Final Cut (14 page)

The Brogans’ club was imaginatively called ‘The Poker Club’. It lay just south of the river, its impressive pillared entrance a monument to Glasgow’s glorious architectural past. Vast glass doors led into a marble-lined hall that could rival the City Chambers. To the left was a classy bar that served quality food, a tribute to Paddy’s time spent sampling French gastronomy.

Soft green carpeted stairs led up to a variety of smaller rooms where the average punter was welcomed in from 3 p.m. to midnight. Special games were kept for select people and held in the penthouse suite with a view of the river. McNab was not one of the special people. Brogan had said to keep it official, which meant he wanted him to enter as a policeman on police business, as though Brogan hadn’t invited him there.

McNab flashed his ID and asked to speak to Mr Brogan. He was shown into the bar and offered a drink or a coffee. McNab ordered a five-year-old malt. He was sipping whisky from a very nice cut-glass tumbler when Brogan appeared.

In his mid-thirties, with just a sprinkling of grey, Paddy Brogan looked every inch the proprietor of a classy Glasgow gambling establishment. His entrance would have rivalled that of George Clooney. As he approached the table, he nodded and McNab caught the tiniest wink from his left eye.

Following this cue, McNab did well to prevent his mouth falling open. The man accompanying Brogan was built like a whisky barrel, his head sitting squat on his shoulders, three rings of fat taking the place of a neck. But it was the hands which had caused McNab to momentarily gape. They reminded him of the gammon roast his mother used to bake at Christmas time – thick and pink. McNab had a sudden image of one of those fists firing towards him and almost flinched. After glancing round the room and giving McNab the once-over, the man took up his stance at the door.

‘Where the hell did he come from?’ McNab muttered under his breath.

Brogan’s voice was low and angry. ‘Let’s say Solonik doesn’t speak English apart from
fuck you, ya bastard
and
vodka
.’

‘Russian?’

Brogan nodded.

‘Legal?’

‘A student on a gap year who’s come to Scotland to learn the language.’ Brogan raised his voice a little. ‘Another drink, Officer, while we discuss the licence?’

McNab acquiesced. After all, it wasn’t often he got to drink free whisky of this quality.

Brogan nodded at the barman, who’d been awaiting his command. There was a flurry of activity behind the counter followed by the swift delivery of another whisky for McNab and what looked like the same for Brogan.

Brogan tasted it then brought out some folded papers from his inside pocket and pushed them across the table. McNab glanced at them long enough to note that they were part of a licence agreement.

‘By all means take them with you. Study them at your leisure, Officer.’

McNab glanced at the minder to find his blank stare focused on Brogan’s back. He had no idea what the fuck was going on here, but whatever it was had generated fury and caution in Brogan in equal measure.

‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ Brogan said. ‘Given up playing poker?’

‘I heard there was a lot of vodka being drunk here. I’m a whisky man myself.’

‘As am I,’ Brogan said with conviction.

McNab finished his drink and rose to go, pocketing the papers. The huge man watched as he made his way into the marble entrance hall. His eyes felt like bullets chasing McNab to the exit. At any moment he expected their impact to shatter his spine.

He was glad to hear the heavy glass doors close behind him and step into the wind and the freezing rain. What had Dylan sung? ‘The times they are a changin’’. If Brogan was under the influence of Mother Russia, then things definitely were changing. For a fleeting moment McNab hankered after the time of Poker Billy, when the villains spoke English, or at least a Glasgow version of it. Where the knife was the weapon of choice and power was kept in the family. Paddy Brogan’s career, he feared, was nearing its end, much like his own.

24

From the back of the chapel Rhona and Magnus could see that, apart from Claire and her daughter, there were only six mourners, and all bar one were over seventy. Claire stood tall and straight at the front, as the pensioners’ thin voices trembled through the Twenty-third Psalm.

Beside Rhona, Magnus joined in, providing a strong and confident tenor. At the start of verse two, the child turned to look with interest at who was singing at the back.

As the curtains opened to accept the coffin, Claire clung tightly to her daughter’s hand. Then it was over. The others waited as she exited first with Emma, followed by the younger woman. Claire looked tired and distracted as she walked past, but she did acknowledge Rhona’s presence with a nod. The one elderly man stood aside to let all the ladies pass, then followed, leaning heavily on a stick.

Rhona and Magnus hung back until the various mourners had paid their respects and headed for their cars. Already the next funeral cortège was winding its way into the chapel.

Rhona approached Claire and introduced herself.

‘I know who you are.’ Claire’s manner was curt, but there was none of the anger Rhona had sensed in the phone call.

Claire turned to Magnus, waiting to be introduced.

‘This is Professor Magnus Pirie.’

He offered Claire his hand. For a moment Rhona thought she would refuse to shake it.

‘Thank you for allowing me to come,’ said Magnus.

Claire nodded stiffly then turned to Emma, who was staring at him in fascination.

‘You’ve got a funny voice.’

Claire made a move to remonstrate with her daughter but Magnus stopped her with a smile.

‘I’m from the Orkney Islands. Do you know where they are?’

Emma shook her head.

‘You have to drive right to the top of Scotland then take a ferry across the Pentland Firth.’

Claire interrupted him. ‘Remember I told you about Dr MacLeod? Well, this is her and this man is a colleague of hers.’

Emma thought about that, her small brow furrowing. ‘Where’s Michael?’

‘He couldn’t come today,’ replied Rhona.

Disappointment clouded Emma’s face, and Claire looked quizzically at Rhona.

‘DS McNab sends his apologies,’ Rhona lied. She hadn’t received the promised phone call this morning and had been unable to reach McNab. When she’d checked with the station she’d been told he and the DI were currently in a meeting. ‘He hoped you would look after the professor for him,’ she said to Emma.

‘Orkney has no trees, so I’m not used to walking in the woods,’ Magnus explained.

‘That’s OK. I’ll look after you,’ promised Emma.

Claire reached into her handbag and produced a piece of paper. ‘Instructions on how to get to Fern Cottage. We’re a bit off the beaten track, DS McNab got lost when he came down. Emma will keep you right. I’m going to take Mum’s friends to lunch then I’ll head home. I should be there by three, but Emma knows where the spare key is.’ She gave them a searching look. It was clearly difficult for her to render up her daughter to them like this. ‘I spoke to Detective Inspector Wilson this morning. He assured me that Emma is in safe hands.’

‘She is,’ said Rhona.

Emma seemed unperturbed as her mother gave her a goodbye kiss and urged her to help Dr MacLeod as much as she could. Rhona had the impression the child was revelling in the attention and was not in the least perturbed by what she was being asked to do.

Emma chatted happily to Magnus on the drive out of town, asking him what kind of professor he was and whether he knew how to sail a boat. Magnus described his house in Orkney, where water lapped three sides at high tide, and told her about the sailing dinghy he kept moored at his jetty. They also discussed cats. Magnus told Emma tales of Olaf, the cat that sometimes came to stay, while Emma explained how Toby had decided to be their friend when they’d moved into Fern Cottage.

Rhona joined in with her story of Tom the kitten. Emma listened carefully, then asked her what a forensic scientist was. Rhona explained that she looked for evidence that was mostly invisible to the human eye. Criminals didn’t realise this evidence had been left behind.

‘Like invisible ink?’ Emma asked.

‘A bit.’ Rhona laughed.

When they pulled in by the side of the road adjacent to the crash site, Emma was first out of the car, her small face lit up with enthusiasm. Rhona fetched her forensic bag and a video camera from the boot.

The sky was heavily overcast, the breeze bitterly chill. They had made a point of coming prepared for the weather, Claire supplying Rhona with a warm coat and floral wellington boots for Emma to cover her more formal funeral wear.

They’d been walking now for ten minutes. Rhona felt as though they were wandering in circles, but Magnus seemed content to let Emma lead while they followed.

This part of the wood was populated with older trees; Scots pines with thickly layered trunks, spindly rowan and birch dotting the areas in between. Directly below the wider-spreading pines, the ground was drier and scattered with needles, their acidic quality making it hard for other plants to take root. In the more sparsely wooded areas, dwarf heather and blaeberry bushes flourished.

They had been moving constantly downhill, aligning themselves with small streams, little more than trickles intent on reaching the valley floor. A few steps ahead of Rhona, Emma and Magnus appeared to be in constant conversation. The child looked animated, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright.

Her instant friendship with McNab, followed by her rapport with Magnus – two entirely different characters – suggested that Emma did hanker after a father figure in her life. Rhona wondered whether the girl had lost her own father, through death or separation, and was constantly trying to replace him.

McNab had mentioned someone called Nick that the girl had seemed fond of. Nick had apparently taught Emma the art of throwing stones accurately and far, but Emma had stated categorically that Nick was not her father, in much the same way that Claire had told McNab she wasn’t married.

Despite the continuing conversation between Magnus and the girl, which Rhona could only partially hear, they hadn’t stopped at any particular location, although Emma paused at times to glance about intently. It appeared to Rhona that the pair were walking randomly, looking for some stimulus that might remind Emma of that fateful Sunday night when she’d found the skull. Rhona was beginning to suspect that McNab was right, that Emma was trying to make herself the centre of attention while introducing her mother to possible future partners.

Rhona was so deep in this thought that she didn’t notice that the pair had suddenly veered from the downhill path and cut across the hillside. Here the vegetation pattern changed, lush undergrowth replacing trees. The canopy opened and they were looking up at a sky so heavy with moisture that the cloud cover appeared to touch the surrounding treetops. Rhona shivered in the cold damp air.

Magnus and Emma had come to a halt next to a small lochan, little more than seven metres long and six wide. The northern side was a wall of rock, over which a small stream cascaded into the pool below. On the remaining three sides the forest floor dropped abruptly to the water’s edge with no evidence of a shoreline.

Rhona joined them beside the dark, deep peaty water. Emma’s face was no longer animated, but pale and frightened.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked the girl.

‘In there.’ Emma pointed to the water.

Rhona looked to Magnus for guidance.

‘What’s in there?’ he asked.

‘The voice I heard.’

‘You think there’s another body?’

‘I heard it that night but Michael wouldn’t believe me.’

Rhona put her arm around the girl. ‘It’s OK, Emma, we believe you.’ She glanced at Magnus.
Did they?

‘This is the body in your drawing?’ he asked.

‘I heard
him
crying when I was here. The drawing’s different.’

‘How is the drawing different?’ asked Rhona gently.

‘I drew it before this happened.’ Emma’s face creased tearfully.

‘I think we should walk back now,’ Rhona suggested.

Magnus nodded silently above the child’s head.

The return to the car took no time at all. In their wandering they had followed a loop. The lochan lay parallel to the road, south-west of the forensic circle they’d drawn round the original remains. Emma walked in silence, her face pinched and white with tiredness, her small hand encased in Magnus’s larger one.

Minutes after they got into the car, the child was asleep.

‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings . . .’ Magnus said quietly.

‘You believe her?’

‘I think you should trawl that lochan.’

‘The dogs didn’t pick up anything in that area,’ Rhona countered.

‘If the remains are under water, that’s not surprising.’

‘You don’t think she’s making it up?’

‘Children tell fewer lies than adults. We choose to forget that.’

Rhona had recorded Emma’s reaction at the lochan. It would be up to Bill to decide whether he wanted to take the matter farther.

‘The drawing she sent McNab didn’t look anything like that place,’ she said.

‘She claims she drew the picture before this happened.’

‘Then why did she send it now?’

Magnus glanced in the back. Emma was sound asleep, her body relaxed, her breathing steady.

‘I think maybe something bad happened to Emma. Something that the discovery of the skull brought back. Emma doesn’t remember what it was but it haunts her, through her dreams and through her drawings. I’m not sure Claire Watson has told us the whole story.’

Claire was waiting as they drove up the rutted track to the cottage. She greeted them in an upbeat manner, but her quick, searching glance at her daughter showed how worried she really was.