The helicopter had set down just after midnight and a cop car had driven him home. He’d ignored the bed, fearing memories of Iona, and, dosing himself up on paracetamol and whisky, he’d lain down on the couch instead. The scent of bleach still lingered in the room. He couldn’t smell the shit, but imagined he could anyway. Sleep had eluded him, replaced by a desperate need to form a plan of action for tomorrow. He had no intention of revealing the murder attempt. The fact that Kearney believed him dead was to his advantage, but McNab cared less about the attempt on his own life than that Kearney, having used Iona to set him up, had then disposed of her.
And how long had Kearney been planning his death? Had the Stonewarrior game been formulated with that thought in mind? Or was it just serendipity that he turned out to be the officer in charge when the game began?
He’d eventually drifted off into a nightmare of drowning and had woken drenched in sweat. The reek of his body was more than he could stomach, so he’d taken a shower, cold enough to thrust him back into life.
Examining himself in the bathroom mirror, he’d realized that most of the discomfort came from a gash below his left arm. Initially he’d believed all the cuts to be minor, but this one throbbed and was now emitting a bloody pus. McNab had bathed it clean, then checked the cabinet for something to dress it with. A depleted first-aid kit had provided a dressing and tape, but no antiseptic ointment.
By the time he’d finished, the sun had risen and the day of reckoning had begun.
Sutherland had been swift and to the point. Nothing he’d said had caused any surprise. McNab was off the case, and off work pending an investigation into his handling of it. He was also required to provide a formal statement in the case of the unexplained death of Iona Craig, a nineteen-year-old female he’d reportedly been having a relationship with.
McNab’s interruption at this point to say, ‘We had sex. We were not in a relationship,’ didn’t go down well. The vow he’d made in the dark hours of the night to zip his lip had proved impossible to keep.
There was also, Sutherland had revealed, the statement given by Steve Munro regarding McNab removing a holdall of cocaine from a location on Cathkin Braes. That had been news to McNab and he’d referred to the accusation as ‘fucking lies’.
The meeting had ended abruptly at that, with Sutherland ordering him to go to an interview room and provide a statement regarding his relationship with Iona Craig.
McNab had made the statement as brief as possible. In a series of blunt sentences he’d said how they’d met. Given the number of times they’d had sex, and where. Described how he’d asked her to leave. She’d taken it badly and refused. He’d walked out, only to return to a trashed flat, which he’d asked Dr MacLeod to process forensically as he believed a male had helped her do it. He stated he was certain his mobile had been compromised, probably while he’d slept.
He then signed it and left.
Now outside the station and a free agent for the foreseeable future, perhaps forever, McNab felt only a sense of relief. Kearney had done him a favour and he was about to repay it big time.
Ollie had agreed to meet, although with a certain amount of trepidation. Outside his usual high-tech environment, he looked forlorn, like a child who’d just had a toy taken away. They were sitting in one of the numerous Glasgow coffee shops. McNab’s need to visit a bar had diminished from the moment he’d been suspended, caffeine having taken the place of whisky as his drug of choice.
Ollie hadn’t touched the latte he’d ordered and was shifting in his seat. McNab had already drunk his double espresso and was considering what persuasive technique might be used on the man-boy to get what he wanted.
‘As you know, I’m off the case,’ McNab said evenly. His remark seemed to ease Ollie’s trepidation a little, until the one that followed brought his apprehension swiftly back.
‘But I believe,’ McNab said, ‘that you and I can catch the puppetmaster.’
Ollie opened and shut his mouth as McNab continued. ‘You are not a police officer and for the moment neither am I. We are Joe Public and as such are free to engage with Stonewarrior.’
One look at Ollie’s face suggested he might be using the wrong method of persuasion, so McNab played his first reserve card. ‘I have already met with the puppetmaster.’
‘You actually met? But I thought—’
McNab held up his hand to prevent further interruptions. ‘We met at the location he sent me. That’s how I was able to describe the van.’
Ollie was all ears now.
‘He also tried to kill me and almost succeeded.’ McNab gave a grim smile, which he hoped made his gargoyle face look worse, then shifted painfully in his seat to indicate further, not so obvious, injuries.
Ollie’s owl-like eyes grew even bigger. Time for another card.
‘So much so, that he believes I am dead –’ McNab paused – ‘which puts us at a distinct advantage.’
The use of the word us had had some impact. McNab watched as Ollie processed this, then continued.
‘He jeopardized the game and his own safety to kill me, which suggests my demise was high on his to-do list. If he realizes I’m still alive . . .’
Ollie knew where McNab was headed, so McNab played the final card.
‘And anything we can do to distract him from his fifth victim must be good. Right?’
Ollie didn’t want the girl to die, that much was obvious. If there was a way his knowledge and expertise could prevent this, he would do it.
‘Okay, but we have to work from my place.’
McNab nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
Ollie lived in two rooms, one of which resembled his place of work. A variety of flat screens, numerous keyboards and a continuous hum of power flowing and processors working greeted their entrance, obviously continuing to operate whether he was present or not.
Once inside, Ollie seemed to relax. Like a pilot in a cockpit, he was home.
McNab unpacked Helena’s bag, revealing her laptop and mobile.
‘These belong to Helena Watters. She left them charging at the hotel she was staying in.’
Ollie looked startled. ‘Shouldn’t you have handed them in?’
McNab tried to look contrite. ‘I forgot the bag this morning. Too much on my mind. I’ll hand it in after you take a look.’