by Lin Anderson
‘Like from Bute, where we’re headed?’ His eyes had lit up at this.
Ellie had shaken her head. ‘No, but I had holidays there when I was a wee girl.’
‘Are you on holiday now?’ He appeared to like that idea.
Ellie knew she was painting herself into a corner, but once you started lying …
‘I decided to take to the road for a few days. Saw the ferry … and got on. Not sure where next.’
Garthe nodded. ‘I like solo rides. Don’t have to agree where to go next, although I am aiming for Thunder in the Glens by the weekend.’
‘Thunder in the Glens,’ Ellie said, aghast. ‘I’ve forgotten it was this weekend.’
God, Roddie would be mad at her. She’d promised to help out in the shop in Aviemore over the Thunder weekend.
‘You been before?’
‘I have. I work part-time at West Coast Harley in Glasgow. They usually have a stall there.’
‘My first visit,’ Garthe had said. ‘Looking forward to it. I take it you’re not on the stall this year?’
She should be. Or maybe she wouldn’t have a job at West Coast to go back to.
Ellie had made a non-committal sound at that point, already wondering if that’s where she should go.
In the end she had, but not with Garthe. Chances were they might bump into one another here, although with around four thousand bikers, that wasn’t a certainty.
Ellie shut up the tent and, grabbing her bag, headed for the path that took her past the supermarket car park and into the village centre. The annual HD pilgrimage to Aviemore was in its twentieth year. According to her neighbours in the motorhomes who’d driven here from Germany and Italy respectfully, it was now the largest Harley-Davidson rally in Europe.
Ellie could well believe it as she joined the crowds and roaring bikes heading onto the one and only main street where various venues offered food, drink and music from open stages.
Her heart lifted at the sight of so many kindred spirits and, for the first time since that night in the tunnel, Ellie felt safe. Safety in numbers. Safety among her own kind.
She’d already called Roddie, apologized for pissing him around, swore all was well now and that she’d be in Aviemore as promised. His response had been decidedly cool. He’d also revealed that McNab had been to the shop, ‘throwing his weight about’, but he’d told him nothing, as requested.
‘I take it it’s over between you two?’ he’d said hopefully.
Ellie had muttered a ‘yes’ and hung up, feeling she’d now betrayed McNab yet again.
The truth was, she thought, as she bought a drink at one of the open-air bars, there was no way she and McNab could be together. Not after what had happened.
Not after what she’d done.
She carried her wine out to a vacant place near the perimeter wall and perched there, glad to be back among friendly faces. She realized she was even open to someone striking up a conversation, something she’d been studiously avoiding since she’d left Glasgow. Camping wild, buying just enough food to get by, with no pub visits, she’d been avoiding company and news.
Tomorrow she would have to report to the shop and face Roddie, who would no doubt try to get to the bottom of her disappearance and what that had had to do with the law. Until then, Ellie decided, she would relax, maybe even get a little drunk.
She supped some more of the pink liquid that was masquerading as rosé wine and contemplated switching to a local beer instead. Swallowing the remainder, she binned the plastic glass and headed inside to the main bar.
A solitary TV was playing silently on one wall, the statutory line of news running along the bottom. Ellie instantly recognized the image on the screen as Glasgow University with Kelvingrove Park below. Turning away, Ellie gave her order to the barman.
‘Which one?’ he said with a bemused look, pointing to a row of local beers.
‘Choose for me,’ she suggested.
‘Okay.’ He rose to the challenge with a smile. ‘Let’s see, what bike do you ride?’
‘A Fat Bob.’ She met his smile with one of her own.
He widened his eyes in appreciation. ‘Cool. Then I think it’s a Wildcat for you.’
Ellie didn’t bother asking why, but she appreciated his patter. ‘Okay, I’ll try a pint of that.’ While he poured, she glanced back at the screen where the image had changed to police activity among the trees. Along the bottom ran the words: Body found in the park identified as twenty-three-year-old Claire Masters. Police suspect a link to the London Road tunnel murder of Andrew Jackson, a male model.
Ellie gripped the counter, her legs no longer capable of holding her up.
‘You okay?’ The barman, spotting this, came swiftly out, and without fuss steered her to a nearby seat. Ellie sank down gratefully.
‘I’ll fetch your pint.’
Setting it down, he appeared to be awaiting an explanation.
‘I’ve been on the road for days,’ Ellie said. ‘I probably just need some food.’
‘I ordered a fish and chips too many on the last order. Would that do?’
‘Please,’ she said gratefully.
‘Coming right up.’
Ellie took a long draught of the pint and, despite her best efforts, found her eyes drawn again to the screen, but the image and message had changed and she began to wonder or maybe hope that she’d only imagined what she’d read there.
When the barman returned with her meal, Ellie thanked him and assured him she was fine. Then offered to pay.
‘On me,’ he said. ‘If you let me admire the Fat Bob sometime over the weekend?’
It was a come-on, but in the nicest possible way. ‘Visit the West Coast Harley tent and you shall meet Fat Bob in person,’ Ellie said.
‘Great.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Kenny West by the way.’
‘Ellie Macmillan.’
‘See you later then.’ He gave her a big smile before heading off.
Turning away from the TV, Ellie concentrated solely on her meal. It worked for a while, at least until, from the corner of her eye, she realized the piece on the Glasgow murder was being repeated.
The guy they’d found in the tunnel had been murdered.
Pushing her half-eaten food away, Ellie reached for the beer glass, her hand trembling.
Despite everything that had happened down there, she’d thought or convinced herself that it had been a suicide, however much that had upset her because of Danny.
But murder?
A sudden memory of that night swept over her. She could smell again the damp tunnel, see the others grouped together, their shocked faces caught in her headlight.
Ellie withdrew her hand from the glass, suddenly recalling the touch of skin under her fingers, the faintness of a pulse. Fear consumed her and somewhere in that fear the bright searching light of a distant torch found her face.
He saw me. He knows what I look like.
And, a little voice reminded her … he has your mobile number.
How was that even possible?
She hadn’t recognized the muffled voice, but then again she’d been too stunned and frightened to even think. Could she have known the person down there? How would they have her number?
But, Ellie acknowledged, she’d given her number out freely. It was on her card for the Ink Parlour. It was on her card for the Harley shop. Anyone could get hold of her number, but they would have to know who she was first and what she did, and the Harley link was pretty obvious.
Maybe it was someone who knew we were down there racing that night. Someone like Dougie?
Ellie had no idea how much Izzy confided in Dougie. How often she even saw him. She suddenly realized that Izzy had every right to be angry with her. When Izzy had met Dougie at the Rock Cafe and learned from him about the tunnel and its possibility as a racing venue, Ellie had encouraged Izzy to work on him. Persuade him to give them access.
Had Izzy broken up with Dougie in the wake of the incident and
given him back the keys? Could that have provoked the call to her out of spite? Dougie would have known about the body from the news, but how could he have known there might have been a pulse?
Only the killer would know that.
And it looked like the killer had struck again.
62
Rhona had contemplated using the car now that Conor had switched tyres, but it was such a fine evening that she’d decided to walk to the lab instead. That way she could also check out the continuing police presence near the locus.
She might not be permitted to work on the case, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t keep abreast of developments, and if Jen was still there, that would be possible.
Jen’s profile of the deposits found on Jackson’s clothing and footwear, as well as identifying the geological make-up of the tunnel floor, had also indicated traces of decomposing moss, urine, faeces, wild grasses and man-made hydrocarbons. All these combined to identify the victim’s entry point as via the wasteland at the old Bridgeton station. Similar deposits would exist on anyone who’d accompanied him on his route.
Useful, but only if they identified a suspect and obtained their clothing and footwear to examine.
As Rhona approached the outer cordon, she registered how different this locus was to the London Street tunnel. With a mix of high and low trees, shrubs and understorey vegetation, Jen would be sampling around any area where someone had likely stood. The yew needles and seeds would be in abundance and easily picked up underfoot or on clothing.
Spotting the officer on duty at the cordon, Rhona introduced herself. ‘I wondered if Dr Mackie was still on site?’ she enquired.
‘She is.’ He hesitated and Rhona knew he was pondering whether he should allow her to cross the boundary.
Rhona saved him the bother.
‘If you could say I’m here and there’s no rush. I’ll wait here for a bit.’
‘Okay, Dr MacLeod,’ he said, relieved. ‘Be right back.’
Her view of the undergrowth signalled perhaps up to four people working the area, indicating Jen had likely brought some of her technicians with her.
Five minutes later, Jen appeared, although well disguised in the PPE suit, her identity only truly confirmed when the protective cap came off and her glorious mop of chestnut hair was revealed. With a characteristic grin, she waved across at Rhona.
‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ Rhona said as she approached.
‘You haven’t. We’re just finishing up.’ She gestured to her vehicle parked up behind the police contingent. ‘I have a flask of very good coffee. Want to share it with me?’
Rhona wondered if coffee was a wise move on her part, but smiled her acceptance anyway.
Once outside the confines of the forensic suit and seated in the car, Jen gave Rhona the onceover.
‘What the hell are they thinking about taking you off the case?’
‘It’s the procedure in such circumstances,’ Rhona countered.
‘I could say fuck procedure, but since we both know how important it is for us to cover all our bases, I won’t.’ She sighed and handed Rhona her share of the coffee.
It smelt hot and delicious, just as promised. Rhona took a cautious sip and made an appreciative face.
‘I heard DS McNab was your champion at the strategy meeting and told Sutherland exactly what was going on.’ By her expression, Jen obviously approved.
Rhona gave a wry smile. ‘So Chrissy tells me,’ she said, before swiftly steering the conversation away from herself to the locus.
‘Well,’ Jen began. ‘We’ve sampled all the contact points – surface vegetation, soil west of the footfall of people who visited the scene. I have soil traces from the victim’s feet. At first inspection I’d say she walked to the site from the south end, rather than was carried. Further prints suggest someone joined her there, coming from the direction of the university.’
‘The university?’ Rhona said, startled by this news.
Jen gave a little nod. ‘Whoever it was left the tarred path about halfway down and cut through the undergrowth to the clearing.’
The path she referred to was the one Rhona used regularly to gain access to the park and to walk home. The path she’d hurried down when she’d received McNab’s frantic phone call.
Jen came back in then. ‘Have we any idea why she came to the yew tree?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ Rhona said. ‘Unless it was to meet someone.’
‘And the postmortem?’
‘I wasn’t in attendance,’ Rhona said, ‘but Dr Walker dismissed suicidal hanging as the cause of death. Toxicology is checking for taxine.’
‘If it worked for him the last time …’ Jen said, looking to Rhona.
‘It did. The report from Toxicology just came in.’
Jen glanced towards the trees, her expression both serious and sorrowful. ‘Yew poisoning appears to be his thing. And a preoccupation with the sins of the departed, according to Professor Pirie.’
Rhona’s eyes followed Jen’s towards the trees as she contemplated her words. Bread, wine, poison and death, because of a perceived sin? Or was the presence of the last supper just a ruse to confuse those who sought to understand the motive behind the killings?
Rhona didn’t know the answer to that question, but the manner in which her own life had recently played out reflected a not-dissimilar pattern, especially once you added in the weird phone call and the poisoned gull on her kitchen floor and Tom’s possible poisoning.
‘You okay?’ Jen said. ‘You look a little washed out.’
Rhona assured her she was fine, swallowing down the remainder of the coffee as evidence. ‘I’m just heading to the lab.’
‘It’s a bit late for work …’ Jen said.
‘I like the lab when it’s quiet. I’m better able to think.’
Jen indicated she understood such a sentiment. ‘I’ll be in touch then,’ she promised, gesturing to the yellow crime scene tape. ‘About this.’
‘I’m not officially on the case,’ Rhona reminded her.
‘Then we’ll meet for a drink and a gossip as usual,’ Jen said with a conspiratorial smile.
Rhona opened the car door and, lifting out the bag containing the dead seagull, said her goodbyes.
Night was falling when Rhona finally departed the lab building, minus the gull carcass, which was now safely stored in the fridge, a sample taken from it and dispatched to Toxicology.
Exiting the university via the cloisters, she headed for the path she and Jen had discussed earlier, stopping for a moment at the flagpole to admire one of the plethora of views possible from the long frontage of the Gothic structure.
The night air was full of fragrance from a nearby bed of yellow dwarf roses and Rhona breathed in their scent. A setting sun had found the russet sandstone of the distant Art Gallery, setting it ablaze.
Drawing her eyes back, Rhona found herself focusing on the dark mass of trees that had hidden Claire Masters, reminding herself that Claire wasn’t the first murder victim she’d processed within the park.
She stood for a moment, remembering. The trees hadn’t been as mature back then, the undergrowth less dense, the view to the wide green expanse of the park more open.
And it had been a young male, a teenager, whose body they’d discovered there, a brutal sexually motivated death, and not the last before they’d finally identified his killer.
The case had coincided with her own search for Liam. No, she corrected herself, it had been the discovery of the perpetrator’s second victim that had prompted her search.
A young university student, he’d looked so like her she’d initially thought he might be the son she’d given up for adoption seventeen years before.
Guilt had prompted her search. Guilt because it might have been Liam who’d died that terrible death in that hideous little room.
Even now after all this time, after making contact with Liam, who was alive and well, Rhona could still revisit the scene
of that terrible night in her mind when she’d looked down on a face that so closely resembled her own.
‘Rhona?’ a voice called her from behind.
Startled, Rhona turned to discover Conor Williams approaching, wheeling his bike. ‘I thought it was you. My, you’ve been working late.’
‘As have you,’ Rhona deflected his question, then remembered, ‘But your work happens at night.’
‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ve settled them down and left Ray in charge. Ray’s the guy who’s on your course?’
Rhona tried the name, but it didn’t ring a bell. ‘Sorry, but there are a lot of them. So what does Ray do while your patients are getting a good night’s sleep?’
‘He stays awake, I hope. Checks on their monitoring and I believe he watches stuff on Amazon Prime, plays games and listens to music. Or so he says and I have to believe him.’ He paused. ‘I take it you’re heading home?’
‘I am.’
‘May I walk with you?’
‘But you have your bike,’ Rhona pointed out.
‘A bike is poor company. No conversation.’
Rhona accepted Conor’s offer, realizing she would actually be quite pleased to have a companion, through the park at least.
As they descended the path, Conor glanced towards the locus. ‘Terrible thing, the death of that young girl. And they said on the news it was linked to Andrew’s death, which they’re now calling murder.’
When Rhona didn’t respond, Conor apologized. ‘You can’t discuss it, I know.’
‘The police have announced the two are linked, yes, but I’m not working the case any longer,’ Rhona said, deciding to be forthright with him.
‘Oh.’ He appeared taken aback by that. ‘Should I ask why?’
‘You can, but I’m not at liberty to say.’
They walked on in silence for a bit, the whirr of his bike wheels a comforting background sound. The park was by no means deserted. In fact people were taking advantage of the warm evening and clear sky. Rhona wondered how many people had been about when Claire had come here. How many had contacted the police with sightings.
As if guessing her thoughts, Conor said, ‘I walk past here most days. I didn’t see anyone matching Claire’s description.’ He sounded as though he wished he had.
