Final Cut (25 page)

42

The baby-faced guard on reception wasn’t impressed by McNab’s appearance or his ripe smell. McNab had got used to both by now. Bar going home to change, he’d accepted he couldn’t do anything about it and there were more important things than taking a shower and putting on clean clothes.

McNab waited as the guard re-examined his ID. If he’d compared his face to the identity photograph once, he’d done it ten times.

‘Fuckssake,’ he hissed under his breath.

‘What did you say?’ Righteous indignation spotted the boy’s plump cheeks.

‘You do realise you’re hindering a murder inquiry.’

A deeper flush crept over the guard’s cheeks, and he waved McNab through. The visiting room was dotted with families celebrating Christmas prison-style. By rights the meeting should have taken place in an interview room with McCarthy’s brief present, but McNab had sold this as a friendly visit on Christmas Day.

He hadn’t had time to study the Mollie Curtis case in detail, but seeing Slater’s name in the file had coloured his attitude from the outset. If Slater had been anything like the boss, McNab could have talked over his concerns surrounding the case, including the guy on the road and the possibility that someone had followed the kid in the woods, but Slater wasn’t DI Wilson. He was a whole different species.

McCarthy appeared five minutes later, walking into the room and taking a quick look around. Baby-face pointed in McNab’s direction. A few words were exchanged, and McCarthy looked quite pleased. He obviously liked having a visitor on Christmas Day, even if it was a police officer. Or maybe
because
it was a police officer. He came over and took a seat across the table from McNab, who showed him his ID.

McCarthy smiled. His teeth were weird, coated with yellow. McNab inadvertently licked his own clean.

‘What happened to you?’

‘Walked into a lamp-post in the blizzard last night.’

McCarthy shook his head in sympathy. ‘You look fucking awful. Eyes like slits.’

‘Thanks.’

It was the pot calling the kettle black.

‘I knew you would come. Soon as I heard you’d found the grave.’

‘Whose grave?’

‘Mollie Curtis.’

‘The girl you killed?’

The prisoner shook his head vehemently. ‘I didn’t kill her.’

‘You confessed to it.’

McCarthy leaned towards McNab. His breath smelt terrible. ‘I didn’t kill her and I didn’t bury her. Forensic will prove that.’ He said
forensic
as if it were the word of God.

‘Forensic found her blood on your clothes, along with your semen. Forensic put you in here.’

‘She cut her finger. I put a plaster on for her.’ McCarthy sounded aggrieved.

‘Then you jerked off?’

McCarthy glared balefully at him.

‘I didn’t hurt Mollie. I didn’t kill her.’

McNab drew back to get out of range of the man’s red gums and rotting teeth. ‘Want to know how we found her?’

McCarthy’s eyes narrowed.

The news bulletins hadn’t mentioned Emma, and McNab didn’t know why he was mentioning her now. ‘A wee girl told us where she was.’

McCarthy’s mouth puckered like a cartoon character’s. ‘A wee girl?’

‘She said she heard a voice calling to her from the woods. The voice led her to the grave.’

McCarthy’s face was turning a similar colour to his teeth.

‘I’ve heard people who are murdered often come back to haunt their killer,’ said McNab.

‘I
didn’t
kill her.’

‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

But McCarthy clearly was worried.

‘Thing is, the girl also heard a second voice.’

‘I didn’t kill the boy either.’

A shiver descended McNab’s spine.

‘What boy?’

He watched as the shutters came down on McCarthy’s eyes. He’d assumed the look of a child confronted by an angry adult. His voice became a whine. ‘Did you bring me a Christmas present?’

‘How about early release?’

McCarthy licked his yellow teeth.

‘Tell me about the boy.’

McNab examined the visitor list. Apart from himself, a prison volunteer came once a fortnight. That was it. McCarthy had no one who cared whether he lived or died, or cleaned his teeth.

He fired change into the coffee machine and watched as muddy liquid filled the paper cup. McCarthy had rabbited on about CSI and finding forensic evidence at the grave that would clear him. No matter what McNab said, he couldn’t get him back on the subject of the boy.

He racked his brains but failed to recall a link with another missing-kid case. Slater would be the one to ask, of course. He contemplated phoning his new boss at home on Christmas Day and enjoyed the fantasy while it lasted.

The caffeine and sugar buzzed around McNab’s brain and reminded him how hungry he was. He needed food, and he needed to properly study the notes on the Curtis case. He checked his phone in case Rhona had called while he was incarcerated, but there was nothing. He drank the remainder of the coffee then dragged his sorry body back on its feet.

Glasgow was getting back to normal after the blizzard, or as normal as Christmas Day could be. Snow swept from the roads was piled in the gutter. No longer deep and crisp and even, it now consisted of hardened grey lumps. McNab picked his way through it and managed to flag down a lone taxi. He was compelled to show his badge before the driver would allow such a bedraggled and bloodied passenger to enter his pristine cab. They indulged in some desultory chit-chat about the weather and Christmas in general.

‘I can’t stand turkey, myself,’ the taxi driver told him. ‘So I work and the wife entertains the relatives. That means we’re both happy.’ He forbore asking why McNab looked as though he had been beaten up. No doubt he’d seen worse in his time on the job.

As he stepped over the threshold of his flat, McNab’s legs almost gave out. Fit though he was, being manhandled by Solonik and flung in a skip was taking its toll. He made straight for the whisky bottle and poured a decent shot. He drank it swiftly and poured another, taking it to the shower with him. He dropped his clothes on the floor and climbed under.

The shower felt like hot needles against his bruises, but gradually warmth spread through his shattered, chilled body. He held his face up to the spray, filled his aching mouth and spat the bloodied water out. After a full ten minutes he stepped out, reached for the glass and drank the second whisky. Now that he was warm outside and in, the pain was receding a little. He dressed, then looked up the pizza carry-out number and ordered a pepperoni and a margarita. The inflated Christmas Day prices would have bought him a week’s supply of food. While he waited for the pizzas to arrive, he checked out the contents of the fridge for a starter. He was starving, but couldn’t face the single soft tomato and square of blue-tinged Cheddar – all that remained from his last shopping trip.

When the buzzer went he released the lower door, assuming it was the pizzas. But the pizza man wasn’t his only visitor. When McNab opened the door Rhona looked even more horrified than the guy holding the eagerly awaited boxes. Only then did McNab appreciate just how bad he looked.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘Let me eat first, then I’ll tell you.’

McNab paid the gobsmacked delivery man and ushered Rhona and the steaming boxes into the kitchen.

‘Open those while I get the whisky.’

When he reappeared with the bottle, she had set a couple of plates on the table.

‘Want some?’ He waved the bottle at her.

She nodded and he fetched fresh glasses from the cupboard. He numbed his sore mouth with whisky then set about the pepperoni pizza. A lifetime had passed since he’d eaten roasted piglet at the Russian Restaurant. In retrospect he wished Grogorovitch had poisoned him instead of putting him in the hands of Solonik.

They ate in companionable silence, taking slices from alternate boxes. When McNab had taken the edge off his hunger, he gave Rhona a run-through of the events in the restaurant and afterwards. He avoided telling her about Solonik’s party pieces, although he suspected she could read between the lines. Repeating even a sanitised version of the story made him nauseous.

‘There was another guy in the room with Solonik but I never saw his face, just heard his voice. He didn’t sound Russian; his voice was neutral, well educated, without an accent. I don’t think he was in the car when Solonik picked me up. They put something over my head so I don’t know where they took me.’ McNab knew he should be asking himself the usual questions.
How long did they drive for? Were there any sounds that could help pinpoint the location?
But when he tried to think back, his mind shut down.

‘Have you reported this?’

He shook his head. ‘I’d rather Solonik and his boss considered me dead for the moment.’ He could hear his heart pounding so loudly it sounded as though the organ had taken up residence in his ears. He felt again the excruciating pressure of Solonik’s nails on his eyeballs. McNab raised the glass to his lips and forced the whisky down his tightened throat.

‘I shopped Brogan to save myself. Only that didn’t save me. The illegals did.’

‘Brogan should never have got involved with the Russians,’ said Rhona.

‘Maybe he had no choice.’

‘There’s always a choice.’

McNab was well aware of that. He’d chosen to point the finger at Brogan in an effort to save himself.

Rhona was observing him with concern. ‘You think it was Misha that told them you were at the restaurant?’

He didn’t like her use of Grigorovitch’s first name. His response was sharp.

‘Who the fuck else would it be except
Misha
?’

His tone had stung her. McNab wanted to apologise but couldn’t bring himself to. He tried to take another slug of the whisky but could barely raise his arm from the table. His body was seizing up. He would have to move now or he was finished.

He dragged himself to his feet.

‘What are you doing?’

‘McCarthy mentioned a boy. He said,
I didn’t kill the boy
.’

‘What boy?’

‘Exactly. I tried to get more out of him but he clammed up. Said he wanted to talk to his prison visitor.’

‘Emma said there was another body.’

‘And nobody believed her, least of all me.’

McNab was thinking about Emma. Those big trusting eyes.

‘What if we’re wrong, and Emma’s disappearance does have something to do with finding the remains?’ Rhona said.

‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

43

Daniel had been surprised when he asked him to leave as soon as the meal was over, but there had been little choice, not after the phone call. It would not be appropriate for Daniel to be seen here. As a prison visitor he was well regarded. Entertaining young prison officers in his home might be hard to explain.

He recorked the unfinished second bottle of wine. Disappointment at the shortening of Daniel’s visit had been replaced by excitement. He feared nothing from the police visit. He had no reason to. They were coming to see him either because of his voluntary connection with McCarthy or concerning yesterday’s letter to the governor.

He’d told DS McNab to come at around six. That gave him plenty of time to clear up after the meal and remove the item from the workshop.

As he washed the dishes, he mulled over what this meeting might bring. He’d always known that his proximity to McCarthy, the endless hours listening to the moron’s attempts at conversation, would pay off eventually.

If DS McNab had done his homework he would be aware just how reliable he was. Prison visitor, Justice of the Peace, member of the Children’s Panel. All the people he had helped, especially the children. And he’d done his best to help McCarthy. Much more than others in his position would have done.

He rinsed the wineglasses and put them to one side. The truth was he welcomed this visit and was prepared for it. And now that any possibility of being recognised had been circumvented, he felt quite calm about it. No, not calm, more quietly exhilarated.

Daniel had complained a little. Said he’d had too much wine to drive home. But he’d remained adamant. When the young guard looked like arguing, he’d revealed the source of the phone call. He had been taken aback by that. Apparently DS McNab had visited McCarthy only that morning and Daniel had been his point of contact. The policeman had looked a mess, according to Daniel, as though he’d been in a fight.

They had said their goodbyes at the door. Daniel had hung back, obviously keen that they should make further arrangements before his departure. He had not obliged. They had had lunch together. Daniel was interested in his work and he had been kind enough to show him it. That was all.

Now he looked out on the darkness of the garden, imagining the distant trees. It would have been better if the funeral had already taken place, but there would be time enough when the snow melted.

He dried his hands and put on a jacket against the cold, before he opened the back door and stepped out into the starry stillness.

The temperature in the workshop was well below freezing. Moisture had leaked from the plastic wrapping and frozen hard on the surface of the workbench and the floor below. He contemplated bringing out a kettle of boiling water and rinsing it clean, then decided not to. The boiling water would only freeze and make the floor slippery.

The bundle was light in his arms. He went through the little room at the back where he stored his forensic materials, and opened the door to the cellar.

44

‘If there was a guy on the road, why didn’t he call an ambulance or the police?’

McNab was right. Any decent person would at least call for help, unless he was somewhere he shouldn’t be.

‘And when the remains were discovered . . .’ said Rhona.