Final Cut Page 7

  Misha was awaiting her return. He eyed her appreciatively.

  ‘You should finish with a shot of vodka. I recommend Stolichnaya.’

  ‘A bit early in the day for me.’

  ‘You’re driving?’ He looked disappointed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what is the harm?’

  The vodka bottle arrived, accompanied by two shot glasses.

  ‘You like whisky?’

  Rhona nodded.

  ‘This is smoother. No burning of the throat.’

  He filled both glasses and lifted one, encouraging Rhona to do the same.

  ‘Na zdorovie!’

  Rhona watched him swallow, then followed. Misha was right. It was smooth.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  Misha shrugged, accepting defeat.

  ‘So, you are a forensic scientist, like in CSI?’ His brown eyes sparkled.

  ‘Not quite. I don’t wander round crime scenes dressed in my best clothes, looking like a movie star.’

  ‘Tell me why a forensic scientist wants to sample my food.’

  Rhona chose her words carefully. ‘A man died in suspicious circumstances. I believe he ate soup like this shortly before that happened.’

  Misha looked horrified. ‘You think we poisoned him?’

  ‘He didn’t die of food poisoning,’ Rhona reassured him.

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘It might help us trace his movements in the time leading up to his death.’

  ‘We are not the only place to serve borscht in Glasgow. All eastern European people eat this soup. Polish, Ukraine …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You have a photograph of this man?’

  Rhona shook her head. ‘There was a fire.’ She didn’t elaborate.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Sunday night.’

  Misha sat back in the seat and observed her closely.

  ‘And you cannot describe him?’

  ‘Not his face, no. I can tell you he was a young man, slim build, just under six feet tall.’

  Misha thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. ‘There are many customers that might fit that description.’

  ‘It’s better that I try and establish if he did eat here.’

  ‘Come, I will take you to the kitchen.’

  Rhona followed Misha behind a shawl curtain and along a corridor into a large bright kitchen. He introduced her to two young male chefs and gave them instructions in Russian, which brought a burst of laughter.

  ‘I told them to give you whatever you want.’

  I bet you did, thought Rhona.

  The menu on Sunday night had featured the famous soup. Their beetroot soup was, according to Vanya, the younger chef, a recipe unique to this restaurant.

  ‘We make it exactly the way Misha tells us. It is his family recipe.’

  ‘May I have a list of the ingredients?’

  ‘Misha says we must give you what you want.’ He smiled widely.

  Rhona went about her sampling, keenly aware that the rapid Russian conversation going on behind her was more likely to be about her than the next meal.

  When she escaped the confines of the kitchen, she found the restaurant empty and the dark-haired waitress sweeping the floor. Misha was seated at a table near the back, a pile of papers in front of him. He stood up at her approach.

  ‘You have what you need?’

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘The police will want to talk to you and to the other members of staff who were around on Sunday night.’

  Misha shuffled the papers. It was the first time Rhona had sensed a nervousness about him.

  ‘If you cannot show us a photograph, then how can we help?’

  ‘There was one thing that might help identify him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A rose tattoo.’

  He looked momentarily startled.

  ‘Is that a Russian thing?’ Rhona asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Not that I know of. Perhaps his girlfriend was called Rose.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Rhona thanked him for his help.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Misha walked her to the door.

  ‘Do you get time off from this work of yours?’ he said.

  ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘Come again and I will treat you to a full Russian meal on the house.’

  ‘With vodka?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I may take you up on that.’

  15

  ‘Again.’

  Chrissy obligingly shuffled the cards and offered them up to McNab.

  He pulled one free and checked it. ‘OK.’

  Chrissy thought for a moment. ‘Seven of spades.’

  There was an intake of breath.

  ‘No way can you have known that.’ McNab shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Another lucky guess?’ Chrissy suggested, keeping her face straight.

  The battle had been going on for ten minutes. Rhona suspected marked cards were in play again. Chrissy certainly had McNab worried.

  ‘Show me.’

  Chrissy laughed. ‘No chance. Then you’d know as much as me.’

  McNab was like a terrier. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give up. ‘One more time.’

  Chrissy’s expression implied she thought him a sucker. ‘Only if you bet on this one.’

  Rhona kept quiet. If McNab wanted to throw his money away, that was up to him.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘You stand drinks for myself and Rhona. Whatever we want.’

  Rhona decided her drink would be a bottle of champagne. God knows what Chrissy was planning. She couldn’t drink alcohol at the moment but that didn’t mean she couldn’t save it until after the birth.

  McNab was swithering. He was one of life’s gamblers and he didn’t like being beaten by a woman.

  ‘OK, but if I lose you show me how you do it.’

  It was a difficult call for Chrissy, who didn’t believe in giving ground.

  Rhona pretended to study her notes, keeping half an eye on the proceedings. McNab had been at the lab when she’d got back from the restaurant. He hadn’t made it plain why, though Rhona suspected it might be about Bill.

  ‘OK,’ Chrissy conceded.

  ‘And these are definitely not the marked cards from the skip.’

  ‘Hey, I wouldn’t tamper with the evidence.’

  McNab nodded at her to go ahead.

  Chrissy sprang the cards from left to right, showing off, then shuffled and laid out a fan. McNab pondered for a while, faking a choice then changing his mind. Chrissy showed not the least concern. Rhona wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare. Two red spots marked McNab’s cheeks. He was taking this seriously.

  He made a big thing about choosing a card, then switched his allegiance to another and quickly withdrew it from the pack.

  ‘OK, what is it?’

  Chrissy tried to look puzzled. ‘Mmmm, difficult one.’

  McNab began to look more confident. Rhona could have wept for him.

  ‘Not sure. Maybe the jack of hearts?’

  He stared at the card, perplexed. ‘You are such a shite, by the way.’

  Chrissy smiled the smile of the victor. ‘Yes, but I’m very good at it.’

  McNab began turning the cards face up, as though that would somehow reveal the secret of Chrissy’s success.

  ‘Mine’s a bottle of Remy Martin.’ Chrissy smirked at Rhona.

  ‘I’m partial to a glass of champagne.’

  McNab’s relief was short lived.

  ‘But I prefer a bottle.’

  Chrissy laughed. ‘We can make champagne cocktails.’

  McNab seemed to be accepting defeat with unusually good grace. They discovered why almost immediately.

  ‘Do you play poker?’ he asked Chrissy.

  �
��Do I play poker?’

  ‘The guys have a card night every second Wednesday. Fancy joining in?’

  ‘You let women play?’ Chrissy’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘Not normally.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But then you’re no normal woman.’

  ‘You want to shaft your mates?’

  ‘You just shafted me.’

  ‘True.’ She contemplated the offer. ‘OK, if you promise to take me to hospital if I go into early labour.’

  ‘That won’t happen, will it?’

  Chrissy looked wordly wise. ‘With first babies you never know. Especially as I’ll be excited about winning.’

  McNab waited for Chrissy to depart before he produced a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to Rhona.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I got it in an email today from the kid in the crash.’

  She spread out the drawing on the table.

  ‘You’ve shown this to Bill?’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet. I’m beginning to think this second body is just a ruse by the kid to get attention.’

  Rhona looked up at him. ‘From you?’

  ‘I did give Claire, the mother, my contact details. Told her to get in touch if Emma remembered anything else about that night.’

  ‘What’s the mother like?’

  ‘Mid-thirties, attractive. Made a point of telling me she wasn’t married.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not like that, she was angry I called her Mrs.’

  ‘You think the kid’s trying to pair you off with her mum?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Drawing dead bodies and sending them to a policeman to get a new dad sounds a bit over the top to me.’ Rhona took another look at the drawing. ‘The girl must have wandered around in those woods for a while before you found her. Maybe she did see something else, but can’t remember now what it was. I could go back. Take another look.’

  ‘The dog sniffed every pile of brushwood in that wood and didn’t detect any more human remains.’

  Rhona looked again at the drawing. ‘The body here is buried.’

  ‘We can’t dig up the entire wood just because a kid draws a picture.’

  ‘Have you talked to her mother about this?’

  ‘Emma said in the email that her mother didn’t want her to show me the drawing.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. The woman’s probably as freaked as you are by the kid’s story.’

  McNab said nothing.

  ‘What if I contact the mother?’ Rhona suggested.

  This was obviously what McNab had been hoping for. She studied the drawing again, registering the classic shape of a Christmas tree.

  ‘Pine needles are very acidic. A small body buried under a pine tree would be subjected to a constant trickle of acidic water, enough to dissolve even the bones.’

  ‘So there would be nothing left?’

  ‘After a decade, maybe some fabric, plastic things like buttons, gold items like a ring.’

  ‘Did you find anything in the material from the deposition site?’

  ‘Not yet. I suspect the body had been stripped before it was left there.’

  ‘Meaning the killer was forensically aware?’

  ‘Ten years ago he was probably just being careful. Hoping if it was ever found, it couldn’t be identified.’

  ‘He might be right.’

  ‘Hey, we don’t give up that easily.’

  McNab was suitably chastised.

  ‘On a different note. The dead guy in the skip might be eastern European. He had a meal of beetroot soup and dumplings before he died, possibly at the Russian Restaurant.’

  ‘Beetroot soup?’

  Rhona found herself defending the borscht. ‘It’s very good. I tried some.’

  ‘You went to the restaurant?’

  ‘The manager’s name is Misha Grigorovitch. He invited me back for a Russian meal.’

  ‘Hope you’re not planning on fraternising with a suspect?’

  ‘He’s hardly that.’

  ‘He might be.’

  ‘So might Claire Watson.’

  That made them both think.

  ‘You’re suggesting the girl or her mother knew there was a body in those woods?’

  Rhona hadn’t really considered the idea until that moment. It would certainly explain how Emma ‘found’ the skull.

  ‘Maybe we should take the story of a second body more seriously,’ she said.

  ‘I could take you down there tomorrow,’ McNab offered.

  ‘I have a court appearance in the morning and so do you.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘The old lady, Mary Healey? We’re going to put her killer behind bars.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember. What about a visit to the Watsons’ afterwards?’

  ‘Possibly, if we don’t have to sit around waiting to be called. Give me the contact number. I’ll talk to the mother.’

  When McNab left, Rhona tidied up before dialling the Watsons’ number. The phone rang out four times then a small voice answered.

  ‘Is that Emma?’

  ‘Who’s speaking please?’

  ‘My name is Dr Rhona MacLeod. I’m a colleague of Detective Sergeant McNab.’

  The voice brightened. ‘Michael?’

  ‘Yes, Michael. May I speak to your mum?’

  The phone went down with a clatter. She could hear Emma’s voice calling for her mother, then footsteps before the receiver was picked up.

  ‘Hello.’

  Rhona repeated what she’d said to Emma.

  ‘How can I help you?’ The woman’s tone was guarded.

  Rhona explained her role in the inquiry then said, ‘DS McNab showed me a drawing Emma sent him.’

  There was an intake of breath. ‘I told her not to send that.’

  ‘I know you must be worried by all this.’

  ‘I am.’

  Rhona chose her words carefully. ‘There’s a remote chance Emma did register something odd on her way to the place we found her. Something that’s preying on her mind. I wondered if I walked with her through the woods, I might be able to both check it out and put her mind at rest.’

  Rhona could sense controlled anger in the response.

  ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘Detective Sergeant McNab has already spoken to his commanding officer about Emma’s claims to know of a further body. It’s likely he’ll ask a psychologist to speak to her.’

  ‘A psychologist?’ Claire Watson sounded panicky now.

  ‘It’s nothing to be concerned about. A trained person is more likely to ask the right questions.’

  ‘I think she’s making it all up,’ said Claire. She sounded exasperated.

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  There was a pause. ‘I recently broke up with my partner. Emma misses him.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was a pause then Mrs Watson said, ‘I suppose it’ll be all right, but I don’t want Emma upset.’

  When she rang off, Rhona contemplated that McNab might not have been far off the mark when he’d suggested Emma was intent on setting him up with her mother.

  16

  ‘Is Michael coming back?’

  Claire took Emma tightly by the hand. ‘Why did you send that drawing?’

  The child tried to disengage herself from her mother’s fierce grip, but Claire hung on.

  ‘Why, Emma?’

  The girl’s expression grew stubborn. Claire had seen that look before.

  ‘Answer me.’

  Emma raised her chin defiantly.

  ‘I can hear his voice. He’s alone.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Claire’s voice was shrill.

  Emma cringed away from her.

  ‘If you keep bringing the police here, we won’t be safe any more.’

  ‘Michael will look after us.’

  Claire felt her throat constrict. Maybe her daughter was right. Maybe that was the best solution. Play to the policeman.
Make him desire her, a lone woman in need of help and protection. DS McNab had been totally professional, but she’d sensed he might respond, if she played him the right way. A policeman for a lover. Would that keep them safe?

  She looked at Emma’s tight little mouth. Sometimes she almost wanted to slap the child, see the stinging hurt redden her face. Punish Emma for her own fear.

  ‘Go to your room.’

  After Emma had stomped up the stairs, Claire went to the phone and pulled out the lead. She didn’t want any more emails leaving the house without her say-so. Thank God she hadn’t been like most parents and given Emma her own mobile. She had been terrified that the girl might contact Nick. Even now she wasn’t sure her daughter understood why they were hiding from him.

  Her hand moved to her throat, remembering Emma and the policeman walking together across the snowy field. How pleased Emma had been to go out alone with the detective. Claire had questioned her closely after the policeman had left. She’d wanted to know whether Emma had told him about Nick, but hadn’t dared ask outright.

  Sometimes, she realised, she was afraid of her daughter. Afraid of the intensity of her stare. Of the humming she could hear coming from her bedroom. Of the sight of the small figure sitting in darkness when she opened the door.

  She returned to the kitchen to find that the pasta had boiled dry in her absence. She rescued what hadn’t stuck to the bottom of the pot, tipped it into an oven dish and poured over the sauce. Her hands were trembling with anger or fear, she didn’t know which. She slid the dish in to the oven, then fetched the open bottle of wine, poured herself a glass and sat down with it at the table.

  Claire didn’t want her daughter to talk to the forensic woman, but realised she couldn’t refuse. Not after Emma had sent the policeman that drawing. She lifted the glass to her mouth. The liquid struggled to make its way down her tightened throat. She felt like crying, but wouldn’t let herself. If she started, she knew she would never stop.

  A suffocating blackness began to press down on her, taking her breath away. A familiar pain grabbed her chest. She pulled open the cutlery drawer, selected a small sharp knife and pressed the point into her wrist, willing all the pain to concentrate on that spot.

  The problem was she wasn’t sure whether Emma knew what had happened – back then. She thought about the drawing and wanted to scream. The image of that small boy’s body below the ground. The words Don’t leave me here alone. All too terrible to contemplate.