McNab was startled into wakefulness by the drill of his mobile alarm. Glancing at the screen, he realized he’d set it to snooze at least thirty minutes ago. As he rose from the bed, a sudden memory of the night before came flooding back. Fuck. He’d done it again. He glanced at the body curled behind him, her face hidden by a curtain of hair.
This had to stop, he told himself as he headed for the shower. Both the whisky and the sex. The water beating the top of his head did little to relieve the pain that throbbed inside his skull. He consoled himself with the thought that true alcoholics never experienced a hangover, because they were never sober.
Once dressed, he shook Iona awake. She looked up at him sleepily, her mascara smudged, her lipstick faded. Without the carefully applied make-up she looked far too young to be in his bed.
‘What age are you, really?’
‘Old enough,’ she said with a knowing smile.
‘But too young for me.’
‘You didn’t think so last night, or the night before.’ The pout only accentuated her youthfulness.
‘I have to work round the clock now on a murder enquiry so this can’t happen again.’
‘But I thought . . .’ she began.
‘I warned you I was in a relationship,’ he reminded her.
She sat up abruptly, exposing her breasts. McNab kept his eyes firmly on her face.
‘With that woman at the party?’ she said dismissively. ‘I saw her turn you down.’
McNab headed for the door. ‘Feel free to use the shower before you leave.’
Once outside he took out his mobile. He deleted Iona’s number and blocked her calls, aware all the time that he knew the number by heart, anyway.
At McNab’s entrance, the desk sergeant looked pointedly at the clock. ‘Detective Inspector.’
McNab wasn’t sure from the sergeant’s expression whether the marked rendition of his new title was a jibe or a compliment.
‘I was just about to call your mobile.’
McNab waited to hear the reason why.
‘A Mrs MacKenzie has identified the Cathkin Braes body as her son. She’s waiting to speak to you. Has been for the last hour.’
McNab swore under his breath. The band of steel encircling his forehead tightened. The throb behind his eyeballs upped speed. He’d planned coffee and maybe a couple of paracetamol from DS Clark before facing the day. He hadn’t anticipated the bereft mother of a mutilated corpse. Chances were she’d only viewed her son’s face for identity purposes and he’d have to tell her about the hands.
DS Janice Clark threw him a sympathetic look when he entered the incident room.
‘Where is she?’
Janice gestured to his new office. ‘She’s pretty upset. Do you want me in with you?’
It would have been sensible, but McNab rejected the offer. If he messed this one up, he’d rather no one was around to see, especially DS Clark.
The woman was seated with her back to him. She was so still she might have been fashioned from stone. Dealing with a crime scene, no matter how gory, was nothing compared to dealing with those whose lives had been shattered by the crime itself. McNab took a moment to compose himself before entering, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much whisky the night before, or that he could have one now before facing her.
DI Wilson had been good at this aspect of the job. Compassionate and caring, with a determined manner that suggested it was only a matter of time before he caught the bastard that had done this to their loved one. It generally was.
On his entry, the woman turned and rose stiffly to her feet. McNab held out his hand, taking refuge in the formalities of introduction. Once completed, he suggested tea, although a full mug sat in front of her, its surface cold and scummy.
She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’
McNab took his place on the other side of the desk.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs MacKenzie.’
She looked stunned, as though his words had suddenly reminded her of why she was here. McNab hurried on in case she should break down in front of him.
‘I understand you reported your son missing yesterday evening.’
She nodded briskly, smothering a wave of emotion with practicality.
‘Alan always comes round on a Sunday. He’s a student, you see—’ She halted, unnerved by her use of the present tense. She gathered herself and continued. ‘I went to . . . church. When I got back he was out with the dog.’ She stared into nothingness. ‘He didn’t come back.’
Her pain swept towards McNab like a wave. He felt it break over him and retreat to swamp her again. She sagged and caught the edge of the desk with her hand to steady herself.
‘We’ll find whoever did this to your son, but I’ll need your help, Mrs MacKenzie.’
She looked up, searching his face for the truth in what he’d said.
‘Will you help me?’ McNab said gently.
She steeled herself. ‘Can I have a fresh mug of tea? And I’d like to visit the Ladies.’
Ten minutes later, sipping tea, she told McNab the story of a good son who worked hard at university, came home to visit her regularly and who possibly had a girlfriend. None of which outwardly matched McNab’s notion of a gangland member who’d broken the rules.
‘You haven’t met Jolene?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I spoke to her on the phone when I was looking for Alan.’ She opened her bag and extracted a mobile. ‘This is Alan’s phone. He forgot it when he went out with the dog.’
‘That’s very helpful, Mrs MacKenzie. Thank you.’ He’d been about to ask about Alan’s circle of friends, and anyone who might have wished him ill. The mobile was manna from heaven. ‘One more thing, Mrs MacKenzie,’ he said. ‘How was Alan financing his degree?’
‘He had a part-time job in a bar,’ she said defensively. ‘And . . . because of our financial circumstances, he was eligible for a maintenance grant.’
‘Can you give me the name of the bar he worked in?’
‘The Thistle – it’s near the university.’
‘Thank you.’
McNab rose, signalling the end of the interview, but Mrs MacKenzie seemed to be toying with the idea of saying something else.
‘What is it, Mrs MacKenzie?’
She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’
‘Why not let me be the judge of that?’ McNab said encouragingly.
‘There was a man who told me Alan was dead,’ she rushed on. ‘I didn’t believe him. But it was true.’
‘What man?’
‘It was on Sunday at the spiritualist church on Sauchiehall Street.’ It all came tumbling out, like a desperate confession. ‘I didn’t want to go but my friend Doreen persuaded me. The medium called out my name. He said he had a message from Alan. He said Alan was dead and that I was to go to the police.’ Her eyes were filled with horror and bewilderment.
McNab was equally astonished. ‘What time was this?’
‘Sunday morning about eleven. Alan was in the house when I left. Then this man said he was dead.’ She stared at McNab. ‘How could he possibly have known that Alan was dead?’
McNab wanted to know the exact same thing.
‘Who is this man?’
‘His name is Patrick Menzies.’