The Reborn (15 page)

‘Little girls put nappies on dolls. It’s all about pretending.’

‘This doesn’t feel like pretending. It feels creepy.’

Rhona undid the fasteners between the legs and pulled the vest gently over the head, then took off the nappy. The vinyl arms and legs had been inserted into a cotton body and fastened with plastic cable ties. Undressed, the doll looked less real.

Rhona remembered being afraid of a ventriloquist’s dummy when she was a child, imagining it coming alive when its master was asleep. The idea used to give her nightmares. And yet she had never seen a ventriloqist’s dummy that looked remotely real. Not like this baby had done when fully clothed.

They worked separately, Chrissy taking the clothing and the bag while Rhona concentrated on the doll itself. She would examine its tiny body as thoroughly as she had Kira’s. If, as Bill suggested, there might be a link between them, then trace evidence would reveal this.

She began to gently take apart the doll, removing the head before snapping the cable ties that held the limbs in position. She laid these to one side before cutting through the cotton body shape to remove the stuffing. She’d already examined the fine hair that had been rooted in the head: cashmere, commonly used for dolls’ hair. She now checked inside the head cavity, spotting what looked like writing close to the folds of the neck joint. She fetched a magnifier and took a closer look.

Could Daisy be the model name of the doll? She’d done enough research online to realise that for commercial purposes the various models were given male or female names. If this was a
Daisy
doll, maybe
J
and
C
were the initials of the artist who’d brought it to life.

She went back online and searched for a model called
Daisy
. There wasn’t one, although she did find an advertisement for embroidered daisies to sew onto your doll’s clothing. She then tried various combinations of
JC
and
Daisy
, with no luck. If
JC
was indeed the artist, she needed more than just their initials to identify them.

She abandoned that line of enquiry and returned to the doll itself. A closer study of the head revealed that it was vinyl, overlaid with a type of polymer clay which had been sculpted to give it its facial characteristics. The ears were entirely polymer, sculpted again to a unique shape, just like human ears. She took time to admire the workmanship – whoever had made this doll was indeed an artist.

She went back to her photographs of the doll, taken before she had dissected it. The more she examined them, the more she wondered if the reason the doll was so realistic was because it had been modelled on a specific baby, with all its distinctive features. If so, who was that child? If it did exist, maybe someone would recognise it.

She emailed Bill her findings so far. Checking on possible DNA from the doll would take longer, but if he decided to reveal its existence to the press, then a photograph might help locate the owner, or the mother of the baby it was modelled on.

Petersson called her in the early afternoon.

‘Have you had lunch?’

She hadn’t, caught up as she’d been with the doll. ‘Not yet.’

‘Can we meet?’

‘Now?’

‘It’s important.’

She waited for him to explain why, but he didn’t.

‘What about the café at Kelvingrove? The one in the basement.’

It would involve a short walk through the park, but she appreciated his attempt to stay clear of the lab.

‘OK. Fifteen minutes?’

‘I’ll be there.’

She told Chrissy she was going out for some fresh air. Chrissy gave her an inscrutable look and for a moment Rhona thought she might suggest coming with her.

‘How long for?’ Chrissy asked.

‘An hour at most.’

‘I might be gone by the time you come back.’

Chrissy was sticking to part-time, although the hours were longer than she’d first suggested.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

Chrissy was clearly suspicious of Rhona’s sudden desire for fresh air, so Rhona made a quick getaway.

Spring had brought a riot of colour to the park in the form of pink and purple crocuses and banks of yellow daffodils, although a brisk wind still made her eyes water.

Despite it being mid-week, the museum was busy because of the Dr Who exhibition which had finally reached Glasgow as part of its UK tour. The enthusiasts looked to be predominantly students, although there were a few folk in their sixties and what looked like an enthusiastic primary class.

Rhona skirted the crowds and headed downstairs.

18

Petersson took out the rabbit’s foot and turned it over in his hand. Although it was discoloured and bald in places, he still felt its luck. It had been instrumental in saving his life before, and he suspected he would need it again before long.

The rabbit’s foot had been a present from his grandfather on his ninth birthday. Perhaps
afi
had had a premonition of what was to come, because it turned out that the luck arrived just in time. After the party, he’d gone skating on an ice-covered lake and strayed too far from shore. The ice had cracked under him and he’d fallen in. His father and grandfather had managed to haul him out and found the rabbit’s foot frozen to his right hand. Petersson had been clinically dead for four minutes before they made his heart beat again.

Then there had been the night when, as a teenager, he’d ‘borrowed’ his father’s car to transport two friends to a party in Reykjavik. Too much alcohol had rendered him fearless, resulting in a somersault on a slippery road. All three of them had escaped serious injury, suggesting that his little amulet’s protective influence might extend wider than himself.

Although now a grown man of thirty-seven, Petersson was still superstitious. He might kid himself that his continued existence was because he was smarter than those he pursued, but deep down he knew that wasn’t true.

Many of the criminals he’d investigated had turned out to be just as superstitious as himself, particularly those from Eastern Europe. Did Kalinin have a lucky charm, shielding him from the law? Even as he mulled this over, Petersson knew he was looking at the real reason on the screen in front of him.

He’d spent the hours since leaving Rhona’s bed in front of his computer. He didn’t normally find it difficult to separate pleasure and work. In her case he had revelled in the combination of the two, although he was well aware that had she not deemed him useful, he probably wouldn’t have reached her bed. But he was glad he had, and hoped to be there again soon.

He reread the intercepted message. It had taken a long time to hack into the system and find something, longer still to decode what he’d found. Those years at university honing his programming skills, his ambition to write the next generation of computer games, had served him well. Creating a complex digital world of adventure through online gaming had been fun, but not half as much fun as poking around in other people’s digital lives. In truth, his career might have gone either way; he could have made a very good living from hacking, or chosen to use his skills another way and bring down those who operated on the wrong side of the law. The trouble was that those who operated outside the law weren’t always bad, at least not in his eyes. So he’d revised his moral code. He went after those
he
decided were bad. People like Kalinin, but also those in the establishment who saw themselves as above the law. All of which made him a lot of enemies. Now, reading this message had produced the same icy chill as that plunge through the ice when he was nine.

He wondered whether Rhona MacLeod had any idea what she was dealing with. He knew about her visit to the Russian’s penthouse flat in search of a missing woman, Claire Watson. He’d been impressed by that, although he’d deemed it foolhardy. He also questioned why the policeman, McNab, had allowed such a thing to happen. He could only assume that neither of them had known the true nature of the man they’d decided to challenge. The Russian had a well-documented propensity for torture. Torturing men he saw as part of the job; women, Kalinin tortured for pleasure.

Petersson rose and went to the small kitchen area. He opened an overhead cupboard, brought out a half-full vodka bottle and poured a double shot. He took the clear liquid into his mouth and swirled it around before swallowing. The blast of warmth that hit his chest did nothing to remove the creeping chill. The message changed everything, and he would have to adjust his plans accordingly. He felt the familiar throb of his purple scar. Even now, two years later, he could still relive the moment when the knife had entered, could taste again the blood that had spurted into his mouth.

He dragged his mind back to the present. He hadn’t died then and he had no intention of dying this time, but it was risky getting involved with Rhona MacLeod, especially now. The existence of the message he’d intercepted had made him uneasy about the Russian mafia investigation after the death of DS Michael McNab, and DI Slater’s role in it. It had also raised questions about Dr MacLeod herself.

He put the vodka back in the cupboard and rinsed the glass before calling her. She answered almost immediately. When she agreed to meet in the museum café, he had no idea what he would say to her. He would have to decide on the way.

Rhona spotted Petersson sitting by the window in the conservatory area and composed her expression before going to join him. He sensed her approach and looked up. She expected a smile of welcome at least, but he looked too preoccupied for that. She pulled out a chair and sat down opposite.

‘I haven’t ordered yet.’ He pushed the menu card towards her as the waitress came over.

She gave it a cursory glance, her hunger evaporating.

‘Coffee will do. A pot.’

He gave their order, waiting until they were alone again before he spoke.

‘Something’s happened.’

‘To do with Kalinin?’

‘Almost certainly.’

His expression was unnerving her. ‘What?’ she asked sharply.

‘Tell me what you know of Fergus Morrison.’

Rhona hesitated. Whatever she said now was common knowledge, so she wasn’t giving anything away.

‘Private Fergus Morrison went AWOL after seeing a friend blown apart in Afghanistan. When he was living rough in Glasgow, he witnessed the murder of a man named Alexsai Petrov by Kalinin. Morrison used Petrov’s body to fake his own death by hanging his dog tag round the neck and setting fire to the skip he was in. We found the body and I forensically identified it as Petrov.’ She paused. ‘But you know all that.’

He was waiting for her to continue.

‘Morrison agreed to give evidence against Kalinin. He was put in the witness protection scheme.’

‘Fergus Morrison is dead,’ said Petersson.

‘What? But how?’

‘He was shot.’

‘When did this happen?’ If it had been in Glasgow, surely she would have heard about it?

‘London, a week ago.’

She looked at him, surprised. ‘What was he doing in London?’

‘Slater had him transferred to a safe house there after they got McNab.’

Why had Slater not told her he’d sent Morrison south? Then again, why would he? He was aware of her antagonism towards him and, unlike Bill, he wouldn’t deem it necessary to include her in any decisions that might be made in the Kalinin case. After all, she was only an expert witness, not a police officer. Even if she was the one who’d held McNab in her arms and watched him die.

The coffee arrived. Rhona watched as Petersson poured two cups and pushed one towards her. When she attempted to lift it, she realised her hand was trembling. She replaced the cup without drinking.

‘Morrison was the only witness alive who could place Kalinin at the scene of crime,’ she said.

‘Which is why he was assassinated.’

Assassinated. It sounded so melodramatic.

‘Kalinin’s clearing the decks of anyone who has anything on him.’

A terrible thought occurred to her. ‘Anya. What about Anya?’

Anya Grigorovitch, the young Russian woman whose lover, Alexsai, had been Kalinin’s victim.

‘I went to the Russian café. Anya and her brother Misha are no longer there.’

‘Then where are they?’

‘I hoped you might know.’

He was staring at her intently.

‘I don’t.’ If she had known, would she have told him? ‘I need to speak to Bill about this.’

‘I thought Slater was handling the case?’

‘Not any more,’ she said with relish.

Petersson looked put out. It was obvious he was used to being the first one in the know. Rhona felt at an advantage for the first time since she’d walked into the café.

‘Fergus Morrison’s death isn’t common knowledge, for the moment,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘I presume they want Kalinin to think he’s still alive.’

Rhona studied this man she knew nothing about, apart from his reputation for exposing those who thought they were above the law. Did she believe him?

‘How do you know all this?’

His voice dropped even lower. ‘I have a CHIS contact.’

CHIS – Covert Human Intelligence Sources. In layman’s terms, a dedicated police unit for handling snouts and grasses. She shouldn’t be surprised that Petersson had such contacts in his line of work.

‘If this is true and they’re worried about Kalinin taking out contacts up here, shouldn’t Bill be told about it?’

‘If you mention it, he’ll want to know how you found out.’

Rhona wondered what she was getting into. If Bill was back on the job and progressing the Kalinin case, maybe she should back off and leave it to him?

Petersson appeared to be reading her mind. ‘Believe me, your DI’s got no hope of nailing Kalinin.’

‘Slater might have given up, but Bill won’t,’ she said firmly.