Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod) Read online

  ‘You never actually saw her leave?’

  The woman looked worried now. ‘No, but she definitely shut the door behind her. I checked this morning. Can I ask why you’re here?’

  ‘Jude didn’t meet me last night when she said she would.’

  ‘You think something’s happened to her?’ gasped the woman, horrified.

  ‘Is there a chance she could still be in there?’

  ‘What, all night? I hope not.’

  ‘Could we take a look?’

  ‘I can’t leave the shop, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Can I take a look, then?’

  The woman frowned, clearly unhappy with this idea. She had already allowed one person to wander about on their own, and she didn’t seem keen to compound her error.

  ‘She could have fallen and hurt herself,’ Liam pleaded. ‘Could I just check? It would put my mind at rest.’

  ‘There’s only light in the foyer,’ she warned.

  ‘That’s OK. I’ll manage.’

  The woman gave in. ‘I’ll unlock the door for you.’

  Minutes later Liam was standing alone in the well-lit foyer. Despite his unease, he could appreciate why Jude had decided to spend more time here even though it would make her late.

  He glanced round the circular room, noting that there was nowhere here for someone to lie hidden, then approached the stairs. He paused at the bottom and shouted Jude’s name, waiting for a moment in the answering silence before heading further up the stairs. Halfway up, the light faded to shadows as the staircase turned left, then disappeared entirely into impenetrable darkness. Liam stopped, nonplussed.

  ‘Jude. Are you up there?’

  The blackness seemed to muffle his shout like a blanket, in contrast to the echo effect in the foyer.

  Liam was unsure what to do next. Should he carry on and hope that there was light, however faint, further up? He felt ashamed of his nervousness about stepping into the shadows.

  I bet Jude brought a torch, he thought.

  Thinking about Jude’s preparedness and tenacity spurred him on. He edged nearer the wall and began to feel his way up. After a while the darkness seemed less dense and he could make out the edge of the steps. After a dozen stairs he reached a flat area and what looked like a set of double swing doors. Liam eased his way towards them and pushed open the right-hand one.

  In here there was some light, albeit dim. He could make out descending rows of seats, some still upright, others dismantled. In the near-distance was the curve of a balcony rail and beyond, the hanging structures of a suspended ceiling, through which the light filtered.

  ‘Jude!’ he shouted again, knowing instinctively that there was no one else on the balcony. He felt his way down the central aisle, glancing along the rows of seats. When he reached the rail he looked over.

  The new ceiling cut across the upper section of the main auditorium. On the far side Liam could make out the curved arch of the main stage. All around him the grandeur and detail of the upper walls and roof were in direct contrast to the seventies-styled suspended ceiling. Suddenly he understood why there had been no palatial frontage. The Rosevale had been built in the back court of the surrounding tenements and accessible through a close entrance. No wonder Jude had been excited to find it.

  Liam turned and headed back up the stairs. As far as he was aware, there was only the projection room left to search. If that was clear, he could stop fretting that she was lying hurt somewhere and simply wait for her to get in touch.

  Outside the swing doors he stood for a moment readjusting to the darkness. The problem now was to locate the projection room. Was it above the balcony or below?

  Liam realised he had no idea. He’d never even thought about it before. He tried to recall anything that Jude might have said about the cinemas she’d visited. Nothing came to mind. He decided that since he’d climbed this far, he might as well go to the top of the stairs, pitch black or not.

  He turned right and began to climb. Half a dozen steps more and the stairwell opened out on to a landing. Maybe this was the location of the fire exit the woman had spoken about?

  His eyes had adjusted enough to spot a Yale lock, and he clicked it open and pushed. Cold night air flooded in along with light from the street lamps. Liam stepped out on to a fire escape. This is where Jude should have exited. He peered over on to a cobbled back alley below. He would check round there when he’d finished inside the cinema.

  He pulled the door closed and made his way down the stairs. It was easier in this direction with the distant light of the foyer breaking the gloom. Probably that was the reason he spotted the narrow door on the left-hand side.

  He pushed it open and called through it, waiting a few seconds before entering. The door opened on to a narrow corridor which ended in another door with a ‘No Smoking’ sign, suggesting this might indeed lead to the projection room. Liam tried the handle. It turned, but the door didn’t budge. He banged on it.

  ‘Jude, are you in there?’

  Liam had a sudden image of Jude lying unconscious behind the door. He pushed harder. The door didn’t move – it must be locked. Frustration filled him. Maybe he could ask the woman in the shop if she had a key. And if she didn’t, what would he do then?

  His frustration turned to annoyance. The place was derelict. What did it matter if he simply broke down the door? He was no rugby player, but he was strong enough to make some sort of impression on it.

  He took a few steps back then launched himself at the door, slamming against it and driving the air from his lungs. The door shuddered in its frame but the lock stayed put.

  Liam cursed loudly. If the door was locked when Jude was here, she didn’t get in either, he told himself. Still, he decided to give it another try. This time the lock gave a little. ‘Third time lucky,’ he muttered. As his right shoulder struck, the lock broke and the door flew open.

  Liam stepped inside, immediately conscious of a bad smell.

  ‘Jude?’

  He felt the wall for a light switch and flicked it on. He was on a metal platform and below him were the remnants of a projection room. He stepped down into it and took a slow look round. Small rectangular projection windows on the opposite wall, a sign about lighting. No big equipment but through an opening he could see what looked like ancient batteries. Apart from that, nothing but dust, a few bricks and the smell. Certainly nothing that suggested Jude had ever been there.

  Liam turned and headed back up the steps. At the top he paused and turned for a last look. It was then he saw it. On the floor directly at the bottom of the steps was a clear footprint in the dust. A footprint he knew wasn’t one of his own. Liam took a closer look. The print was around Jude’s size, but it wasn’t that that made his heart quicken. Jude had a thing about her belongings, including her clothes. Everything was marked with her initials – she’d even carved them into the soles of her shoes. He could see a J and an E on the heel of this print – Jude had been in this room.

  Liam waited impatiently while the manager dealt with the current customer at the till. As soon as the elderly man had moved towards the door, Liam approached her.

  ‘Your friend wasn’t there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So nothing’s happened to her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just that I found evidence that she’d been in the projection room, but the door had been locked afterwards.’

  The woman looked bemused. ‘Then how did you get in?’

  ‘I thought it was just jammed.’

  ‘You broke down the door?’

  ‘I was worried that Jude had collapsed behind it.’

  ‘Why would a healthy young woman just collapse? I hope she wasn’t going in there to take drugs?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Liam tried to get back on the subject. ‘Who could have locked the door after Jude left?’

  ‘If your friend isn’t in there, what does it matter?’


  He sighed impatiently. ‘How do I get round to the alley at the back?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just want to check …’

  She interrupted him. ‘I checked the door from the outside this morning. There was nothing there.’

  Liam could tell by her increasingly irritable responses that he wasn’t going to get any further. And the woman had a point. Jude might have been there, but she wasn’t there now. He tried to thank her, but she had already caught sight of a customer and was headed towards her.

  Liam stood outside the shop and checked his mobile just in case he’d missed a call or text from Jude, but there was nothing. Heavy hearted, he could think of nothing to do but return to his flat and wait. Going back to the police wasn’t an option, not for another forty-eight hours.

  Reluctantly, he set course for home.

  As he walked past the Stravaigin on Gibson Street, he spotted his flatmate Ben inside and decided to join him. He had to tell someone about his dilemma.

  Ben spotted him as he came in. ‘What’s up, mate? You look terrible.’

  ‘I think Jude’s gone missing.’ Saying it out loud only made him more certain.

  7

  Rhona poured a glass of white wine and took it to the kitchen window. In the convent garden below, the spotlight illuminating the statue of the Virgin Mary had yet to come on, but dusk would see her bathed in a rosy glow.

  Not for the first time Rhona felt blessed to look down on such an oasis of peace in the city. If the religious order ever sold the building and moved to somewhere more suited to the number of resident nuns, the place would likely be sold to a property developer. It was in a prime location and would convert to gracious flats. Rhona wondered if she could stay on here if such a thing happened. The garden had become such an important part of her life, even though she’d never set foot in it, merely waved at the gardener now and again.

  She took a sip of wine and turned her attention to more immediate concerns. Einar Petersson would arrive soon and she would hand over the envelope that McNab had given her, but she was loathe to do this without knowing its contents. There was no guarantee that Petersson would share them with her, even if he opened the envelope in her presence.

  She fetched it from her bag and placed it on the table. Why had McNab not simply told her what was in it? Because they were in a public place, or because she, like Bill, might be compromised by the knowledge? There was a third explanation; McNab feared she might act on its contents herself.

  The envelope was standard in size and not bulky. She held it up to the light, then examined the flap, which had been stuck down firmly. Rhona made a decision, fetched a knife from the stand and slit the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. She unfolded it and found, to her surprise, that it was blank. Rhona stared at it for a moment, bemused. Was this supposed to be a joke? Then annoyance began to take over from puzzlement. What did McNab think he was playing at? Arranging to meet her, passing on some ‘important information’ for Petersson which turned out to be a blank sheet of paper?

  She held the paper up to the light. No secret writing, no markings of any sort. She placed it on the table. What was she to do now? Put the paper in another envelope and pass it off to Petersson as the original? What would he think? That she’d brought him here under false pretences?

  Rhona glanced at her watch. Petersson could be here any minute. She went through to her study and checked in the desk for a similar envelope. She had none and had to settle for one from a Christmas card box. She would have to refold the sheet, which would be a bit of a give-away. The cloak and dagger nature of the whole business infuriated her. She took the paper back to the kitchen. She would simply tell Petersson she’d opened the envelope.

  She drank the wine and refilled her glass, cursing McNab under her breath. Condensation from the cold glass had run on to the table, dampening the original envelope. It was this that drew her eyes to a dark mark. She picked up the envelope and looked inside. There was something written close to the bottom fold. Rhona took the knife, slit the seams and read the message.

  She opened the door twenty minutes later to a smiling Petersson who was carrying a bag that emitted a delicious spicy smell.

  ‘I hope you like curry?’

  ‘You can’t live in Glasgow and not like curry,’ she assured him.

  He followed her through to the kitchen and began unpacking the bag while she fetched plates and cutlery.

  He spotted the wine glass. ‘I brought a red, but I see you’ve already started on white.’

  ‘Red on white, you’re all right,’ she quoted, and fetched two balloon glasses while he opened the bottle.

  Her earlier irritation had passed now that she knew the contents of the envelope. She’d subsequently decided to use the new envelope to make a mock-up of the original one, complete with message – now written by her – and containing a new sheet of blank paper. It would be interesting to see how Petersson would react and whether he would decipher its contents.

  They ate in companionable silence. The tall Icelander had an ability to exude calm, and she found herself unable to read his thoughts, unlike McNab, whose every passing thought and desire were often reflected in his eyes, even when he tried to disguise them.

  Petersson topped up her glass.

  ‘OK, let’s see this message.’

  He accepted it, turned it over in his hand, examined the outside, then pulled open the flap and extracted the sheet of paper. Unlike her, he didn’t spend time puzzling over the blankness, but peered inside instead, then immediately parted the seams and read the message out loud. ‘Brogan was in the car.’ He studied her expression. ‘You already knew what it said?’

  ‘I opened it earlier.’

  ‘He suspected you would, hence the blank paper.’

  ‘McNab thinks he’s a funny guy. He’s not always right.’

  ‘This is the first you’ve heard that Paddy Brogan was in the car that night?’ Petersson said.

  ‘His alibi placed him in the Poker Club.’

  ‘So why didn’t McNab reveal this before now?’

  ‘Probably because it would prove he was still alive,’ she suggested.

  Petersson considered that.

  ‘What does McNab expect you to do with this information?’ asked Rhona.

  ‘I’m not sure. Approach Brogan for him, I suspect.’

  ‘And ask him to testify?’

  ‘You said Brogan wanted the Russians off his patch?’ said Petersson. ‘Maybe this is a way for him to achieve that.’

  ‘Have you had dealings with Paddy Brogan before?’

  Petersson shook his head. ‘But I can talk my way in, no problem.’

  Rhona didn’t doubt it. Einar Petersson had unmasked a number of criminals as an investigative journalist, and had the physical scars to prove it; she had seen them when she’d taken him into her bed. She had hoped he could help nail Nikolai Kalinin, if not for McNab’s murder, then for something else. And he had done everything expected of him, both in and out of the bedroom.

  ‘OK, I’ll approach Brogan. See what he has to say.’

  ‘He can turn on the charm, but he’s ruthless,’ she warned.

  ‘As ruthless as Kalinin?’

  She doubted that. As far as she was aware, Paddy Brogan didn’t have a penchant for torture.

  ‘To the world in general, Paddy looks like a bona fide Glasgow business man, who makes his money from gambling and bookies’ shops,’ she said. ‘He had it pretty well sewn up here before Kalinin arrived.’

  ‘So we could be doing him a favour if we can remove the Russian?’

  ‘He might see it that way. Though the proposal would have to be carefully put.’

  Petersson was eyeing her suspiciously. ‘You weren’t planning on approaching Brogan yourself?’

  The thought had been crossing and re-crossing Rhona’s mind since she’d opened the letter.

  ‘Is that such a bad idea?’

  He fr
owned. ‘I shouldn’t have shown you the message.’

  ‘I knew already, remember?’

  They were saved further discussion by the sound of the buzzer. Rhona rose and went to answer it. There was a short silence followed by a male voice she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Uh … Rhona?’

  ‘Who is this?’ she answered, sharply.

  ‘It’s Liam. May I come up? There’s something I need to speak to you about.’

  It had taken him ten minutes to work up the courage to press the buzzer. When he first heard her voice, he had been initially unable to find his own. Now she had released the door and he could enter, Liam questioned whether he shouldn’t just turn and go. It had been Ben’s idea to come here, and after a couple of pints it had sounded like a good one.

  ‘People go missing all the time. You only have to buy the Big Issue to see that,’ Ben had said. ‘And let’s face it, Jude’s not a wee kid. They won’t spend a lot of resources looking for her. What about that guy that went missing up Aberdeenshire way six years ago? A bloke’s just confessed to his murder. He’d buried him in a field not far from the village they both lived in.’

  ‘You’re not helping.’

  ‘Hey, mate, you’ve got contacts. Use them.’

  Liam had blanched. He’d forgotten he’d recently spilled the beans on his adoptive status and the identity of his birth mother. He’d had too much to drink, and Dr Rhona MacLeod had hit the headlines in the foetal-theft case in Kelvingrove Park.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he’d muttered into his beer.

  ‘Look, mate, if you’re worried about this Jude chick, you’ve got to do something about it.’

  By the time he’d drained his second pint, Liam had agreed.

  Now he took his time climbing the stairs, trying to work out what he would say. He hadn’t contacted or been to see Rhona for over six months. Back then, she’d been living with an Irishman called Sean Maguire, a jazz saxophonist. Liam had arrived at the flat unexpectedly and Sean had invited him in, given him a drink and they’d got to talking. Liam had liked the guy.

  When Rhona had eventually arrived to discover him sitting at her kitchen table she’d been taken aback, but it had all worked out all right in the end, mainly because of Sean. When Liam had eventually left he’d promised to keep in touch. A promise he hadn’t kept.