Driftnet (17 page)

He was standing
at the cooker, stirring briskly at a pot, a large bath towel tied
round his middle. When she walked in, he turned and smiled, while
his hand kept on stirring. He was obviously an expert cook.

‘The sauce
needs me,’ he explained.

‘Can I help?’
Rhona asked, finding it hard to keep her eyes off his naked
torso.

‘You mean so I
can go and get dressed and you can stop feeling embarrassed?’

‘Yes,’ she
admitted.

‘Okay. Come
here.’

She went over.
He took her hand and guided it to the spoon.

‘The secret’s
in the stirring,’ he said. ‘You must keep a steady rhythm, then
quicken as it comes to the boil.’

His lean body
glistened here and there with tiny drops of water. His hand cupped
hers, guiding the wooden spoon in a steady circle.

‘It needs two
more minutes like this.’

She felt his
breath on her neck and nodded without speaking.

‘Right.’ He
released her hand. ‘I’ll go and get some clothes on?’

By the time he
came back the sauce was ready, and she had lifted it clear of the
gas.

He peered into
the pot and gave her the thumbs up.

‘Perfect. I
hope you’re hungry.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Good. Because
I’ve dragged myself away from my computer to do all this for you. I
even engaged the experts at the local off licence in my choice of
wine.’

She returned
his grin.

He pulled out a
chair at the carefully set table and tucked it in beneath her.

‘Now the
wine.’

‘You said you
had something to show me,’ she reminded him.

‘That can keep
until after dinner. Contrary to popular opinion I do not want to
spend all my time in front of a screen. And I don’t always want to
talk to people electronically.’

She laughed.
‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘That’s okay.’
His hand brushed hers as he filled her glass. ‘Did you walk here?’
She nodded. ‘Good. Because I bought two bottles of this on special
offer.’

She took a sip.
‘They’re very persuasive at the off-licence,’ she said.

‘God. You don’t
like it.’ His face took on a mock stricken expression.

‘No. No.’ She
laughed. ‘It’s fine. In fact it’s very good.’

He passed her
the salad.

‘Let’s get
started then.’

By the time
they reached the coffee stage Gavin had made her laugh at least a
half a dozen times and she’d told him in detail why she enjoyed her
job so much. He had said much the same about his own.

‘It’s the
finding out,’ he said. ‘The way, if you poke about long enough, a
pattern emerges. A pattern that tells a story.’

Gavin was just
like her, she thought. The way he went at things. He enjoyed
solving problems. Not like Sean who never saw any to solve. She
felt guilty at her harsh thoughts about Sean. In all fairness she
couldn’t criticise him for the very thing she’d liked about him
when they first met. His dreamy acceptance of everything.

‘Hey!’ Gavin
said. ‘You’re miles away.’

She
apologised.

‘More coffee,
or are you ready to see what I’ve found?’

‘More than
ready,’ she said, eagerly.

She followed
him into his study.

‘Wow!’

Rhona looked
round impressed.

‘It’s like the
deck of the Starship Enterprise.’

Gavin looked
embarrassed. ‘In my job, you have to be one step ahead of the
techno-criminals.’

A flat wall
screen lit up the room, trickling a vertical line of mixed green
letters and numbers.

Gavin smiled
apologetically. ‘I’m a Matrix fan.’

He placed a
chair beside his and gestured her to sit down.

‘I located a
list of adoptions around the date you gave me,’ he said in a
business-like voice. ‘All the children come from the Glasgow area
and have passed their sixteenth birthday, so they would be able to
look for their natural parents, provided they knew they were
adopted.’ He was watching her closely.

He clicked on
the screen and a list of names rolled up. Her heart in her throat
Rhona began to scan. One name after another. Boys, girls, all
unwanted. Given away by the women who had given birth to them.

Women like
her.

‘Are you
alright?’ Gavin was asking her.

She nodded,
wondering if all the others had forced themselves to forget, like
she had. Made new lives, lives that had no place for a child.

His name and
address was near the bottom of the first page. It jumped out at
her, as if it too had been searching. Rhona traced each letter
intensely, committing the address to memory.

‘You’ve found
it?’ Gavin took her hand in his.

‘Yes,’ she
said. ‘I’ve found him.’

The phone
beside the computer rang out shrilly. The noise made Rhona jump and
Gavin muttered an apology and went through to take the call in the
kitchen.

Liam was the
third name from the bottom. Her son had been adopted by James and
Elizabeth Hope, of 19 Warrender Park Street, Glasgow, on 3 January
1985. Such a long time ago, yet no time at all.

Rhona thought
back over those years. The terrible despair, six months of
punishing herself and Edward for the decision they had made. When
he left she was relieved. She didn’t have see his face chronically
twisted in irritataion at her behaviour. She had gradually pulled
her life back together. And it worked, up to a point. The guilt
began to fade and regret flowed in to take its place.

And all the
time, she realised, she had been waiting. Waiting for this moment,
when she would find her baby again.

Rhona reached
out and clicked on the printer icon, but the printer remained
silent. Then a box appeared on the computer screen, stating that
printing had been interrupted, and to please replace the paper
tray. Rhona pulled the tray out and pushed it back in firmly.

Success.

The green light
came on, the printer shunted into life, and the precious printout
emerged.

Rhona picked it
up and stared at the address. It was so near. Only twenty minutes
from where she was right now. Her insides turned over with
excitement. If she wanted to, she could go and see Liam. Stand
outside his house and watch for him. She could fill the emptiness
of those years with the sight of him. She began to plan, not daring
to promise herself that she would actually do it. Deep down, she
knew it was wrong, that she should wait for him to come to her.

Another piece
of paper had dropped into the tray. Rhona picked it up and glanced
at it, thinking it must be a second page of names.

But it
wasn’t.

Her eyes
dropped from the inscrutable lines of code at the top to the the
message at the bottom.

The nightmare
closed over her again.

Rhona read the
words over and over. They conjured up something she could barely
grasp. Something horrible. Rhona felt sick. It couldn’t have
anything to do with Gavin, she told herself. Not Gavin. It was
impossible.

But was it?

She thought
about the times they had spent together. The way he looked at her,
his obvious disappointment when she’d wanted to go home. He had
never pressured her. But she knew he wanted her. That was for sure.
Tonight in the kitchen, when they were stirring the pot together,
his hand on hers. They had both wanted more of the rhythm, the
closeness. If she gave the smallest sign, it would happen.

And all that
stood for nothing!

She felt
stunned at what she had seen on the second printout. Could he
really be one of those men? Men like that sometimes had
girlfriends, wives, children. Rhona refused to pursue those
thoughts any further. She would not believe it of Gavin. He had
helped her find her son. He had been patient and understanding.

But Gavin could
find anything on the Internet he wanted. He had told her so
himself. He had used that knowledge to find out information for
her.

Information she
shouldn’t have access to.

Rhona heard the
phone being replaced and her body froze. Then the fridge door
opened and there was the clung of a bottle being removed.

‘More wine?’
Gavin was calling from the kitchen.

This is
ridiculous, Rhona told herself firmly. It was his job to find out
these things. Didn’t he work for the police?

The voice was
nearer now. ‘Or do you fancy a liqueur?’

Rhona
frantically shoved the two pieces of paper in her pocket.

‘That would be
nice,’ she called back, her voice shaking slightly.

‘Well, which
would you like?’ Gavin’s smiling face appeared in the doorway.
‘Whisky, brandy...’

‘Whisky
please.’

He looked at
her oddly, his head a little on one side.

‘But I’ll
really have to go soon,’ she said.

‘I’d better get
my skates on.’

He reappeared
almost immediately and handed her a large glass.

‘I’d better get
you a printout then to take with you,’ he said.

‘No!’ Rhona
swallowed her panic. ‘Thanks. I’ve copied the name down
already.’

‘Where?’ He
looked puzzled. She patted her pocket.

‘Right.’ He was
staring at her now. ‘Let’s go and sit in the comfortable seats
then.’

Rhona avoided
the couch and sat in an armchair. Gavin stood for a moment, then
chose the side of the couch nearest her. She nursed her glass
awkwardly.

There was
silence.

‘Rhona...’

‘I’m sorry
Gavin.’ She stood up. ‘I really will have to go.’

‘Rhona. It’s
okay you know...’ Gavin’s voice tailed off and Rhona felt suddenly
sorry for him. She was being an idiot, she told herself. Why not
ask him straight out and get the truth, then they could go back to
the way they’d been.

But it was no
use.

‘Thank you for
a lovely evening,’ she said firmly.

He sounded
disappointed, but resigned. ‘I’ll walk you home then,’he
suggested.

‘No!’ It was
screaming inside her head. ‘No,’ she said again quietly. ‘I’ll
manage. I need to think,’ she patted her pocket. ‘Alone.’

At least this
time she was telling the truth.

He was watching
her intently; this man, who in the space of a second, had turned
from a potential lover to a potential monster.

‘I understand,’
he said. ‘Let me phone for a taxi then.’

‘I’d rather
walk. It’s not far.’

When they
reached the door, he bent and kissed her forehead and his lips felt
cold against her hot skin.

‘I’ll be in
touch,’ he said.

‘Right.’

He held the
door open for her and Rhona walked quickly towards the stairs. The
sound of her heels echoing in the close and the association brought
back a memory of a familiar smell, the smell of sweat and semen and
violence and death. And something else. An expensive cologne.

Chapter
25

This Caligula
was a twisted bastard.

It was well
seen why he’d chosen the name. Bill remembered the television
series about Roman Emperors. They had all been cruel. The one
called Caligula had outdone them all for visciousness. The way of
the flesh was his major passion.

‘So we know one
of them calls himself Caligula.’

‘Yes,’ said
Janice.

‘Anything
else?’

‘Childline says
there’s another one called Simon who does the recruiting. He
befriend boys over the Internet. Meets them. Persuades them into
having sex. Takes photos secretly, then threatens to show the
pictures to their parents. The kids are terrified. Then he
introduces them to other members of the group.’

‘And where does
Caligula fit into this?’

‘They all end
up with him eventually, Sir. The boy says he’s the worst. He likes
his sex very rough.’

‘Okay.’ Bill
fought back the rising bile. ‘Can we get the kid to give us a
contact number? Email, phone number, address, anything?’

‘Childline say
he only phones when he’s really terrified, Sir. He won’t answer any
questions. Just tells them things and rings off.’

‘Does Gavin
MacLean know the latest information?’

‘Yes. I passed
it on to him.’

‘What did he
say.’

‘Confirmed he’d
intercepted emails between a Simon and a Caligula, though chances
are, he says, that the names will have changed already.’

‘Anything
else?’

‘Yes Sir. We
have six names of people who bought curtain material through the
Paris shop. We’re checking on them now. And Sir? I think you should
know. One of them is Sir James Dalrymple.’

The call from
the Superintendent came five minutes after Bill authorised a phone
call to Sir James. It was obvious Sir James had not wasted much
time in getting in touch with his old golfing partner. The Super
told Bill he understood it was important that he pursue all lines
of enquiry but he had it on Sir James’s authority that the material
in question had not in fact been used in his home after all. He’d
decided against it. A bit too florid for a bachelor’s residence. It
was given it to a church sale a year ago.

‘Which church,
Sir?’

‘He doesn’t
remember that.’ There was a tutting sound on the line. ‘So,’ a
pause, then, ‘you won’t need to bother Sir James any more for now,
Bill. He’ll be out of the country for a couple of weeks after the
by-election tomorrow.’

No, thought
Bill. It certainly wouldn’t be convenient for Sir James to be
interviewed on this matter.

‘Let me know if
anything else comes up.’

‘Of course,
Sir.’

The Super had a
shittier job than he had, Bill decided, as he put the phone down.
He didn’t envy him having to play golf with the likes of Sir James
Dalrymple.

Bill Wilson had
nothing, less than nothing really. Even so he had the feeling. His
guts told him. And his guts always knew first.