Mornings minus a hangover were beginning to become a habit.
McNab swung his feet out of bed, relishing the non-pounding of his head, a mouth that didn’t taste like a cat had pissed in it and eyes that could face daylight without splintering pain.
Likewise, his morning shower felt less like an attempt to wake the dead, and a look in the mirror didn’t involve squinting and images of bloodshot eyes. All in all, he decided, being sober had its plus points. The negatives, however, also had to be faced.
His bed had been empty of female company since the alcohol had dried up, so no good memories of wild coupling the previous night and no repeat performance in the morning to set him up for the day. In fact, craving sex had now taken over from craving drink. If he didn’t get laid soon, McNab feared he would seek religion, if only to satisfy his desire to have something to get ecstatic about.
Then there were the nightmares.
Whisky had aided sleep to the level of unconsciousness. If he’d experienced bad dreams, he rarely remembered them. Now, however, his sleep was often like a night at the movies, of the horror genre. The latest serial dream replayed the finale of his last case in glorious Technicolor, accompanied by smell, the overpowering nature of which made him even sympathetic to Professor Pirie. Something he would admit to no one, even himself.
So apart from bad dreams and no sex, he was doing okay.
Dressed, coffee machine on, McNab contemplated visiting Shannon Jones, who wasn’t answering her mobile. He’d tried three times the previous night, only to be diverted to the messaging service.
They’d not yet succeeded in contacting Leila’s brother Daniel in Germany. Shannon wasn’t a relative, but McNab would rather have let her know they were treating her friend’s death as murder before she heard it on the news, though it was probably too late for that now.
He swallowed down the remainder of his coffee and headed out, having decided to call in at Glasgow University library on his way to the meeting. He owed Shannon that, at least.
In general, McNab preferred to avoid the university precinct. True, the female talent on show there was good, but definitely too young. He’d learned his lesson on that score. As for the guys, they were way too clever and confident for his liking.
Needless to say, McNab’s route to his present position had not been via a university degree. His mother would have liked it to be, but money was tight and McNab decided not to make it any tighter. He’d briefly contemplated the army, but didn’t fancy returning in a body bag, so he’d joined the police instead.
In the end he had seen the inside of a body bag and had lived to tell the tale, evidenced by the bullet scar on his back, not to mention the damage done to his internal organs. It had turned out, for him at least, that fighting crime was every bit as dangerous as combat duty in some foreign land.
The only college he’d attended had been police college, where, it seemed, most of his fellow recruits had come via university, after studying forensic and criminal psychology and, of course, sociology. A fact that had irked McNab and which probably accounted for his distrust of such subjects, and those who taught them, like Professor Magnus Pirie.
Irritated with himself for thinking about Pirie again, McNab flashed his ID at the reception desk and asked to speak to Assistant Librarian Shannon Jones.
The man peered at him over his spectacles.
‘I’m not sure Shannon’s in yet. Let me check.’
He abandoned McNab and headed for a desk phone. Moments later he was back.
‘Shannon’s not in, I’m afraid. She wasn’t in yesterday, either.’ He gave McNab a searching look. ‘Is this to do with Leila’s death? I saw it on the news last night. A terrible business.’
McNab ignored the question. ‘Did Shannon call to say she wasn’t coming in?’
‘I have no idea, I’m sorry. She doesn’t work in this part of the building.’
‘Where does she work?’
‘Archives.’
‘Can I speak to someone in Archives?’
The man looked nonplussed. ‘I can’t leave the desk, but I’ll get someone to take you there, if you’ll wait a moment.’
The student queue forming behind McNab was growing restless. McNab turned and gave them the police eye, which shut them up long enough for his guide to appear. At a guess, she was in her mid twenties, with long brown hair, and very presentable.
‘Detective Sergeant McNab.’ He presented his ID, hoping she might give him her name in return. She didn’t.
‘If you’ll follow me,’ she said.
It took five minutes to get to their destination. During the journey in lifts and corridors, McNab asked if she knew either Leila or Shannon, and was rewarded with, ‘Not really.’
‘So you didn’t socialize?’
She shook her head.
‘Or drink in the same pubs?’
‘Everyone drinks in Ashton Lane at some time or another.’ She gave him a scrutinizing look. ‘Maybe that’s where I’ve seen you before?’
‘Could be,’ McNab said casually, hoping he hadn’t been inebriated at the time.
She opened a door and stood back to allow him entry.
‘Grant!’ she called to what looked like an empty room apart from multiple rows of stacked shelves.
A man McNab guessed to be in his fifties appeared, a frown on his face at being disturbed at whatever one did in Archives.
‘This is Detective Sergeant McNab,’ his guide announced. ‘He wants to talk to you about Shannon.’
‘She isn’t here,’ Grant said, the frown lines deepening.
‘I know,’ McNab said patiently.
‘Get Grant to call reception when you’re finished and I’ll come back for you,’ his guide offered.
McNab thanked her.
After she’d gone, he asked Grant for the young woman’s name.
‘Freya Devine. A post-graduate student in medieval history.’
Perfect name McNab thought, and definitely too brainy for him.
Sensing this wasn’t going to be over quickly, Grant asked McNab to follow him between the shelves into a small office. There were two desks, one of which he indicated was Shannon’s.
‘I can offer you a coffee?’
‘Great. As strong as possible, please,’ McNab said.
Grant indicated that McNab should take Shannon’s seat, before spooning three scoops of instant coffee into a mug and adding hot water from a thermos.
‘Milk, sugar?’
‘Just as it is, thanks.’
Grant handed it over and, retrieving his own mug, sat down opposite McNab.
‘Shannon phoned in yesterday. She said she was ill. It sounded as though she’d been crying. Then I saw the news last night and realized what was wrong.’
‘You knew Leila Hardy?’
‘Only really by sight. She works elsewhere in the building, but I knew that she and Shannon were friends.’
‘I’m having difficulty getting in touch with Shannon. She’s not answering at the number she gave me,’ McNab said.
‘Really? Maybe she’s too upset.’
Or she doesn’t want to talk to the police again.
‘Could you try her for me?’ McNab said.
‘Of course.’ Grant checked a pad next to the phone for her number and dialled. McNab heard it ring out, but no one answered. Eventually Grant hung up. ‘Should we be worried?’
McNab showed Grant his notebook. ‘Is that her current address?’
‘Yes. You’re going to check she’s all right?’
McNab assured him he would. He gulped down the remainder of his coffee and asked if his guide could be called, to direct him back to the entrance.
‘Of course. It is a bit of a warren.’
Freya appeared a few minutes later. McNab was aware that he had only five minutes to make her acquaintance properly, before she ushered him out the front door. He wondered if it was worth the effort since she was, he feared, out of his league.
‘Could we have met in the jazz club in Ashton Lane?’ he offered as they wound their way towards the lift.
‘You’re a jazz fan?’ She sounded surprised.
‘Sometimes,’ he hedged his bets.
‘Me too,’ she offered.
‘The piano player, Sam Haruna. Have you heard him play?’
‘No, I haven’t. Is he good?’
‘Very.’ McNab decided to go for it. ‘He’s on tonight.’
‘Really?’
‘Maybe I’ll see you there,’ McNab tried.
‘Maybe.’
Well, at least it wasn’t a no.
When they reached reception he handed her his card. ‘If you think of anything that might help me, however small, give me a call,’ he said.
Her face clouded over at that and McNab thought he might have overstepped the mark.
She left him at reception, but with a farewell smile. McNab had the feeling those intelligent eyes could see right through him and they weren’t sure they liked what they saw. Still, he had tried.
Once outside the building, he called DS Clark.
‘Where are you? The strategy meeting’s in fifteen minutes,’ she said.
‘At the university library looking for Shannon.’
‘Well, I suggest you get here, and fast.’