Authors: Lin Anderson
He started to run.
When he reached his landing, he found the baby sitting outside the door in a buggy. Beneath a silly pom-pom hat, tear lines streaked the dirty wee face. It was hungrily chewing on an old nappy. Inside, the Flintstones were at it, bump bump.
If he wasn't shagging her, he was thumping her. Or a mixture of both.
'Hey, mate. Time for some food.' Spike lifted the buggy down the stairs.
Chapter 6
Rhona tried the tuner on the car radio again. 'Is there nothing but country and western?' she said.
'What's wrong with country and western?'
Rhona couldn't tell if Andre was joking or not. Interpreting the nuances of American speech was tricky. Surely there was news, national or international, out there somewhere?
At last she found a station worth listening to; a deep and sincere voice, pity about what he was saying: Friends and listeners. Send in your donation now and when the financial crash comes, as come it will, God will look favourably on one who lives by his laws.
Rhona stole a look at Andre.
'Hallelujah!' he said.
'You don't believe all that?'
'My parents were Baptists, and their parents before them. Of course I'm a believer.'
The sincere voice had been replaced by a good oldfashioned hymn. Andre joined in with gusto. Rhona thought there was a smirk on his face but couldn't be sure, so she kept her mouth shut and concentrated on the scenery.
Clan tents scattered the lawns and nestled round the lake of the big colonial-style mansion. A couple strolled past arm-in-arm, the young woman in a crinoline with a tartan sash, her beau in full Jacobite regalia, complete with giant claymore. Rhona tried not to stare.
'How come I'm the one who's Scottish here and I'm the only one who doesn't look it?'
'Ssh,' Andre said. 'These people are real Scots. They'd probably say you're the mongrel.'
'But that's ridiculous. I was born in Scotland.'
'Doesn't mean a thing. Were your great-great-great-grandparents Scottish?'
'Scottish and Irish.'
'See! You're a mongrel.'
Two young plaided men stopped arguing in Gaelic to nod at Andre, then stood aside to let him enter the MacLeod tent. Rhona followed. One of them said something that sounded suggestive as she passed. She decided by the laughter that followed her that it was.
Now she was sitting on a rattan rocking-chair with a glass in her hand. Beside her, a matron in a long kilt was stitching a clan sampler. The elderly man refilling her glass with malt whisky had been introduced as the Clan Chief this side of the Atlantic. He was suggesting that, as a visiting MacLeod, she might like to take part in the judging of the Highland dancing.
'I'm sorry. I don't know much about Highland dancing.'
The Chief this side of the Water gave her a disappointed look.
‘I’m sorry to hear you folks don't keep up the traditions over there. We sure do here.'
Rhona retreated to her whisky, realising her accent wasn't enough. Around here you had to do Scottish as well as be Scottish.
The Chief over the Water abandoned her and, taking Andre by the arm, urged him to a far corner of the tent for some real Scottish conversation. At least, from where Rhona was sitting it looked passionate. Andre looked as though he was disagreeing, but as the Chief's expression became more determined, Andre seemed to concede. Whatever the Chief was asking him to do, Rhona didn't think it was judging the Highland dancing.
'Would you excuse me a moment?' Andre was beside her looking slightly embarrassed. 'I have to go speak to someone. Will you be okay here for a bit?'
'I'll maybe take a wander outside,' she said.
'Of course. I'll see you back here in half-an-hour?'
Rhona nodded. She would be glad to be alone. She had a feeling Andre was only taking her to the bits of the games he wanted her to see.
The heat outside the tent hit her like a wall. They were inland, away from the ocean's breeze. Broiling hot California. Beside the lake a small boy practised his pipes, sending Scotland the Brave across the silted water.
'Bizarre.'
'Sorry. What did you say?' It was the young Jacobite from the door of the tent. He gave her a delicious smile.
‘I’m sorry. I said, it's bizarre.'
‘Who's bizarre?' The smile drooped under his white cockade.
'Not you,' she laughed. 'This.' She swept her arm in an inclusive gesture. 'Any Highland games I've been to usually resulted in a fight to get into the beer tent out of the wind and the rain.'
As he walked alongside her, Rhona couldn't help imagining what Chrissy would say: something like, And how long is your sword then?
'You guys go to Highland gatherings back in Scotland?' her young Jacobite was asking enthusiastically.
'I've been to one or two.' Although the Cowal Games had never been like this.
The tent on their left sported a large symbol over the entrance.
'What's in there?'
'Come and see,' he said, taking her by the hand. Being led into a dark space by a tall handsome Jacobite with a big sword. This was a story Chrissy would love.
Inside it was relatively cool. Rhona stood for a moment waiting for her eyes to adjust to the change of light.
'Alba gu brath.' Her Highlander's voice was a heady mixture of American and Gaelic. He was standing in reverence in front of a flag. At first it looked like the Saltire, a simple white cross on a blue background. But there was a difference. In the centre of this cross was a small crest, like a coat of arms, with the word ReAlba. Below the flag was a map of Scotland, delicately etched like something out of an ancient book. This map was old, God knows how old, and protected from the air by a glass case. At the foot was an inscription, written in brown ink in tight, swirling but firm-handed letters. Rhona's Gaelic was rusty. Her Jacobite came to the rescue:
'For the Men of the West. So that they should know from whence they came.’
'Right.’ It sounded heavy stuff. Definitely not a tent to be found at the Cowal Games.
'And ReAlba?'
'I thought you came here with Andre?' he said sharply.
'I did.'
He was looking at her suspiciously now. The friendly chat was turning decidedly cool. Rhona went on regardless.
'ReAlba. Let me guess. Some Scottish organisation?'
'Rhona! There you are.'
Andre's voice had a distinctly petulant tone about it. No more flashing smile and crinkled eyes. He took her arm and firmly escorted her towards the door of the tent, but not before she had pocketed a couple of the leaflets from the table in front of the Men of the West's map.
Outside the tent, the smile was back, crinkles and all.
'What the hell is ReAlba?' Rhona demanded.
'I'll tell you in the car.'
'You'll tell me in the car?'
This afternoon was beginning to resemble a Monty Python episode. 'You can tell me while I have a beer,' she informed him.
She removed her arm from his grip and walked towards the beer tent, where Scotch pies were being sold in large numbers. Rhona asked for one. Surely a Scotch pie would be the same regardless of which side of the Atlantic it was on.
Rhona waited until they were sitting in the shade of an old tree.
She had drunk her beer, eaten her pie and read the leaflet. She presented it to Andre.
Andre gave it a cursory glance, shrugged and handed it back.
'You can't believe this,' she said. 'You're a scientist, for God's sake.'
Andre's voice was quietly firm: 'You're a scientist and you can't accept the laws of physics.'
'Planes do fall out of the sky.'
'There are an estimated twenty million people of Scots descent in the States,' he said. 'That's four times the number that live in Scotland. Why shouldn't they have an opinion about their homeland?'
'It isn't their home.'
'People in Chinatown call China home.'
'This stuff,' Rhona flapped the leaflet in his face, 'is racist rubbish. The Declaration of Arbroath did not say Scotland was for whites.'
'Can we talk about this on our way back?'
People were looking round at them. Obviously a Scottish voice raised in anger was causing some interest. Rhona suddenly heard herself. Coming to another person's country and telling them what to do. It happened enough in Scotland, and she didn't like it then.
'It's the racist bit I can't take,' she said. 'Celts and Gaels are white, therefore America should be white. It says the Declaration of Independence was written for white people and black people cause all the problems here.' She paused for breath. 'And they make out the Western Isles of Scotland to be some mythical land of the Gael, which should have a no-entry policy for anyone who isn't one.'
Andre was silent.
Rhona backed off, for the moment. 'Okay. I'm on my high horse, as Sean would say.'
'Sean?'
She hadn't mentioned Sean since they met. There hadn't been any reason to.
'Husband?'
'Boyfriend.'
'Pity.' Andre made a wry face.
Rhona wondered if it mattered. Instinct told her it did.
'You ready?'
Rhona nodded and picked up her things. She hadn't totally avoided thinking about Andre as a man. An intelligent, attractive, charming man. She had just assumed he was attached. That moment's look when he asked about Sean suggested he wasn't, but would like to be.
Andre asked her to dinner when he dropped her at the hotel. Rhona hesitated. Saying no would be churlish and Andre's company would be better than eating alone, surrounded by the beautiful people on Third Street.
'Look,' he said. 'If it puts your mind at rest, I am not a member of ReAlba.'
‘But the Jacobite warrior said . . .'
'However, my father was, and his father before him.'
'Oh.'
'Rhona. My family was burned out after the Forty-Five rebellion. The tiny island they called home had one hundred and twenty-six pipers at the battle of Culloden.' Andre smiled. 'I know, swords might have proved more useful. When the Jacobites lost, the island paid dearly for supporting the cause. My family stuck it for a while, then left with the arrival of the sheep. I am an American but it doesn't stop me remembering why I am an American.'
It was a pretty speech. Rhona wondered briefly if he had used it before.
'Okay,' she said. 'You win. I'll be ready at eight.'
Rhona watched the car drive away. Andre. An expert in genetic weapons who just might be a racist. An interesting combination. If she ran this past Chrissy she knew what she would say. 'So what? You've made a career out of dead bodies. That doesn't mean you have murderous thoughts.'
The hotel room didn't feel so cool and chic on her return. It just felt big and empty. There was something wrong about coming in from the heat to the cool, instead of the other way round. It made inside feel less safe, somehow.
Rhona wondered briefly if she should phone the flat and speak to Sean. It would be nice to hear a voice from home. She glanced at her watch. Okay, so Sean would still be in bed. Probably alone, but why tempt fate?
Rhona had been in this state of mind before about Sean, too often for her own good. Some of the time it had been warranted, most of the time it had not (or so Chrissy said).
Rhona decided against the phone call. She would check her email instead.
Chapter 7
Two messages awaited her. Neither from Sean. He refused to go electronic. Recording a message for the ansaphone was, he declared, his limit.
There was one from Chrissy, entitled jazz and things. The second looked like a conference memo for tomorrow. Rhona double-clicked and viewed a confirmation of her schedule, while trying not to acknowledge the sudden flutter of apprehension in the pit of her stomach.
Now for Chrissy's message.
The things part came first and the tone was decidedly nippy. Chrissy had gone into the lab to do some overtime but had been unable to process the tests, because the samples were gone. She had checked the mortuary but the foot was also absent. Dr Sissons had been unavailable. There was no evidence of a break-in at the lab and nothing on the security cameras. Chrissy had phoned and reported the foot and samples missing to DI Wilson, who told her he would get back to her.
Rhona could almost hear the irritation at this point.
On a positive note, Chrissy had taken the digital image to the computing department They had done some work on it and the result was in the attached file. Mention of the jazz club was short. Sean's new singer was good, very good. Unfortunately she had the look of heroin chic.
Another woman reading Chrissy's email would have assumed the new singer was skinny, white, with big charcoal eyes. Definitely not Sean's type.
Rhona knew Chrissy was telling her something else.
Heroin chic. Translation - the new singer was at worst a junkie, at best liked partying.
What the hell was Sean playing at?
Okay, so the club was popular with her colleagues. But not everyone in the law and order establishment appreciated their Chief Forensic's relationship with an ex-con, good musician or not.
Sean was a working partner in the jazz club. If this Esther girl was using or supplying on the premises, Sean could be held responsible.
Rhona decided she needed a drink. Propped up on the bar was an invitation to try a cocktail. Room service would be delighted to mix it for her. Something with at least two different types of alcohol sounded good to Rhona. She dialled room service and headed for the shower.
The pounding needles on her head didn't help. She would have to speak to Sean. Find out what he had to say. She turned her attention to the missing samples.
Every sample bag was strictly monitored. Every movement had to be logged. If the samples went missing from her lab, then it was ultimately her responsibility.
And, according to Chrissy, the foot was no longer in the mortuary. Rhona could not imagine the eminent Doctor Sissons countenancing anything underhand. But if the MOD was involved . . . Rhona cut her shower short and pulled on a bathrobe.
The hum of the air conditioner had strengthened, making the air cold and almost drowning the background sound of the television. The bedroom had suddenly turned from empty silence to electronic overload. Rhona stared at the shifting television screen she'd switched on for company.
It was then she noticed the man's shadow.
He was in the alcove that housed the desk with her laptop, bent over the computer screen.
Two thoughts raced through Rhona's mind in quick succession. One, she had nothing to defend herself with. And two, she should have kept the chain on the door.
It was too late. Her visitor had heard her.
Rhona stepped back a little, trying to judge how far the bathroom and a lockable door might be while her eyes noted the plain black jacket and grey trousers and hoped her instinct was right and it was room service come to make her cocktail.
It was.
Her intruder's body language moved swiftly from surprise through discomfort to formality.
'You ordered a cocktail, ma'am?' The young man stood to attention and indicated the shaker on the desk beside her computer. 'A Manhattan?'
'Great.'
Rhona hastily retreated to the bathroom to try and regain her dignity.
When she reappeared a few minutes later, the television had been turned down and the room had returned to a comfortable temperature.
'Your drink, ma'am,' said the young man holding out a little silver tray with a stemmed glass of pale golden liquid.
He waited while she tasted it.
The liquid was cold and sharp against her throat Rhona resisted the desire to cough and smiled instead. 'Good,' she said.
He looked relieved. Rhona wondered how many customers complained just for the hell of it. She thought about trying to engage him in conversation, then decided against it. She had already tried that with various members of hotel staff. It hadn't worked. Polite and helpful, real conversation was not considered part of the job.
The waiter was replacing the bottles in the drink cabinet, tidying up. Behind him, the computer screen was flashing Chrissy's downloaded file. Rhona went over for a look.
The screen held six images, three above and three below. In the top lefthand comer was the photograph she had taken with the digital camera of the area above the decomposing ankle. From left to right, what was little more than a smudge began to take shape and change colour. By the third image it had become a definite pattern.
Maybe a letter?
The pattern was complex, but the middle part might be a letter. Rhona sat down at the desk for a closer look. If it was a letter it was one of those oldfashioned ones, all curves and sweeping lines. Real writing. It wasn't crystal clear, but if the computer guys had achieved this from that photograph of spongy grey flesh then she would have to stop slagging them off for sitting in front of a computer all day.
Rhona was suddenly aware of the waiter standing behind her, staring over her shoulder at the screen. She turned to a face full of pleasant blandness.
'What do you think?' she said.
'Looks kinda Celtic.'
'Yes.'
He topped up her Manhattan from the cocktail shaker and headed for the door, before she could ask him anything else.
'Have a nice day, ma'am.'
Reality LA-style had returned.
The door clicked shut behind him. Rhona put the chain on this time and turned back to the screen. The guys in the Computing Department had done her proud. The smudge was now a distinguishing mark. A mark that might help them find the owner of the foot.
An hour later Rhona was sitting in LA's most popular restaurant on Main Street, Santa Monica, trying to keep her attention on what Andre was saying. She had made two phone calls after the waiter left.
DI Bill Wilson had told her that the investigation had been taken out of his hands, and by implication hers.
Rhona was not amused.
'You know where the samples are?'
He hesitated for a second. 'No.'
She had worked with Bill Wilson for years. If he was lying to her, he must have a very good reason.
'What the hell is going on, Bill?'
'Just concentrate on your conference. We'll talk when you get back.'
The second phone call was worse. The answering machine wasn't on so Rhona let the phone ring out, determined to waken Sean. But it wasn't Sean who answered. It was a young female voice.
Rhona was past the niceties. 'Who the hell are you?'
She could tell the girl was taken aback by her attitude. Rhona didn't care.
'I'm Esther, the new singer with Sean's band.'
'And what the fuck are you doing in my flat?'
Rhona listened in silence while the girl stumbled through some lame excuse about staying for a few days until she got her own place sorted out, then the phone was commandeered by Sean.
'It's true,' he said.
'Like hell it is.'
'Esther was in a squat. It got raided. She had nowhere else to go.'
'You had no right to let her stay in my flat.'
Sean went silent Somewhere in the background Rhona heard the girl say she would pack and go. A door closed then Sean was back on.
'She's ill. It would better if she stayed here for a few days.'
'Is she on something?'
Silence, then: 'Chrissy's been in touch, I take it?'
Sean's voice was dry. A bad sign. Sean never lost his temper, even when she was trying to goad him into an argument. But the quiet tone showed how upset he was.
'Well, is she?' she repeated.
'She says not.'
'Christ, Sean. This could lose me my job.'
'What are you talking about?'
'If she's taking stuff, she's dealing in it or doing something else to pay for it. . .'
'And mixing with undesirables doesn't look good on your CV.'
Sean had told Rhona about his conviction for possession as soon as things got serious between them. Rhona had dismissed it then. It was ten years ago, she'd said, it's past, forgotten. But at the same time Rhona knew there would be someone out there who would love to know that information about her. So she told Bill Wilson. He'd said there was no big deal. It was on record that most cabinet ministers had smoked dope in their student days and marched with CND. Either that or they were gay. He told her to forget it. That's what she'd done. Until now.
'Maybe you'd rather I moved out too?' Sean was saying.
'Maybe I would.'
The words were out before she could stop them.
'We'll talk when you get back.'
His voice was low and sad and it made her feel like shit. Plus she was pissed-off with people telling her they would talk about it later, in the car, when she got back.
By the time Andre arrived she had finished all the Manhattan mix in the shaker. It hadn't made her feel any better. She just wanted to get her paper delivered and get home where she belonged.
Or maybe she didn't want to go home at all?
If Andre sensed her mood, he said nothing about it. He was all charm and good fun. Even now, when she wasn't listening to him.
His offer of more wine finally registered. Rhona nodded an okay and tried to concentrate.
Across from her the door was opening and two more beautiful people were ushered in. The woman wore a long muted gold evening dress which perfectly matched her tan. Her companion was younger than her and very attentive.
'Someone's brought dessert with them,' Rhona said cynically.
'What?'
Andre turned for a better look.
'Andre!'
The woman was over in an instant. On closer inspection, Rhona had to admit she was the equal of her companion in the looks stakes.
'And you, I believe, are Dr MacLeod,' she held out her hand to Rhona. 'Dr Lynne Franklin.'
'ReGene?'
‘That's right.' Dr Franklin waved her companion over.
‘I’m so looking forward to your paper tomorrow. I hoped we might get an opportunity to talk together afterwards.'
'Why don't you join us?' Rhona suggested. 'We could talk now.'
Andre looked less than enthusiastic. Rhona didn't care. Dr Franklin fluttered for a bit, then agreed.
‘That would be great,' she said, 'if Andre doesn't mind?'
Andre minded but he didn't have any choice.
The companion, who turned out to be called Jason, sat next to Rhona.
'What do you think?' Lynne Franklin smiled across the table at Rhona.
'I think it's a great offer.' Rhona tried to imagine Sean playing saxophone in a Bahamas beach club. Then she remembered what he was likely to be doing right that minute.
'You don't have to commit yourself in any way at the moment,' Lynne Franklin was saying, obviously spotting the change in Rhona's expression. 'But I'd sure like you to think about it.'
By the time Lynne Franklin and her escort left, Rhona was thinking about it. Lynne Franklin had put two provisional offers on the table. One, that Rhona come and work for ReGene in their Bahamas division or, alternatively, ReGene fund her current research in Glasgow.
Rhona tried not to indulge in dreams about what the university would do with that money. The earlier Manhattans coupled with the wine at dinner weren't doing much for her common sense.
Before she left, Dr Franklin kissed Andre on the cheek and said she would see him soon. Andre nodded, although Rhona had a feeling he was glad to see her go.
'You didn't mention you knew Dr Franklin.'
‘Neither did you.'
'I don't,' Rhona said. 'She left her card at the hotel. Said she wanted to meet me. She isn't another one of your real Scots I hope?'
Andre looked uncomfortable.
Rhona felt bad. Andre had treated her with kindness and hospitality and she was treating him like shit
'Sorry,' she said. 'Cynicism is part of the Scottish psyche.'
Andre smiled. 'The part I like best.'
Rhona picked up her bag to avoid meeting his eyes.
'You want to get back to the hotel?' he said.
She nodded.