He saw tears fill her eyes and quickly turned away. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
In the end Claire waited until they were alone. Emma’s excitement was too intense, her enthusiasm for her belated Christmas almost too wonderful to watch. When she finally headed upstairs to play with her presents, Claire broached the subject.
‘There’s something I have to tell you. Something you, the police, need to know.’
She watched his face, trying to read its expression, aware that what she was about to say would change his opinion of her for ever.
He was waiting for her to continue. Claire knew he probably expected some revelation about Kalinin, something that she had been involved in, unwittingly or otherwise. In a way he was right.
‘I know why Emma drew that picture. The one with the little boy buried under the tree.’
He was going to interrupt her, tell her not to worry about Emma’s strange ability to foretell such things. Claire held up her hand.
‘Emma saw me bury a child below a tree. That’s what she remembers.’
He had such nice eyes, but now they were cold and questioning.
‘I was pregnant. I didn’t tell Nick because I had no idea how he would react. At twelve weeks a baby is fully formed. Did you know that?’ She couldn’t see McNab through the film that clouded her eyes. ‘He had this thing he liked to do to me. I knew it might hurt the baby so I refused. He was very angry and did it anyway.’ She paused, searching for words. ‘The baby came that night, so quickly I barely got to the bathroom in time. There was so much blood.’ She gripped her hands together. ‘We were staying in a different flat then, not the place you visited. There was a back garden with a pine tree. I buried him under that tree. I was so frightened that Emma might wake up, that Nick might come back. I dug a hole and slipped him down inside. Emma must have woken up and followed. Suddenly she was there beside me.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll never forget her face when she asked me what I was doing. I told her that her little brother had died and gone to heaven. We never spoke of it again. I spent my time planning our escape. I brought her safely here, then she found the skull and it all came back.’ Claire had run out of words. She bowed her head, unable to meet those eyes.
‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘I killed my baby.’
‘No. If anyone did that, it was Kalinin.’
‘I should have called an ambulance. Maybe they could have saved him.’
‘He wouldn’t have survived.’
He sounded so certain she almost believed him.
‘We’ll get him back for you. You can bury him properly.’
Claire looked up, hardly daring to hope. His eyes were full of warmth and compassion.
55
McNab called Rhona on his way back from the cottage.
‘We have to make sure Kalinin doesn’t find out about this. I have a feeling his lawyer could make things difficult for Claire,’ she said when he’d told her the whole story.
‘Kalinin caused her to miscarry.’
Rhona agreed, but from a professional viewpoint the baby would have to be exhumed and a pathological estimate of its gestation period established. She didn’t mention it now, but Claire might have given birth to a viable baby. They only had her word that she was three months pregnant when she miscarried.
‘When’s your meeting with Slater?’
‘In half an hour.’
‘And what has he said up to now?’
‘Gave a little
well done
speech to the assembled team on the Russian case.’
‘What about picking up Swanson?’
‘He was a bit more low key on that.’
‘I bet he was.’
‘Slater built a decent enough case against McCarthy. When someone confesses like that . . .’
‘Bill would have kept on looking for the body, especially when McCarthy retracted.’
‘Maybe.’ There was a pause. ‘I phoned the boss. He’s back from Orkney. Asked him to meet up for a drink soon. Fancy coming along?’
‘I’d like that.’
‘How’s Chrissy?’
‘Crabbit as hell.’
‘Ready to drop?’
‘Determined to keep it in until the ninth. That way she wins her bet.’
‘I’m taking her out tonight.’
‘Where?’
‘The Poker Club. Posh frock. The works.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘Brogan’s in the clear. No reason not to.’
‘You’re not in his bad books?’
‘Brogan and I go back a long way. That’s why he called me and put us on to Solonik, which led us to Kalinin. Kalinin’s banged up and Solonik’s left the country, so it worked for Brogan and it worked for us. Time for us both to celebrate.’
‘What about the soldier?’
‘We have him in a safe place until he gives his evidence.’
She still wanted to urge him to be careful, but knew he wouldn’t appreciate her counsel.
‘When are you headed for the club?’
‘Eight o’clock. If you fancy coming along, give me a call.’
Rhona and Chrissy stood together by the last unearthed grave in Swanson’s garden. There were five in total. There would have been seven had Swanson been able to inter the boy’s remains and Emma’s. He’d buried the bodies in an upright position, their heads towards the sky.
Chrissy had insisted on being party to the excavation, although she couldn’t stay on her knees for long. The remains, Rhona knew, could have been there for decades. Swanson was in his fifties. How long had he been abducting and killing his victims? As far as they were aware he hadn’t lived anywhere else other than the family home. Born to middle-aged parents, an only child, he had lived with them until they died. His father had gone first, his mother four years later.
To all intents and purposes Swanson had been a model, caring son and an asset to the community. He’d also been involved in repairing church windows the length and breadth of the UK. Ideal for picking up stray children and bringing them back here to die.
Chrissy groaned as she got to her feet.
‘A twinge?’
‘I wish it was. I’m fed up waiting.’
‘I’ll remind you of that when you’re doing night feeds.’
They made their way to the van and stripped off their suits. New Year had come and gone with the snow. The surrounding fields looked grey and damp, stripped of their white blanket, a leaden sky above completing the picture.
‘D’you want to come home and eat with me?’ offered Rhona.
‘OK, but I have to warn you I’m headed out later.’ Chrissy looked smug.
‘Really?’ Rhona pretended innocence.
‘McNab and I are playing poker.’
McNab arrived towards the end of the meal, sending Chrissy scurrying off to get ready. Rhona opened the door to him, raising an eyebrow at the outfit.
‘Very smart.’ She waved him inside. ‘Very James Bond.’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘Too much?’
‘Not at all.’
He joined her at the table, eyeing up the last slice of pizza. She gestured that he should help himself. His face was no longer multicoloured and the swelling round the eyes had subsided, although the scratches were still visible. It gave him a rakish look Rhona quite liked. McNab caught her observing him.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Sure you don’t want to join us?’
‘I’m rubbish at cards. My face gives me away.’
He smiled. ‘That’s true. You never were much of a liar.’
They exchanged awkward glances.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Rhona said. ‘Sometimes you know me better than I know myself.’
‘I was about to say the same about you.’
‘Well? What d’you think?’ called Chrissy from the doorway.
McNab’s mouth fell open at the elegant black dress, which did much to disguise her advanced state of pregnancy. He rose to his feet and gave a long, low wolf whistle.
Chrissy surveyed the penguin suit. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’
McNab offered his arm. She took it with a flourish.
‘Remember, tonight’s winnings go to my baby fund. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
Rhona watched them leave, arm in arm.
56
‘He’ll be here.’
‘You’d better be sure of that.’
Brogan poured another shot of vodka, ashamed of how his hand trembled. His father would have hated him at this moment. Hated his cowardice, his willingness to sell out, his abandonment of his father’s certainty that the underbelly of this city belonged to them.
It was all gone, or fast going, everything his father had worked for, everything that had paid for his son’s fancy education. An education the old man had expected him to make use of in this brave new world, but an education that had instead made his son weak.
Brogan slipped his hand under the table and rubbed his shin, feeling for the knife he kept there for emergencies. Once they did what they came here to do, would he still be alive? There was no guarantee of that, not after what had happened.
He stood up.
‘Where do you think you are going?’
‘For a piss, then to the lobby. I’d better be around when he shows.’
Kalinin nodded, his cold eyes blazing.
The piss hit the pan with force, urged on by a mix of fear and exhilaration. When he finished, Brogan pulled the knife from the shin strap and examined it. It had been his father’s weapon of choice. Swift, deadly and silent. Brogan touched the point to his finger, drawing blood. It was the point that counted, not a keen blade. The point pierced the skin, allowing the blade to enter. After that it was skill and knowledge. You aimed for an artery, or up and under the back ribcage to the kidneys. Or, better still, straight through the heart.
Brogan had stood here once before, planning what he would do to get Solonik off his back. He’d been naive enough to believe the plan had worked, until McNab had blabbed and they’d come looking for him. He sighed and headed for the lobby.
57
‘Very posh.’ Chrissy gazed up at the pillared entrance.
‘Somerset Maugham once described Monaco as a sunny place full of shady people,’ offered McNab.
She threw him one of her looks. ‘And your point is?’
‘The Poker Club has very nice lighting and is also filled with shady people.’
A smile spread over Chrissy’s face. ‘Like us, you mean?’
‘Definitely like us.’
McNab felt light hearted or light headed, he wasn’t sure which. The chat with the boss had helped. Things weren’t resolved on that front, but the Christmas break in Orkney had done the old man good. McNab was also secretly nursing a notion he might get him to change his story when it came to court, or at least let him share the blame for the assault.
The glass door opened magically in front of them and they stepped into the marble lobby.
‘Wow. This just gets better and better.’ Chrissy took in the magnificent mahogany staircase and the crystal chandeliers. ‘How the other half lives, eh?’
‘The shady half.’ He was enjoying himself. As well as his chat with his boss, the meeting with Slater had gone better than expected. Slater knew when the cards were stacked against him. They were even now. The DI could no longer slag McNab off for fucking up with Henderson, because the whole team now knew Slater had been fucked by Swanson.
McNab felt a tingle in his fingers and decided Chrissy could look forward to a nice little nest egg for baby McInsh from his winnings tonight.
‘We’re going to hit it big,’ she said, echoing his thoughts. ‘I can feel it in my waters.’
He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Just no
breaking
waters.’
Paddy Brogan was coming down the stairs, a benevolent smile on his face. He shook McNab’s outstretched hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Plain Michael will do tonight.’
Brogan turned to Chrissy.
‘Chrissy’s the one who figured out your message,’ McNab explained.
Brogan gave her an appreciative look. ‘I hear you’re a poker player?’
‘Taught by the best.’
‘Then welcome to the Poker Club.’
McNab had to admit Chrissy did have a face for poker. No doubt about it. You could read nothing from it, and he had been trying – hard. He wasn’t sure whether she was winning honestly or using some of her dark arts. He’d warned her in the taxi not to cheat. Brogan might be all smiles at the moment with Kalinin out of the way, but he didn’t get where he was by letting the punters shaft him.
He lifted the glass and drained it. The twenty-year-old malt was going down very smoothly and Brogan had obviously left instructions that his guest was never to nurse an empty tumbler for long. Good whisky had brought a mellow feeling absent from his life for too long. His only regret was that Rhona wasn’t there. He allowed his mind to stray to her for a moment. What had happened that night had been a revelation, he suspected, for both of them. No playacting, no competition.
And it would never happen again.
McNab felt his mood begin to slip and strove to return to his earlier elation. Tonight wasn’t about him, he reminded himself. It was about Chrissy and the baby.
He focused on the game and his hand. Did he feel lucky enough to raise his bet? He stole a look at Chrissy. Most people had tics or mannerisms that gave them away. Your body informed the world what you were thinking, Magnus was right on that front. You only had to observe long enough and have the tools to interpret the signs.
Her face and body told him nothing. In the heat of the room, her skin colour had remained constant, even and softly pink. No sudden neck flushes, no nervous twitches, just a studied calm. She hadn’t avoided looking at him, but there had been no message transmitted by eye contact.
McNab took his hat off to her. Chrissy would likely clear them all out, himself included, before the night was over. He decided to fold and watch her screw her only real opponent, a smart guy in his thirties wearing a TAG watch and smelling of expensive cologne.