Free Final Cut by Lin Anderson Page A

sparkled.
    ‘Not quite. I don’t wander round crime scenes dressed in my best clothes, looking like a movie star.’
    ‘Tell me why a forensic scientist wants to sample my food.’
    Rhona chose her words carefully. ‘A man died in suspicious circumstances. I believe he ate soup like this shortly before that happened.’
    Misha looked horrified. ‘You think we poisoned him?’
    ‘He didn’t die of food poisoning,’ Rhona reassured him.
    ‘Then why are you here?’
    ‘It might help us trace his movements in the time leading up to his death.’
    ‘We are not the only place to serve borscht in Glasgow. All eastern European people eat this soup. Polish, Ukraine . . .’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘You have a photograph of this man?’
    Rhona shook her head. ‘There was a fire.’ She didn’t elaborate.
    ‘When did this happen?’
    ‘Sunday night.’
    Misha sat back in the seat and observed her closely.
    ‘And you cannot describe him?’
    ‘Not his face, no. I can tell you he was a young man, slim build, just under six feet tall.’
    Misha thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. ‘There are many customers that might fit that description.’
    ‘It’s better that I try and establish if he did eat here.’
    ‘Come, I will take you to the kitchen.’
    Rhona followed Misha behind a shawl curtain and along a corridor into a large bright kitchen. He introduced her to two young male chefs and gave them instructions in Russian, which brought a burst of laughter.
    ‘I told them to give you whatever you want.’
    I bet you did, thought Rhona.
    The menu on Sunday night had featured the famous soup. Their beetroot soup was, according to Vanya, the younger chef, a recipe unique to this restaurant.
    ‘We make it exactly the way Misha tells us. It is his family recipe.’
    ‘May I have a list of the ingredients?’
    ‘Misha says we must give you what you want.’ He smiled widely.
    Rhona went about her sampling, keenly aware that the rapid Russian conversation going on behind her was more likely to be about her than the next meal.
    When she escaped the confines of the kitchen, she found the restaurant empty and the dark-haired waitress sweeping the floor. Misha was seated at a table near the back, a pile of papers in front of him. He stood up at her approach.
    ‘You have what you need?’
    ‘Thank you, yes.’
    ‘So what happens now?’
    ‘The police will want to talk to you and to the other members of staff who were around on Sunday night.’
    Misha shuffled the papers. It was the first time Rhona had sensed a nervousness about him.
    ‘If you cannot show us a photograph, then how can we help?’
    ‘There was one thing that might help identify him.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘A rose tattoo.’
    He looked momentarily startled.
    ‘Is that a Russian thing?’ Rhona asked.
    He shrugged. ‘Not that I know of. Perhaps his girlfriend was called Rose.’
    ‘Maybe.’ Rhona thanked him for his help.
    ‘My pleasure.’
    Misha walked her to the door.
    ‘Do you get time off from this work of yours?’ he said.
    ‘Occasionally.’
    ‘Come again and I will treat you to a full Russian meal on the house.’
    ‘With vodka?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘I may take you up on that.’

15
    ‘Again.’
    Chrissy obligingly shuffled the cards and offered them up to McNab.
    He pulled one free and checked it. ‘OK.’
    Chrissy thought for a moment. ‘Seven of spades.’
    There was an intake of breath.
    ‘No way can you have known that.’ McNab shook his head in disbelief.
    ‘Another lucky guess?’ Chrissy suggested, keeping her face straight.
    The battle had been going on for ten minutes. Rhona suspected marked cards were in play again. Chrissy certainly had McNab worried.
    ‘Show me.’
    Chrissy laughed. ‘No chance. Then you’d know as much as me.’
    McNab was like a terrier. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give up. ‘One more time.’
    Chrissy’s expression implied she thought him a sucker. ‘Only if you bet on this