Free The Reborn by Lin Anderson Page B

drinker. Not normally.
    Her hand shook a little as she raised it to her mouth. That had gone well, she congratulated herself silently. She had been surprised. He’d given every indication that he planned to resign, or ask for early retirement. Part of her wanted him to do that, but one thing she knew: Bill would not survive without the job. The kids would be gone soon, university, then a life of their own away from the family home. That was to have been their time together after thirty-odd years of marriage. Just the two of them.
    Except there might only be one.

10
    Petersson recognised Rhona immediately, although he’d only seen her once before. It had been at Bill Wilson’s fiftieth birthday party at the Ultimate Jazz Club. By the time he’d spotted her, she was already being chatted up by Sean Maguire, Irish saxophonist and part owner of the club. He’d asked Bill to introduce him anyway. He remembered the quizzical look she’d given him at the mention of his name. I’ve heard of you .
    It had pleased him that she’d known who he was. Then she’d left with the Irishman, dashing his hopes and squashing his ego.
    But here she was again. And this time, alone.
    He lifted two glasses of red wine from a passing tray and joined her in front of a modern painting that consisted of stripes in black, grey and white that rolled like waves across the canvas. He offered her a glass.
    ‘Makes me sea-sick.’
    ‘The painting or the wine?’
    He took a sip and grimaced. ‘Both, I fear.’
    She smiled.
    ‘You may not remember me . . .’
    ‘I do. Einar Petersson, the journalist.’
    ‘We met at . . .’
    ‘Bill’s party.’
    ‘You have a good memory.’
    ‘Yes, I do.’
    ‘What brings you here?’ He gestured at the groups of Glasgow art lovers who were scrutinising the offerings on show.
    ‘I bought a painting from this gallery. “Sunlight over the Cuillins on Skye” by Sharon Mitchell. I love it. It hangs above my fireplace to remind me of home. How about you – are you an art collector?’
    ‘I fancied a free drink before dinner. Plus my flat’s nearby,’ he lied.
    ‘I thought you were London based?’
    ‘I am. Most of the time.’
    ‘Then what brings you north?’
    ‘A visit to Iceland to see my parents, then a bit of nosing around in Glasgow.’
    ‘Something important?’
    ‘Might be.’
    He could tell by her expression that his vagueness wasn’t holding her interest.
    ‘I was sorry to hear about DS McNab.’
    Her face drained of colour and she almost dropped her glass. He reached out to steady her arm.
    ‘Hey, are you OK?’
    ‘I didn’t know you knew him.’
    ‘I didn’t, but I heard he got on the wrong side of the Russian contingent.’
    She looked more angry than shocked now.
    ‘Nikolai Kalinin.’
    ‘You think Kalinin killed him?’
    ‘Him or someone ordered by him.’
    ‘Kalinin’s a hard man to track down.’
    She looked up swiftly. ‘You’ve tried?’
    ‘I’m thinking about it.’ That too was a lie, but a necessary one. He wanted to find out what she knew, without giving anything away himself.
    He could tell she was tempted, but cautious. After all, he was a newspaper man. It all depended on how keen she was to catch McNab’s killer.
    ‘Fancy going somewhere else? Preferably a place that provides better wine?’ They both knew there was nothing really wrong with the wine.
    She gave him an inscrutable look.
    ‘Where did you have in mind, exactly?’
    He mentioned a members only club not far from where they were. ‘They serve good champagne. The food’s excellent too, if you haven’t eaten.’
    She took a moment to reply. ‘OK.’
    He was relieved she hadn’t turned him down and hoped it didn’t show. He knew a fair bit about Dr Rhona MacLeod, and a pushover she wasn’t.

11
    Rhona stared into the early morning darkness. Properly awake now, she reached out and checked the place beside her in the bed. It was warm but empty. She thought Petersson might have already