucked up again. McNab had had no business ordering an underwater team out on Christmas Eve, or swanning off to the middle of nowhere when he had been given a very precise order to visit the Russian Restaurant and find out who the hell the dead guy in the skip was. The job was his because it was a crap one and it was Christmas Eve and he had pissed off his new boss with some fancy fairy tale about voices in a wee girl’s head.

McNab pushed open the door and the fug hit him. No cigarette smoke now, just heat, a babble of voices and a multitude of food aromas. A young woman with jet-black hair and eyes like blackened saucers shook her head, rattling her long red earrings at him.

‘I’m sorry. We’re fully booked.’

McNab flashed his photo ID at her. ‘Police. Is the boss in?’

She looked perturbed. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’

‘Well, can you call him out here please. I would like to speak to him.’

‘We’re really busy . . .’

A shriek of laughter erupted at a nearby table.

‘Just get him.’

Black-eyes went in search of her boss. McNab waved to another girl behind the bar and asked for a Famous Grouse.

‘Can I tempt you to a vodka instead? We do all kinds.’

He cut her short. ‘Whisky’ll do fine.’

A tall, slim, broad-shouldered guy emerged from behind swing-doors and walked purposefully towards him.

‘DS McNab,’ he said, flashing his badge once more.

‘Ah, Rhona said to expect a visit from the police, but not on Christmas Eve. I am Mikhail Grigorovitch.’

There was something in the way the guy used Rhona’s name, as if he actually knew her.

The shrieking woman behind him let rip again.

‘Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’

‘We’re really busy. You couldn’t . . .’

‘No.’ McNab wasn’t in the mood for compromise.

‘OK.’ Grigorovitch was picking up on his ill temper and seemed about to match it with a tantrum of his own.

He turned on his heel and walked towards the back of the dining room. They passed a small stage where three musicians were preparing to play. Back here the party people were slightly more subdued, or maybe they hadn’t drunk enough vodka yet.

The Russian swept through a beaded curtain, letting the strings of beads rattle back on McNab. On the other side things were much quieter. The man took a swift right into a small office, just short of a stairway heading upwards, and shut the door firmly behind them.

‘I only have a few moments or my clientele will riot. I let one of the chefs have the night off, so I’m taking his place.’

‘The guy who ate here before he died—’ McNab began.

‘We are not the only place to serve Russian food.’

‘Dr MacLeod thinks he ate here.’ McNab deliberately avoided calling her Rhona.

‘Many young men eat here who would fit Rhona’s description.’

Now Grigorovitch was really pissing McNab off.

‘You have receipts for that night, credit and debit card records?’

The man looked mildly uncomfortable. ‘Yes, of course, but some pay in cash.’

‘Which doesn’t go in the till?’

He’d hit a raw nerve.

‘There are many people who live hand to mouth in Glasgow, especially migrants from eastern Europe. I feed them, they pay cash.’

‘And no one knows the difference?’

Grigorovitch didn’t answer.

‘You like to gamble?’

McNab’s change of tack caught him by surprise.

He considered before answering. ‘Coming to live in a foreign country is a gamble.’

‘Poker. You play poker?’

The man’s handsome face clouded. Clearly he was wondering where this was going.

‘Sometimes,’ he conceded.

‘Your clientele from eastern Europe. They like to gamble too?’

‘All Russians like to gamble.’ The smile didn’t reach his eyes.

‘What’s upstairs?’

The reply was quick, maybe too quick.

‘Nothing, a store.’ A shrug.

‘Can I take a look?’

He hesitated, then nodded.

McNab followed him out.

They climbed the stairs slowly. Either Grigorovitch had arthritic hips or he was in no hurry to reach the top.

McNab addressed his broad back. ‘You don’t happen to know a man called Solonik?’

He couldn’t see the face, but the Russian’s neck and shoulders stiffened.

‘I don’t think so.’

They had reached the upper landing. There was only one door. Grigorovitch produced a key from a collection hanging below his white apron and slipped it in the lock.

‘What about a Mr Nikolai Kalinin?’

A muffled intake of breath.

‘You recognise the name?’

They were still outside the door, waiting to go in.

Grigorovitch was choosing his words carefully. ‘It is a common Russian name.’

The small landing was a bit too cosy for McNab’s liking. He was tall, but Grigorovitch was taller. He wasn’t comfortable with that, especially at close quarters. He made a noise in his throat that suggested they move inside. The other man pushed open the door and flicked on a light switch.

It was primarily a storeroom, but a circular table sat centre stage, illuminated by a hanging lamp. Near by stood a fridge and a small well-stocked bar.

McNab took his time looking round. He could feel Grigorovitch’s discomfort and was enjoying it.

‘Solonik been here to play? Or maybe Kalinin?’

‘I only invite friends.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ hissed McNab.

Grigorovitch muttered something guttural. McNab didn’t have to understand Russian to know he was being cursed.

‘I want the names and contact numbers of the people who use this room.’

The Russian’s expression was stoic. He’d known what would unfold, even as he’d climbed the stairs.