by Lin Anderson
Rhona almost said she should still have told you, but stopped herself in time.
‘So. It’s to be our little secret, Dr MacLeod?’
‘For now, at least.’
‘Okay, Rhona. Whatever you say.’
As he turned to go, Rhona suddenly remembered.
‘What about Ellie?’ she said.
‘Her pal Izzy and Mannie at the Ink Parlour think she’s gone AWOL on the bike. Seems she does that sometimes.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘There’s apparently a big Harley rally this weekend called Thunder in the Glens. They say up to four thousand bikes on the Facebook page.’
Rhona knew the name. ‘That takes place every year in Aviemore,’ she said. ‘Sean played a gig at it once. Can you check if Ellie’s a registered attendee?’
‘Probably.’
‘Even if she’s not, that doesn’t mean she won’t be there,’ Rhona urged him.
‘So what are you suggesting? I go looking for her in Aviemore among four thousand old guys with beards and tattoos?’
‘If that’s the contingent, then Ellie’ll be easy to spot. You could forward a photo to the Aviemore police. Ask them to look out for her.’ Rhona thought of something else. ‘The Harley-Davidson shop will have a presence. If Ellie goes, she may turn up at their tent.’
McNab nodded at that, although his thoughts seemed elsewhere. He turned to go, then suddenly reached out and touched her arm.
‘You can call me, you know? Any time. And be careful. I meant what I said about you being targeted.’
As Rhona watched his tall figure descend the stairs, she knew the Mary story, if true, had been McNab’s attempt at persuading her to tell Sean the truth.
56
‘Do you want me to pick up Tom?’ Sean said when she re-entered the kitchen.
‘That would be good.’ Rhona realized she was missing the cat. Missing its warmth and affection.
She’d not revealed the possibility that the cat had been deliberately poisoned during McNab’s explanation of why they thought she may have been targeted, wanting to be sure of her facts first. The strange phone call had come up, because it seemed Bill had already told McNab about that.
‘I know what you did,’ Sean had repeated. ‘What does that mean?’
Avoiding McNab’s eye, Rhona had explained, ‘We think it probably referred to the DNA contamination.’
‘So who would know about that?’ he’d queried.
‘The whole fucking force,’ McNab had said.
‘You think it might have been a colleague who made the threatening call?’ Sean had been obviously perturbed by such an idea.
Having had no desire to see Sean any more concerned than he already was, Rhona had intervened at this point.
‘Can I chat to McNab alone?’ she’d said.
Albeit grudgingly, Sean had left them to it then, while McNab doggedly brought up the subject of who might have known her preferred PPE suits and had access to her DNA.
‘That’s a long list,’ she’d told him.
‘One we have to make. Plus the folk on the course. You and Pirie supplied them with enough knowledge to do all of this.’
McNab had had a point, but it’d seemed to Rhona that the knowledge needed had been more extensive than what had been covered in her lectures. Something she wasn’t prepared to say as yet.
Sean’s voice suddenly brought her back from such thoughts.
‘I put a gammon in the slow cooker. It’ll be ready around five,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll do the vegetables when I get back.’
‘You don’t need to stay,’ Rhona said firmly. ‘I’m fine. And I have reports to write, remember?’
‘McNab seemed keen you have company.’
‘I like my own company.’
Rhona knew as she said this that it was cruel, particularly in the circumstances, but she didn’t think she could spend any more time with Sean and not say something.
And she wasn’t ready for that yet.
‘I think better when I’m alone,’ she softened the blow. ‘When’s your night off?’
‘Tomorrow.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘But I’ve got something planned. Sorry.’
Rhona was about to ask if that something involved Imogen, the archaeology post-grad, but managed to stop herself. She had set up the boundaries of their relationship. Sean was playing along with them. She could hardly criticize him for that.
Especially now.
Despite her best efforts, Rhona realized she was sizing Sean up as a potential father. As for herself as a possible mother, Rhona didn’t want to go there. She’d failed once spectacularly.
But you never considered abortion back then …
‘Rhona? Are you okay?’
Her thoughts in turmoil, she had no idea what Sean had been saying, if anything.
She nodded. ‘I’m fine. I just need to write up my report on Claire Masters.’
Sean appeared to accept this. ‘I’ll get the cat, then leave you be.’
God, he was being so reasonable. With every kind word Sean uttered, Rhona imagined herself stabbing him in the back.
If I don’t tell him, the secret will lie between us forever. She thought of Mary Grant suddenly revealing the fact that McNab might have been a father, had been a father, for a brief time at least.
When the door shut behind Sean, Rhona felt a surge of relief. It was obvious that should she not tell him and have the abortion, their relationship would have to end. How could she continue to be with a man she’d done that to?
And if you have the child, does that mean you have to stay with Sean?
Rhona heard the ping of an incoming text and knew it would be Chrissy. She’d already decided what her response would be and promptly texted back, ‘All okay’, even though nothing could be further from the truth.
57
Magnus watched as McNab examined the list of dissertation titles, grouped by profession. Magnus was aware that most participants had, not unsurprisingly, chosen topics closely linked to their own work.
A favourite with the law fraternity was the manner in which forensic evidence was examined in court. Those working in pathology largely concentrated on the autopsy and how injuries might be interpreted.
Rhona’s lectures had resulted in the majority of topics submitted, most focusing on the scene of crime and the importance of context and examination. A few had decided to look more closely at DNA and what it offered now and for the future. Toxicology had made an appearance via recreational drugs and poisons, as had the importance of forensic soil science in tracing a perpetrator.
‘What about your area of expertise?’ McNab said with a raised eyebrow.
‘Just three,’ Magnus told him, ‘on the next page. All from serving police officers.’
McNab ran his eye over the titles, a smile playing the corner of his mouth. ‘Does Profiling Work,’ he quoted, ‘a discussion from the police perspective by Detective Constable Shona Fleming. Do I know her?’
‘Tall, mid-twenties, long dark hair.’
Despite trying to sound bland about Shona Fleming, Magnus knew immediately that McNab sensed otherwise.
Jeez, the guy’s ability to intuit was ridiculous.
‘She’s doing groundwork on the case, CCTV et cetera,’ Magnus hurried on. ‘It was DC Fleming who told me she believed the perpetrator was using their forensic knowledge, perhaps gained from a course like ours, to control the investigation.’
‘So not a fan of letting the general public know all our secrets?’
‘No.’
‘I’m beginning to like DC Fleming.’ McNab returned to the remainder of the titles.
‘Who submitted the ones at the end?’
‘Participants from the general public.’
‘Three went for buried or hidden bodies,’ McNab said with interest.
‘It’s Rhona’s area of expertise,’ Magnus reminded him. ‘What about the MOOCs participants?’
‘There were a h
undred signed up for the short free course, but the full diploma course is also online, you can take it part-time over anything up to three years.’
‘A lot of people to check out,’ Magnus said worriedly.
‘You’re the one who claims to be able to profile the killer,’ McNab said. ‘Tell me who to look for amongst that lot.’
McNab was right. He should be able to give a profile, yet it seemed to Magnus that his image of the perpetrator was made of constantly shifting sand.
‘The signature of the bread and wine, the image it conjured of a sin-eater, was powerful and initially pointed to someone with such an agenda,’ he began.
‘A religious nutter?’
‘Maybe, then again it may have been staged in order to draw in the services of a forensic psychologist.’
‘Like yourself?’
Magnus nodded. ‘Jackson was actively gay and that could be construed as a sin by some religions. As for Claire, I’ve heard nothing to atone for there … unless he didn’t like the interest she showed in her charges.’
McNab’s forehead creased in thought. ‘Bastard. I bet that’s exactly why she had to die. She saw him.’
Magnus continued. ‘Jackson was prone to sleep paralysis according to Dr Williams at the sleep clinic. If that was known to the perpetrator, it was a useful way to fake his suicide and confuse the issue. Putting us to the test even further.’
‘I ran into Williams at Rhona’s earlier today.’ McNab looked thoughtful. ‘I understand he came in and gave a statement about treating Jackson for sleep paralysis.’ He paused. ‘Any idea how he knows Rhona?’
‘They work at the same university?’ Magnus suggested.
McNab returned to his previous line of thought. ‘Why would the perpetrator portray Claire’s death as suicide, when it could easily be proved not to be?’
‘Maybe he overreached his knowledge? Or he’s just playing dumb this time round?’
‘So what next?’ McNab said. ‘For there will be a next,’ he added grimly.
Magnus nodded. ‘I fear so.’
‘He’s played the DNA card, the fake suicide, and tidied up loose ends with Claire, so?’ McNab prompted.
Magnus glanced at the topics list again. ‘If he did do the course, it could be anything on there. What’s perhaps more significant and useful to know is how he got his victims to go to the loci.’
‘Turns out Jackson was a Cosworth enthusiast. There’s a Facebook page,’ McNab said. ‘That would have proved an attraction.’
‘Which only adds to your list of potential suspects if he met the killer on there. But what about Claire? What drew her to the yew tree in the park, within sight of the university and Rhona’s lab?’
A sudden thought openly crossed McNab’s face. ‘Might she have been going to see Rhona?’
‘D’you have Claire’s mobile?’ Magnus said.
‘No. Nor Jackson’s.’
‘Which probably means they’d both provide evidence.’
McNab ran his hand through his dark auburn hair. He looks rough, Magnus thought, but not hungover.
‘Coffee? Strong?’
McNab nodded.
As Magnus set the espresso machine in action, he said, ‘As you know, organized killers often seek to be in control of the proceedings of an investigation, even being seen to take a helpful part in it. Does anyone strike you as doing that?’
McNab gave a ghost of a smile. ‘DS Fleming and most of her consort who did the course would fit that bill.’
Having turned off the sound on his mobile so as not to be interrupted, Magnus now watched it skitter across the desk, indicating an incoming call. Glancing at the screen, he found a name he hadn’t expected.
After their discussion post-lecture, DC Fleming had surprised Magnus by requesting his contact details.
‘The switchboard will put you through to my office or my email is on your course notes,’ had been Magnus’s stock reply.
When she’d asked if she might also have his mobile number, Magnus had been taken aback.
It obviously showed, because she’d come back with, ‘It’s quicker sometimes to speak to someone directly.’
‘Might this be about the course or the tunnel case?’ he’d asked.
‘The course is over, Professor, so I’m not your student any longer,’ she’d reminded him with a smile. ‘I might, however, want to talk to you further about the case.’
Magnus had hoped his disappointment that the reason wasn’t personal hadn’t shown on his face.
The mobile still vibrating, he collected himself and answered it, aware that McNab was watching.
‘DC Fleming,’ he said for McNab’s benefit.
‘Are you free later? I’d like to run an idea past you. We could meet for a drink to discuss?’
‘Okay,’ Magnus managed. ‘Where suits you?’
She named a bar not far from his flat. Did she know where he lived?
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘What time?’
Ringing off, Magnus faced McNab. ‘DC Fleming wants to meet for a drink to discuss the case.’
‘I didn’t know you were that close.’
‘We’re not,’ Magnus stressed. ‘She wants to run an idea past me.’
‘Why not her superior?’
‘She agreed with you before anyone else did,’ Magnus found himself defending her.
‘And she wants to get closer to the investigation than she is at present,’ McNab said.
Maybe that was it, Magnus thought. Maybe he was being used to get closer to the investigation. To perhaps discover his take on it. Maybe even to use it in her dissertation?
‘Go for it, Professor,’ McNab urged. ‘I’ll expect a full report after the event.’
58
It had been so different the last time.
If she’d known as early as this, would she have made the decision as quickly as she was doing now?
There had been no helpful online services back then. No little videos with a kind voice narrating about the difference between a medical and a surgical procedure.
No message that it was her body, her choice.
Rhona felt uncomfortable with that message. Not because she didn’t believe it, but because each time she heard it, she thought of Sean’s look of concern when he’d departed after bringing back the cat. His kiss and promise to check in with her tomorrow. His final request that she ‘be careful’.
As for McNab’s tone and expression as he’d told his own story of lost fatherhood …
Now would be the time, Rhona thought, to look back at snaps of Liam as a baby. His birthday parties, Christmases. Remind herself of what it meant to be a mother. But that wasn’t possible. Only his adoptive mother had been around for any of that.
All she had was that first glance at her newly born son, the scent of him, the tiny face, the puckered lips, his cry that even now, when remembered, tore at her heart.
Rhona forbade herself such thoughts and, steeling herself, dialled the number presented on the screen. Almost immediately a female voice answered. Rhona took a deep breath and explained her situation.
‘When would suit you to come in?’
‘As soon as possible,’ Rhona said.
Minutes later, with a date and time agreed, she rang off.
It had been as easy as that.
With the decision made, the nausea seemed already in retreat, suggesting anxiety had played a major part in its presence.
And she actually felt hungry.
Rhona fetched the new loaf Sean had bought and contemplated frying some bacon to go with it. The fact she could now think of fried bacon without feeling sick felt like freedom.
She put on the pan and fetched the bacon and eggs from the fridge.
Tom in the meantime had taken to mewing at the kitchen window, annoyed that his route to the roof was being denied. Rhona spoke softly to him, rubbing his ears as he liked, explaining why he couldn’t go up there.
Yet why not?
The seagull ca
rcass was wrapped up safely in the fridge. There was nothing now to do Tom any harm. He could have his freedom back, just like her.
Rhona unlocked the window and opened it, and with a rich purr of delight, Tom was out and darting upwards.
Breathing in the scent of frying bacon, Rhona buttered two thick slices of bread in anticipation, then added an egg to the frying pan.
For the first time in days, she began to feel human. Not exactly well, but not, as McNab would term it, ‘like shite’.
But you got to this point by lying, a small voice reminded her. By omission at least.
Added to that, she’d included McNab in her secret. That, if anything, was a betrayal of Sean. The feeling of freedom was beginning to dissipate. She knew her secret would be safe with McNab, but it would bind them together, just like the last one had.
And secrets had power.
McNab was right. She would have to tell Sean. The question was when. Before or after she had the termination?
Rhona pushed the plate away.
Somehow bacon and eggs didn’t seem as enticing after all.
In times like this she had always sought refuge in her work. McNab had been right about that too. She might be off the case, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t work. The plan had been that Chrissy would keep her informed of developments. Rhona was in little doubt that she would keep her word.
Abandoning her meal, Rhona retreated to the sitting room with her laptop. From the window, she was no longer certain if there was still a police presence near the yew tree, although she suspected there would be. Soil expert and colleague Dr Jen Mackie, who’d helped her on the Sanday case, had been drafted in, initially on the identification of the soil found on Andrew Jackson’s shoes, and now to try and decipher the path Claire Masters had taken to her death, and who, if anyone, might have accompanied her there.
Settling down on the sofa, feet up, Rhona first scanned for Chrissy’s emails, of which there were a number. Reading them in chronological order, she found the first to be a detailed report on the strategy meeting, with a full account of McNab’s contribution, which appeared to have been dominated by his angry response to her situation and his theory that she’d been set up by the perpetrator.
‘God, he was great. I couldn’t have said it better myself,’ was Chrissy’s response.
