by Lin Anderson
‘Have Mr Marshall change the locks as a precaution,’ he suggested. ‘And get back in touch if anything suspicious happens again.’
Claire’s look of determination suggested it wouldn’t if she had anything to do with it.
McNab departed the funeral parlour and looked around for the nearest place he could buy another coffee. Once ensconced in a booth with a double espresso, he contemplated what would happen next.
DI Wilson’s obvious desire to keep him tethered meant that if he returned to the station, he would be given a desk job. No doubt important, but mind-bendingly boring. He appreciated the boss’s efforts to keep his DS out of range of disciplinary eyes until the previous case he’d been involved in went to court, considering McNab’s former pal Davey Stevenson was one of the accused.
McNab felt his anger burn fresh again at the thought of what had gone down then with Davey, and elsewhere in that investigation. He’d gone out on a limb on that one and was paying for it now.
And, he acknowledged, he’d do it all again, despite the consequences.
That thought brought back an image of Davey’s wife, Mary, formerly Mary Grant, someone McNab had carried a torch for, for years. The last time he’d seen her in hospital after her accident, he’d promised to keep in touch.
I haven’t kept my promise.
It would be so easy to text her now. Check how she was. Yet McNab knew he wouldn’t do that, probably ever.
It’s better if I stay out of her life, he thought, knowing he really meant it would be better if she stayed out of his. Still, his fingers lingered over her name on his contacts list, as though, given the slightest encouragement, they would urge him back there.
McNab set the mobile on the table and moved his thoughts back to last night – not what had happened between himself and Rhona on a personal level, but what he had viewed in the tunnel. It didn’t look as though the boss was inclined to make him part of that investigation, even should it prove to be a homicide.
Unless …
DS Clark listened in a manner only she could. It was at times like these she reminded him of Rhona, and both women could spot drivel being spouted at a hundred yards. As Janice narrowed her eyes – not a good sign – McNab awaited her dismissal of his theory, and with it his chance of escape from a desk.
‘I think you should run that past Professor Pirie.’
Fuck’s sake, the Viking was already on the job?
Janice was awaiting his reaction.
McNab swithered about agreeing to do as suggested because that meant he would be in on things, the downside being he would have to listen to Magnus Pirie and whatever nonsense the so-called forensic psychologist would spout at him.
The current conversation was a result of his returning to the station from the undertaker’s, and being promptly given another job he didn’t want, scheduled to begin as soon as he’d filed his report on the situation at Marshall’s.
A way out of this predicament had then presented itself in the form of the impatiently waiting DS Clark.
McNab tried to look on the bright side. If he did what Janice suggested, she might, with a little luck, be persuaded to go to the boss and ask for McNab’s assistance on the tunnel enquiry, which would be a definite improvement on his situation.
Mustering himself, McNab nodded as though in complete agreement with her suggestion, and managed a ‘will do’.
Despite his attempt at thoughtful reasonableness, he caught a gleam of amusement in Janice’s eagle eye. She had seen through him without a doubt, but, he decided, he would keep up the pretence anyway. Her next remark proved his theory true.
‘The PM’s at two o’clock,’ she said in what McNab read as a veiled invitation to tag along.
Janice knew full well his feelings on autopsies. Viewing dead bodies, however messy the circumstances, was one thing. Watching them being sliced open was another.
‘I take it you’re going along as SIO?’ he said testily.
She nodded, waiting.
‘I’ll check with the Prof first,’ McNab managed. ‘If the timing works out, I’ll be there,’ he said firmly.
She gave a small smile, which suggested she’d seen right through his prevarication.
Once out of earshot, McNab made the Pirie call, his hope of getting voicemail swiftly shattered when the Viking himself answered. Not only that, he actually sounded pleased when he heard who was calling him.
‘Can we meet?’ McNab interrupted the ensuing attempt at pleasantries. ‘It’s about the guy in the tunnel. Or maybe more about his last supper.’
There followed a studied silence. McNab found himself recalling Pirie’s expression when he was forming his supposedly deep insights based on what exactly? McNab had spent the last fifteen years wading through the output generated by criminals. When he’d joined the force he already believed that evil existed. The Church had made sure of that. Humans were sinful, all of them, all the time, but some excelled at it. Nothing he’d met on the job had changed his mind about that. The soul was a dark place. His own included. He didn’t require a criminal profiler to tell him that.
‘When do you want to meet?’ the Prof was saying.
‘As soon as possible,’ McNab told him.
‘Okay.’ Then came a pause. ‘Could you come to the university? I have a lecture starting in five minutes, but we could talk immediately after that.’
McNab had no wish to visit the university. As he began his rejection, Pirie interrupted him. ‘There’s material here I think you should see.’
McNab had never been a student, unless the Police College at Tulliallan counted, where he’d done his training. His mother had wanted him to go to university. She’d saved up for it. The thought of constant studying, even subjects he was interested in, and good at, hadn’t appealed to the teenage McNab. Or, he hadn’t wanted his mother scrimping for another four years to fund him swanning around with student wankers.
Once that was decided, he’d entertained a passing interest in joining the army, having flirted with the cadets in high school. He’d enjoyed the training, but not getting bossed around. Then, when a few of his mates did join up and subsequently came back from foreign parts either in a body bag or generally fucked up, McNab had decided against the army as a career.
And so he’d joined the police, which hadn’t been an all-out success, if you measured it by progress up the ranks. But it was here McNab recalled the reason why he’d stuck with it. It was undoubtedly the boss, DI Bill Wilson. The man who had faith in Professor Magnus Pirie as well as his DS.
‘Okay,’ McNab heard himself say.
‘Come to my office.’ Pirie sounded relieved – or even pleased? ‘I’ll see you there.’
13
The pathologist on this occasion wasn’t Dr Sissons but a younger man, who Rhona didn’t recognize. The larger mortuary in the new Queen Elizabeth hospital, nicknamed the Death Star by Glaswegians, could hold up to two hundred bodies in a national emergency. A super hospital, it required enough staff to service it. So it wasn’t surprising to meet a new face.
Rhona wasn’t sure if she was sorry it wasn’t the acerbic and self-promoting Dr Sissons in charge of this one, but since two pathologists were required at an autopsy in Scotland, she wondered if he might yet show up.
In this she was right.
‘Dr MacLeod,’ Sissons appeared to welcome her with an arched eyebrow. ‘I assume you processed the body at the scene and you now wish to know what myself and my new colleague, Dr Walker, make of it?’
Rhona found herself looking into the mischievous blue eyes of Dr Walker above the mask. It appeared the new recruit was already taking the measure of his master.
‘Nice to meet you, Dr Walker,’ she said formally.
‘You too, Dr MacLeod.’
‘Are we expecting an SIO?’ Sissons queried.
It was protocol for the Senior Investigating Officer to attend the PM of a suspicious death, so Rhona had expected to find Janice there.
‘Maybe DS Clark is running late?’ she suggested.
‘Then let’s get started,’ Sissons declared, waving the team into place – the photographer who would record the proceedings in their entirety, two SOCOs to tape each item of clothing and the naked body beneath for hairs and fibres, and Dr Sissons’s APT, or anatomical pathology technician, effectively his right-hand man or woman.
The mortuary was a crowded place nowadays, hence the increased spaciousness required in a new building.
Rhona recognized the majority of suited figures in the room, except for the APT. Expecting Ronnie’s solid figure and brown eyes, she found a taller, blue-eyed replacement instead, who gave her a swift nod before moving on to his duties.
As the body was gradually unclothed, Rhona was immediately struck by how perfect it was. Used as she was to viewing death as the outcome of a violent attack, the image before her was of someone who had simply fallen asleep, reflecting the impression she’d had in the tunnel.
She listened as Sissons recorded the formal measurements, giving the victim’s estimated age at mid to late twenties, then detailing the sex, build, height, ethnic group, weight, nutritional state and skin colour of the subject.
‘No obvious scars or wounds,’ Sissons said. ‘The only identifiable marks are a one-inch-thick black tattooed band on the left lower arm and a similar one round the right thigh.’
‘You’ll find they all seem to have tattoos these days,’ Sissons informed Dr Walker. ‘These, I have to say, are plainer than I’m used to seeing. What about you, Doctor?’
Rhona watched as the young doctor tried to read the question. Was his superior asking if he had a tattoo or if everyone he examined had? Rhona smothered a smile behind her mask and decided to help him out. ‘It’s a popular past-time being inked,’ she offered.
‘Ah,’ Sissons said. ‘Is Dr MacLeod admitting to having one too?’
Rhona didn’t answer, but she did acknowledge Dr Walker’s silent thank you.
‘So,’ Sissons said, looking to his co-worker. ‘What Dr MacLeod really wants to know is how did he die? And whether it is a homicide or a suicide.’
Dr Walker glanced over at Rhona, as if expecting her to respond, which she didn’t. One thing he would swiftly learn was that although the chief forensic pathologist often asked questions out loud, he seldom welcomed answers to them.
‘There was no evidence of drugs in the vicinity of the body?’ Sissons said, this time seeking an answer.
‘None,’ Rhona told him.
At that point the door opened and a suited figure, who wasn’t Janice, entered. Rhona recognized the figure immediately, and the eyes above the mask proved her right.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ McNab offered on approach.
A lesser man would have flinched at the look Sissons shot him, but not McNab.
‘We were expecting DS Clark,’ Sissons said.
‘She sends her apologies.’
The sound Sissons made indicated the substitution wasn’t to his liking, but he could do little about it, other than ignore the newcomer.
McNab took up his place alongside Dr Walker and sensibly kept quiet, not even attempting to catch Rhona’s eye. Dr Walker, no doubt sensing the animosity that had recently entered the circle, focused solely on his boss.
A wise move, Rhona thought.
‘You’ve studied the photographs.’ Sissons addressed Walker again. ‘Context is everything. The layout of the limbs, the positioning of the body, where it was lying.’ He looked to Rhona. ‘In your opinion, was it the deposition site or the site of the assault?’ he said, studying the pattern of lividity on the body, which could point either way.
Rhona explained about the soil on the soles of the victim’s shoes. ‘It looks like material from the tunnel floor, but that’s still to be verified by a soil scientist.’
‘So you think he walked in there?’
‘It’s a probability.’
‘Have we any idea why?’
At Rhona’s mention of the car, Sissons’s eyes lit up. ‘An old Cosworth, how interesting. Might have to take a look myself.’
He was taking swabs now, first the perineal skin, then the anus was probed by a proctoscope. Sensing Rhona’s eyes on him, McNab grued behind his mask. He’d admitted to her once that watching that being done had the same effect on him as eyeballs being popped out.
‘You found no evidence of a sexual encounter?’
‘I detected no semen on the clothes, the face or the mouth,’ Rhona responded.
‘So it doesn’t look as though he was down there to have sex, although as we know, locations such as that offer a certain frisson for some.’
McNab’s eyes suggested he might unwisely comment on this, so Rhona deflected that possibility.
‘There was a piece of partially eaten bread and a glass of red wine on a napkin on the rear seat of the Cosworth,’ she said.
Sissons acknowledged that he’d noted this on the video recording of the scene. ‘I’m not equipped to comment on the psychology behind that feature. However, if our subject did partake of this last supper shortly before his demise, we’ll find evidence of it in his stomach contents.’ He paused. ‘But, before we cut him open, let’s see if we can discover if either poison or drugs could have entered his system in another manner.’
Rhona dropped the oversuit in the receptacle provided and headed for a cubicle. The scent of death was hard to get rid of and the sooner you tried, the better.
Standing under a hot shower, she registered that what had happened in the mortuary had likely given the police enough evidence to progress the case as a homicide, although there might still be room for dispute. It wasn’t always the case that a pathologist’s verdict on a death matched that of the police investigation.
McNab had stayed to watch the stomach contents being examined, keen as he was to find out if there was any evidence that the subject had partaken of the Last Supper.
It seemed he hadn’t.
According to Dr Sissons, the victim hadn’t eaten solids close to his death and certainly not that bread. So it was likely that a person or persons unknown had consumed the bread at the scene, and probably drank some of the wine.
Perhaps that same someone had used the injection site they’d discovered in the back of the left thigh. Difficult to distinguish in the band of black ink, and only spotted by an eagle-eyed Dr Walker.
Dried and dressed now, Rhona made a swift call to Chrissy to let her know the news. When she emerged from the changing room, McNab was waiting for her.
‘I don’t know how you wangled coming here, McNab,’ she began before he interrupted her, his voice as testy as her own.
‘DS Clark asked me to attend the PM because of what transpired at my meeting with Professor Pirie,’ he declared.
Why the hell were you meeting Magnus? Rhona’s expression clearly said. After a moment she added, out loud this time, ‘Well?’
‘There’s been an incident that might be linked to this case, and Magnus agrees,’ McNab added for effect. ‘Can we get a coffee and I’ll explain?’
14
‘I have to give a lecture on the diploma course in less than an hour,’ Rhona told him.
Catching her expression, McNab said quietly, ‘Look, can we put what happened last night behind us? Please.’
He could feel the nerve twitching just below his right eye, a sign of a lack of caffeine or the fact that everything about sitting here with her was freaking him out.
‘Then stop stalking me.’
‘I’m not,’ McNab said, baffled by the accusation.
‘Then why come to the tunnel? DS Clark was given responsibility for that. Yet you turned up, knowing that was where I was headed.’
He couldn’t deny that. He had no business following her there. Despite this, he came out fighting.
‘Just as well I did.’ McNab laid his mobile in front of her. ‘I was called out to Marshall’s Funeral Home this morning. The girl there, Claire, thinks someone’s been ta
mpering with their bodies. Eating bread and drinking wine over them.’ McNab flipped the image from the crumb-covered waistcoat of Mr Martin, deceased, to the wine-soaked white shirt belonging to Mr Robertson.
Rhona took control of the mobile and had another look at both images.
‘Are the bodies still in the funeral parlour?’ she finally said.
‘Unfortunately not. One’s buried, the other cremated. Anyway, according to Claire, she cleaned them up, even changed Mr Robertson’s shirt before his daughter saw it.’
‘Does she still have the shirt?’ Rhona said swiftly. When McNab didn’t answer, Rhona came back in. ‘Call her and see if she has.’
McNab did as she asked, knowing he should have checked that himself. Maybe if he’d seen the painting earlier he would have.
It was Claire’s voice that answered. ‘Sergeant McNab. Did you find the man?’ McNab didn’t correct her on her assumption that it had been a man, but asked her about the stained shirt. There was a moment’s silence that felt like embarrassment.
‘I do,’ she finally said. ‘I was planning on putting it in the laundry and giving it to a charity shop. It was very good quality,’ she added. ‘I can’t really give it back to his daughter, because then she would know.’
‘But you haven’t washed it yet?’ McNab checked.
‘No. It’s in a bag here at the shop.’
‘I’ll come and pick it up.’
When he rang off he could tell by Rhona’s face that she didn’t require an explanation. ‘It’s a long shot forensically,’ he offered as way of an excuse.
Not a wise move, he realized, as Rhona gave him a look that suggested he should know better.
‘And this is why you met with Magnus?’ she asked.
‘Janice suggested I did, and at that point she hadn’t seen this.’ McNab flipped forward to a new image and offered back the mobile. He gave Rhona a moment to study the painting before he said, ‘It’s called The Sin-eater. The old guy fucking eats your sins. I must say I prefer that way of getting to heaven, rather than through abstinence or the confessional,’ he added.
