Final Cut (33 page)

There was a hush among the remaining players waiting for the final call. He could sense the majority were on Chrissy’s side, if only to see smartarse and his TAG watch get turned over. He was so intent on the game, he didn’t see the door open and two people enter.

He should have known something was up the moment he saw her, but Anya was barely recognisable as the woman he had met in the Russian Restaurant and later in the car with Rhona. She was wearing a black evening dress, her long hair fastened up to expose a slender neck. She was with a tall, distinguished man. As they passed the poker table, she glanced fearfully at McNab, then he heard the man order her to the bar. McNab recognised that voice immediately. Kalinin.

A million thoughts raced through McNab’s brain. How the hell had Kalinin been released? He knew the guy had hired an expensive London lawyer, but he couldn’t see that being enough to set him free – unless the officer in charge had backed down in some way. McNab recalled Slater’s parting glance as he’d left the room. Slater wanted Kalinin, wanted the whole damn lot of the Russian gang. He would never jeopardise that, no matter how much McNab had pissed him off. Or would he?

Kalinin hadn’t acknowledged McNab yet but the Russian knew he was there, Anya’s frightened demeanour had told him that. Which meant Brogan must be in on this. Christ! He had been set up and had been stupid enough to fall for it. Worse than that, he had brought Chrissy into it with him. His mouth was bone dry. It was all falling into place. Brogan’s phone call inviting him to play. His wiping out of McNab’s tab as a thanks for the police getting the Russians off his back. The bastard had handed him over.

A gasp from the table indicated Chrissy had produced a royal flush. TAG man wasn’t pleased but there could be no argument who had won. Chrissy threw McNab a triumphant smile and he jerked his head towards the bar. She didn’t know or recognise the two standing there, but McNab hoped his expression indicated that he did. Chrissy took the hint and rose. She arched her back, displaying the full size of her pregnancy, and gave a sigh.

‘Sorry, gentlemen, but I think it’s time for me to retire. Thank you and goodnight.’

She held out her hand to McNab. He took it and they began walking towards the door. He didn’t look back to see whether their exit had been noted.

When they were out of the room and beginning their descent of the staircase, Chrissy stumbled a little, as her heel caught in the deep pile.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ she whispered under her breath, as McNab steadied her.

‘That was Kalinin and the girl from the Russian Restaurant.’

‘I thought Kalinin was in custody.’

‘So did I.’

‘Did Brogan know he was out?’

McNab didn’t want to scare her. ‘Maybe.’

They were on the mid-landing now, about to make their way down the final stretch of stairs to the lobby. Below, on their right, the bar buzzed with talk and laughter and the constant chink of glasses.

‘What about my winnings?’

‘I’ll pick them up tomorrow.’

The doorman was tall and broad. Even in evening wear he looked like a boxer, his thick neck straining the white collar and bowtie. He stared at them blankly, then opened the door. McNab stood aside to let Chrissy through.

The steps were deserted, the street in front of the club devoid of cars. He took her arm and began to walk her swiftly away from the entrance. Despite his attempts to appear calm, he sensed she was picking up on his fear.

They were at the corner now. McNab could see the glint of the river, the glass windows of Jury’s Inn in the distance. He pulled out his mobile.

‘There’s a taxi,’ Chrissy said. ‘Stick out your arm.’

The orange light was headed across the bridge in their direction. McNab stepped out on to the road to wave it down.

58

Rhona tried McNab’s number again with no luck. He must have switched off for the duration of the poker game. She considered calling a taxi, then decided to head out and pick one up on the main thoroughfare.

Anya’s call had come out of the blue. In a whisper, she’d told Rhona that she’d tried McNab but the mobile went to voicemail. In the background Rhona had heard running water and the click of heels.

‘What’s wrong, Anya?’

‘Kalinin’s been released on bail. He came to the restaurant. He was very angry. He knows I told you where he lives.’

‘Anya, listen. I’ll contact DI Slater . . .’

‘No. If you tell the police they’ll kill Misha.’

Rhona was at a loss. ‘Where are you now?’

‘In the ladies’ room at the Poker Club. Kalinin brought me here. He has something planned, I don’t know what.’

Rhona felt the ground open under her feet. ‘McNab’s at the Poker Club.’

There was a whimper on the other end of the line.

‘I have to call the police, Anya, in case Kalinin harms you or McNab. Do you understand?’

Rhona waved down a taxi and showed the driver her ID. He took her request seriously, running three amber lights and a red on his way downtown. En route, she called the station and got through to Janice.

‘Kalinin was released on bail two hours ago.’

‘And no one thought to tell McNab?’

‘DI Slater said he would.’

‘Seems he forgot.’

What had Slater been thinking? Kalinin had taken care not to show his face to McNab, but McNab had identified him by his voice. Kalinin would be even angrier now. Rhona explained her concerns for McNab’s safety and advised they send back-up.

‘Something’s happened?’

‘Anya Grigorovitch called me. Kalinin’s at the club and so is McNab.’

The taxi was passing Jury’s Inn, crossing the river, near to the spot where she and McNab had met Anya.

Rhona recalled how cheerful he’d been when he’d left her flat earlier than evening. The wink he’d thrown her when they’d left.

59

McNab watched as the cab light went out and the vehicle made a wide U-turn, having caught sight of a fare on the other side of the road.

‘I’ll phone for one.’

He tried to keep his voice level, but Chrissy was no fool. She knew enough about Kalinin to know they would be better off out of there, and fast.

‘Stand back out of sight,’ McNab ordered.

She retreated into the shadow of a nearby doorway.

A computerised voice answered his call, and he gave his location and rang off. He glanced back towards the club. The entrance area was deserted. No one had followed them out. Maybe he was overreacting? Kalinin was way too smart to jeopardise his bail by attacking him. Maybe he’d just wanted to scare him.

Maybe he had turned up at the club to put the frighteners on Brogan, not knowing McNab was there. Chances were Brogan had been as freaked as he had. But why was Anya with Kalinin when she’d professed to be terrified of him? An alternative scenario occurred to him. Had Anya set him up when she gave him Kalinin’s address? Maybe Kalinin had expected McNab to appear that night with the food? He dismissed this idea. Anya hadn’t been at the Poker Club through choice, not the way Kalinin was treating her.

A taxi was coming his way, orange light off. He prayed it was the one he’d ordered.

‘Chrissy!’ he called softly.

He stepped out of the shadows, just as a second vehicle turned on to the main thoroughfare. It had probably come from the car park at the rear of the Poker Club. It was a limo, long and dark with smoked windows – Brogan’s best. It drew alongside McNab and, as the back window whirred down, Brogan’s voice called out to him.

‘Heard you and the girl cleaned me out?’ Brogan sounded cheery for a man who had lost a considerable amount of money.

‘We did OK,’ McNab conceded warily.

He heard the click of Chrissy’s heels as she came to join him.

Brogan gave a strangled laugh. McNab turned to tell Chrissy to get back, then saw the terrified look on her face. He swung round. The front passenger window was open and the face he feared most stared out at him. It was the one and only time he had seen Solonik smile. There was a semi-automatic pistol clasped in the Russian’s hand.

McNab turned and launched himself towards Chrissy, trying desperately to put himself between her and Solonik. The first bullet struck a nearby wall and ricocheted off, sparking the pavement, just as he reached Chrissy and pushed her down.

The second round came a fraction of a second later, pumping between his shoulder blades with the force and power of one of Solonik’s fists. For a moment McNab imagined he was back in that room with those fists raining down on him, then his legs softened and he collapsed face down on the icy pavement, air rushing from his lungs as if from a punctured balloon.

He heard Chrissy scream as he slumped alongside her, then the roar of the car as it took off. Then his world began to revolve in a whirl of startling images and frantic sound.

McNab wanted to tell Chrissy to fetch Rhona. He needed to speak to her. He needed to tell her something. Something important. He tried to form Rhona’s name, but his mind was drifting. He was suddenly on a fairground ride, travelling rapidly through the decades of his life. Michael Joseph McNab; the child, the adolescent, the man. He was outside himself looking on, painfully observing his own clumsy endeavours, his stubbornness, his stupidity.

He wondered fleetingly whether he would ever be able to make things right.

Rhona jumped out of the taxi and pushed her way through the gathering crowd. Chrissy had McNab’s head in her lap and her cheeks were streaming with tears.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘They shot him.’

‘Michael!’ She dropped to her knees and began searching for the wound. There was nothing on his shirt front, no freckled pattern indicating residue, no evidence of an entry point. Below him blood pooled on the pavement.

Rhona rolled him over. The back of his jacket was soaked, a hole punched through the silky black material. She slipped the jacket off his shoulders. The bullet had entered his back but hadn’t exited the body. Designed to create maximum damage, it had disintegrated internally.

‘Jesus Christ, Michael, why won’t you ever listen to me?’ She wadded his jacket and pressed it hard against the bullet hole. Chrissy was sobbing beside her. She wanted to yell at her to stop, that McNab was not going to die.

The blood had stopped pumping, which meant one of two things. Either she had plugged the wound or his heart had stopped. There was a gurgle as McNab tried to suck air into his damaged lungs. Rhona placed her mouth on his, tasting blood, willing his chest to rise.

For a moment the green eyes flickered open and he smiled at her as though they were a million miles away from this place and nothing bad had happened. It was the smile he’d often bestowed on her, the smile she’d chosen to disregard.

‘I love you, Dr MacLeod.’

‘Please, Michael, no.’

Rhona drew him to her as his eyes emptied of life, willing her own heart to beat for the both of them. She rocked him there, feeling his warmth against her, the roughness of his face in her palms. She bent and kissed the auburn hair, whispering a thousand sorries for what she had said and not said, hoping that wherever he was he would hear her.

60

Rhona hesitated at the door. Stepping inside would be like going back in time. She had worked here as a student, serving behind the bar. The place had an illustrious history. In the seventies it had been the meeting place for Celtic Football Club. Back then, Kenny Dalglish had been a promising young player, and his future wife’s family had run the place. All the Celtic greats had spent time here, including the greatest of them all, their manager Jock Stein. No wonder this was Bill’s favourite watering hole.

Next to the entrance was a plaque, which ignored former famous customers in favour of the resident ghost. Rhona took a deep breath and opened the door. The spacious room was the same yet different. The long bar had changed its position, but the place was familiar enough for memories to come flooding back. She stood for a moment savouring them, then looked round for Bill.

He was sitting on the left in the far corner. He hadn’t seen her come in, so she had the opportunity to observe him unnoticed. He sat alone, a pint of beer on the table in front of him. Many of the other clientele would be policemen, like him. The nearby estate of Simshill was often referred to as Policehill.

Rhona bought a drink and carried it to Bill’s table. She was shocked to see how much older he looked. Old age came swiftly to people in his job. No wonder so many tried for retirement as soon as possible. Being a policeman was a bit like being in the army; hang around too long and you were asking for trouble.

Who would blame Bill for getting out? Maybe she should do the same. Be her own boss, choose her cases, as Roy Hunter had suggested. If Bill wasn’t going to be around any longer, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be either.

Bill freed up a space for her beside him.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘How are you doing?’ He examined her face.

‘Not so good.’

He nodded.

They sat in silence, their drinks untouched. There was so much to say and yet no words to say it. She fished in her bag and passed the photographs to Bill.

‘They called him Michael.’

The baby’s skin was the colour of creamy milk chocolate, his eyes a surprisingly dark blue. He was staring wide eyed at the camera or at his father who, according to Chrissy, took a photograph ten times a day.

Bill made a small sound of appreciation in his throat.

‘Chrissy’s coming home in a week,’ she said.

‘And Sam?’

‘Now the charges of abduction have been dropped, he can return and finish his medical degree.’

‘A happy ending, then?’

‘More like a hopeful beginning.’ Rhona looked down at the image of a smiling Chrissy. ‘I’ve really missed her.’