Deadly Code (7 page)

Chapter 10

Chrissy held DI Wilson's gaze, her sharp eyes unwavering.

They could say what they liked about Glasgow hard men, Glasgow hard women were much worse.

'Okay. Okay,' he conceded. 'As far as I know the MOD have the foot and the samples.'

'Why?'

‘That, I don't know.'

It looked like the truth, but Chrissy wasn't one to give in easily.

'A number of people have come forward to be tested in case the body is a missing relative.' Chrissy waited. 'Dr MacLeod instructed me to test their DNA.'

Still no answer.

'I've been told to wait,' she said. ‘Why?'

Bill shook his head. 'Orders from above.'

That was just the answer to really piss Chrissy off.

‘Who is this missing body?' she asked.

'I don't know.'

'Must be somebody special to have the MOD pinching his foot.'

Silence.

'Christ, Bill. You know how Rhona hates the cloak and dagger stuff.'

'Look, Chrissy, I don't know any more than you about it.'

Chrissy could tell she was wasting her time. Bill Wilson had the look of man turned mule.

'Never mind,' she said. 'Rhona touches down at two o'clock. You can tell her that yourself.'

The lab phone ended the conversation, not that it was going anywhere anyway. Chrissy lifted the receiver sharply and briskly interrogated the caller, her flushed face paling and then reddening again as she listened.

'Seems whoever this guy is, he's anxious to get back on dry land,' she said.

'What?'

'Your office.' She held out the receiver. 'A Skye woman out walking her dog on Rigg beach found a hand in a rock pool.'

As the plane made its last sweep over Ayrshire, Rhona forced herself to view Scotland from above. After the vastness of California, the smallness of her homeland seemed a pleasure.

Wee houses, wee roads, wee fields. Wee, solid, dependable. And cold. Already her fellow passengers were pulling on jumpers and jackets. Rhona joined them. She never thought she would be pleased to be cold again.

She closed her eyes as they touched down and said a silent prayer to whatever deity was listening. When she pulled her briefcase from the rack it still held the undelivered academic paper. Not wholly undelivered. Locked in secrecy in a small hotel in the Californian mountains, she and the other delegates had talked to one another behind closed doors. The Californian state authorities were not anxious for another demonstration of the size of the one against the World Trade Organisation in Seattle. The US might be happy to talk all things genetic, including genetic bombs and cloning, they just didn't want to do it in public anymore.

Rhona thought about the flat and bed then decided against it. Who's been sleeping in my bed? was the phrase that made up her mind.

A driver was waiting for her in the arrivals lounge, a big sign with Dr MacLeod on it in front of his chest.

Rhona had told Chrissy she would touch down at two o'clock. A good following wind had landed them early. She found her mobile at the bottom of her bag and rang the lab. Even the sound of the ring made her feel at home.

'Chrissy?' she said. 'I'm on my way.'

'Hey, you're early. There'll be no one there to pick you up yet.'

'There is.'

'Old George on the door was organising it. He's missed you.'

'Nice to know someone has.'

Rhona asked the driver to take a run past the jazz club. It wasn't exactly on the way and he didn't look that keen, but Rhona insisted. If Esther was still singing the blues, that meant Sean was still screwing her.

If he ever was, a small voice suggested. Rhona ignored it.

The club was in darkness. Not the darkness of two o'clock in the afternoon. The darkness of Closed Until Further Notice.

'Stop the car,' she told the driver.

'But...'

'I said stop the car.'

They pulled in behind what was definitely a CID car. Across the entrance hung the familiar yellow tape signalling an incident. Rhona ignored the protestations of the driver and dipped under the tape. Just inside the door, the constable on duty recognised her and looked embarrassed. Before he could answer her questions, a face appeared at the top of the stairs. It was the last face Rhona wanted to see.

'Dr MacLeod. Nice to have you back.' Detective Sergeant Dominic O'Brien was lying of course, although you would never have guessed it from the smooth smile and bright eyes.

'What's going on here?' Rhona asked, already knowing the answer. If O'Brien was here, drugs was the word.

'A drugs bust,' he said, the smile never leaving his face. 'Seems the owner of this little establishment's been partying a bit too hard.'

He waited for Rhona to say something. She didn't, so he went on. 'We got a tip off that drugs were being dealt on the premises. We followed it up and found a young woman out of her mind in the toilets, along with a quantity of amphetamine powder and ecstasy tablets.'

Rhona willed her face immobile. O'Brien was disappointed. Heavy news like that shouldn't go unmarked.

'So,' he paused, saving the best bit for the end, 'We brought Mr Sean McGuire in for questioning and found our man has more talents than playing the saxophone.'

Our man.

Bastard. Ever since Rhona had turned down O'Brien's drunken prick at a police ball he'd been anxious to show her just the sort of a man she'd missed out on.

Rhona kept her face impassive to piss him off.

It worked. O'Brien was running out of sarcasm. "The place is shut until further notice,' he said.

'The girl?' Rhona said.

'What?'

'What happened to the girl?'

'Aw,' Sergeant O'Brien was losing interest, 'they took her to the local psycho ward.'

Rhona got back in the car. She was so busy seething at this latest development, she missed the fact they were on the wrong road. When she did, she banged on the glass partition and demanded to know what the hell was going on. The driver didn't answer.

They were coming up West George Street. For a moment Rhona thought she was being taken to Strathclyde Police Headquarters in Pitt Street, but the car didn't take a left. It kept on up the hill to Blythswood Square, where it drew up outside number five. Rhona recognised the rounded arch. The building wasn't open to the public but people came to view the Charles Rennie Mackintosh door.

The driver never got a chance to press the brass doorbell. The door was opened immediately by a man in a formal black suit and tie. He ushered her inside. The hall was panelled in polished wood, the floor a chessboard black and white marble. She followed him through a set of double doors into a room lit by long windows that looked out over the green of the central square. A suave man in his mid-fifties stood beside an imposing fireplace. His hair was iron grey, his eyes intelligent and appraising.

He came towards her, hand outstretched. 'Dr MacLeod,' he said, "Thank you for coming.'

'I didn't come by choice. I came because the driver brought me.'

'I apologise for that. It was necessary to speak with you as soon as you got back from America.'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Andrew Phillips. I'm with the Ministry of Defence.' He headed for the drinks cabinet. 'Can I offer you a drink? Whisky?' He poured some into a cut-crystal glass and gave it to her. 'We've called you here . . .'

'Is that the Royal We?'

He smiled, but she caught the irritation in his eyes.

'The MOD has an interest in a case you've been working on.'

He looked at her as if she might comment.

Rhona decided to let her brain work and keep her mouth shut. The suit would have to do all the talking.

'The foot you sampled?' He took a mouthful of his own whisky. ‘We have reason to believe it may have come from someone . . .'

'Dr Fitzgerald MacAulay.'

She never expected him to be thrown. A raised eyebrow perhaps, nothing more. How wrong she was. Even people like him had hearts, because she could see the pulse from his beating rather quickly below his right eye.

The polished voice became more clipped. 'I must ask you, Dr MacLeod, what it is you know about Dr MacAulay?'

It was too late to backtrack now. She tried to look nonchalant.

'His name came up at the conference in relation to genetic engineering,' she paused, choosing her words carefully. 'Rumour has it he came to this country, gave up his work and disappeared.' She was running out of ideas. 'It was a poor attempt at a joke after that,' she apologised.

Phillips looked mollified, but only slightly.

'A Dr MacAulay did come here from America some years ago to work for us.'

She finished his sentence again. 'At Porton Down.'

'Yes. However, Dr MacAulay left our employ soon after arriving . . . through ill health.' His lip curled in distaste. 'We lost touch with him for a variety of reasons.'

'Incompetence being one of them?'

The polite mask was slipping. Behind it was something rather different.

'Look' she explained, 'I've just arrived back from Los Angeles. My head feels as though I've been travelling the wrong way round the world for twelve hours so I probably have jet lag. Could you just tell me why I'm here?'

She had to sit down. Her legs felt like water. She made for the nearest chair.

'Dr MacLeod.'

Her name, Rhona decided, seemed to be acquiring a threadbare status. Either that, or she was going deaf. Phillips' mouth was moving but she had no idea what he was saying.

She wondered for a moment if this was a dream. She decided she didn't care anyway. In fact, she felt positively relaxed about it all, even when she felt the cold splash of whisky on her legs and heard the crystal smash on the fancy marble floor.

Chapter 11

Spike had been at the corner when he spotted the police car and ambulance parked outside the jazz club.

The ambulance could be for anybody, he told himself. One of the old cleaning women had probably had a heart attack. Or with a bit of luck, that bastard of a doorman that hadn't let him in to watch Esther sing. But the ambulance wasn't there for either of them. Spike knew it wasn't.

He pushed the sleeping baby towards the club, ignoring the drumming of his heart and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Two medics were emerging from the entrance. Between them Esther stumbled forward, her face confused and distraught. One of the medics was telling her to get in the back of the ambulance, everything would be alright, she mustn't worry.

A howl of fear jammed itself in Spike's throat and he stopped dead, even though the ambulance doors were swinging shut and Esther was disappearing inside.

A lorry thundered past, waking up the baby. It started yelling. Spike shushed it, his brain trying desperately to engage, to think of something that would stop the ambulance taking Esther away, knowing it was already too late. The van doors were shut by the time Spike's voice escaped his clenched throat.

'Esther!'

He started to run and the baby's cries suddenly changed to glee, as the buggy jumped the cracks in the pavement, bouncing up and down. The ambulance was forcing its way into the line of traffic, light flashing.

Fuck!

The man coming out of the entrance jumped back to avoid the buggy, landing heavily on the toes of the policeman who was just behind him. Spike remembered this guy, smiling down at him from the stage, the cat that got the cream, introducing Esther like he was responsible for her great voice. Well, the bold Sean McGuire didn't look so happy now.

‘What the hell's going on?' The policeman forgot his crushed toes and followed Sean's intent stare.

Spike didn't like the interest he was getting. He bent over the baby, who had returned to crying, pulled the sobbing bundle from the pram and held it close, shielding his face with the coloured hat. He desperately wanted to ask what had happened. Whatever it was, it looked like McGuire was getting the blame. Spike tried not to be too glad about that. With McGuire lifted, he had little chance of finding out where they'd taken Esther. He watched in silence as McGuire was directed into the back of the police car.

As luck would have it, the doorman came out as Spike was persuading the baby back into the buggy.

‘Heh!'

A good doorman never forgets a face, especially a troublemaker's face. The doorman remembered Spike.

'What do you want, son?'

'Where have they taken Esther?'

The doorman looked at the baby. You could guess what he was thinking. The wean must be the lassie's. The boy was its minder. She went singing to earn the money for dope.

'Try the local psycho ward, son,' he shrugged, 'that's where they all end up.'

Spike didn't answer, knowing if Esther was headed for the mental hospital he would have to get her out fast, before they pumped her full of sedatives and sectioned her.