by Lin Anderson
‘Hopefully, someone will have,’ Rhona said.
A burst of laughter from a nearby group gathered round the glow of a disposable barbecue and the distant sound of a musical concert at the open-air Kelvingrove bandstand seemed to belie the horror that had happened here.
‘They’re still working the scene, I see?’ Conor said, thoughtfully.
‘Forensic soil expert is on the job now,’ Rhona told him.
‘Gosh, that thorough?’
‘That thorough,’ Rhona assured him. ‘Perpetrators forget that wherever they go they gather evidence about that place on them. Microscopic, but there none the less. And there’s a soil map of the whole of Scotland.’
Conor looked impressed, but even as she said this, a feeling of doom crept over Rhona. A sense that however hard they might strive to find the killer, somehow he would outmatch them. Using the tools they, or perhaps she, had given him.
Yet she didn’t think McNab and many of his fellow officers like DC Fleming were right in their desire to keep the general populace ignorant of the developments in detection.
Ordinary men and women would be called to jury duty when they did catch the perpetrator. They would be presented with the type of forensic and psychological material delivered in the course. And they would have to try and understand it, and come to a verdict.
The more educated the general population was, the better the courts could do their job.
‘Penny for them,’ Conor said after her long silence.
‘Just work,’ she said. ‘It does become all-consuming.’
‘How’s the sleep pattern? Did you make use of my aid?’
‘I did,’ Rhona said, ‘and it seemed to work. Either that or a big meal and half a bottle of wine were responsible.’ She thought back. ‘I went out like a light. Only heard the opening bit, then nothing until the morning.’
‘Good,’ Conor said. ‘Any more night paralysis?’
Rhona shook her head. ‘Thankfully, no.’ Although who knew what would happen tonight after the day’s events?
They had already crossed University Avenue and were on one of the bridges that spanned the River Kelvin, the banks of which were cast in deep shadow, although you could hear the rush of the river below.
In maybe ten minutes, they would reach the point of departure, where Conor would set off on his bike to his own flat and she would climb the steps to hers. Rhona could read the situation well enough to know that at that moment Conor would say something.
Ask her if she was in a relationship. Ask her out to dinner. Something.
At another time, she could well have said yes. Even now, in the strange hiatus in her relationship with Sean and the predicament she found herself in. Conor was a nice guy. She liked him. It was obvious he liked her. He hadn’t been easily put off, and yet he hadn’t come on too strong. A rare combination. Rhona decided to clear one thing up at least.
‘Did you perchance leave a bottle of very good red wine at my front door after we met in the park?’
Conor looked startled by her sudden question, and mildly embarrassed. ‘No. Should I have?’
Rhona laughed. ‘No. It’s just someone did. I drank it, even though I’m not a fan of red.’
‘I take it there was nothing else available at the time?’ he said with a smile.
‘It was a bit like that,’ Rhona admitted.
‘Was that the one that helped with the night’s sleep?’ Conor said.
‘No. That was a different one. White. Good quality too.’
‘Your secret admirer left a second bottle?’ Conor sounded as though he thought himself already out of the running, by omission at least.
‘No.’ Rhona almost said it was Sean, then changed it to, ‘That one was bought.’
‘Well, I suppose I should countenance against too much wine as, although it can send you to sleep quickly, the sleep it induces is not favourable to your well-being.’
‘Sound advice,’ Rhona said. ‘And besides, your sleep aid is free,’ she joked.
They had reached the steps.
‘I was wondering …’ Conor began.
63
It was late and she should go to bed, if she was to achieve the hours Conor said were required. Rhona smiled, remembering his intensity whenever he spoke of sleep and its absolute necessity for human health.
She should go to bed, but found herself unable to do so, aware that the likelihood was she would simply lie there, her brain torturing itself with the thought of what would happen tomorrow.
And I haven’t spoken to Sean yet.
Rhona glanced at her mobile. If she called him, he would come over. She could tell him and explain her decision.
That made it all sound so easy, as though he were merely a bystander in the predicament she found herself in. Someone like the woman she’d spoken to on the phone. A neutral voice, kind and non-judgemental.
My body. My decision.
But there was something about Sean she was choosing not to remember. That he had a wife, Kitty Maguire. According to Sean, they’d married at seventeen, ‘because she thought she was pregnant. So, like a good Catholic boy, I married her. Only there wasn’t a baby, only a ring and a priest.’ Sean had sounded sad about that.
When Rhona had suggested Kitty had tried to trap him, Sean had been vociferous in his denial. ‘I trapped her,’ he’d said. ‘I fucked her when I should have kept my cock in my pants, like my granny told me. Twenty years ago, where I come from, that was the crime.’
Rhona laid a hand on her abdomen, knowing there wouldn’t be, couldn’t be any response, although she didn’t doubt the fact that she was pregnant.
You didn’t have to be a scientist to know that with the type of pill she was on, she should have been more careful about taking it at the same time every day. Being late with a dose or skipping one altogether meant her hormone levels could quickly drop, which in turn would cause her to ovulate and greatly increase her chances of getting pregnant. On missing a dose, she should have used a condom or simply avoided sex for the next month.
Had she forgotten that or had she simply grown reckless?
Rhona roused herself from her bout of introspection and went to lock the door. Catching the scent of the slow-cooked ham emanating from the kitchen, she suddenly felt hungry. Tom had smelt it too and, having had enough of the freedom of the roof, wound himself round her legs, mewing in supplication.
As she lifted the gammon onto a plate, Rhona noticed that the slow cooker was set at off, which was odd. Had Sean come back, even though she’d told him not to? Barely warm to the touch, it had obviously been off for a while.
Sean, she reasoned, must have returned perhaps to see how she was, only to discover she’d gone out. Rhona checked her mobile which had been turned to silent, but there was no message from him via text or voicemail.
Whatever guilt she’d been experiencing regarding Sean had just been magnified. Swearing under her breath, Rhona went to the fridge, fetched the remains of the white wine and poured herself a glass.
Times had changed since she was first pregnant, she reminded herself. Now, there was even conflicting advice being given out on the need for complete abstinence during pregnancy.
But she didn’t intend to get past three weeks, anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, having eaten her fill of both bread and ham to no ill effect, Rhona rose from the table only to find that, although her stomach was okay, she was definitely lightheaded.
Sitting down again to regain her composure, she watched as the world of the kitchen began to rotate about her like some slow-moving fairground ride.
‘This isn’t funny,’ she said sharply, although the words to her ears sounded long drawn out and hardly recognizable.
Fear entered now, wriggling snake-like into her thoughts. Pregnancy might make you lightheaded, but it didn’t slur your speech or distort your vision.
Yet still a small area of her brain clung on to rationality and that bit knew she would have to lie down
, just not on the moving deck that her kitchen floor had become. Her bedroom was the goal, but could she make her legs take her there? And how to stop the room from spinning in the interim?
As Rhona forced herself to her feet again, she suddenly understood why this was happening. Somehow her brain, even in its confused state, had accumulated all the symptoms – the difficulty speaking, the loss of balance, the disturbed vision – and presented her with a diagnosis.
She’d ingested a drug, probably via the wine. Immediately, possible names presented themselves like a roll call: Gamma-hydroxybutyrate, ketamine, rohypnol. Date-rape drugs commonly given with alcohol to multiply and accelerate their effects.
Knowing unconsciousness would swiftly follow, Rhona made a desperate grab for her mobile and met the wine bottle, sending it rolling across the table, propelling the phone with it.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
The bottle met the floor with a resounding crash, its fragments scattering across the surface like tiny jewels to her drug-fuelled eyes.
Rhona sought and found the mobile among the debris.
Summoning what little control of her body she had left, Rhona slid to the undulating floor like a rag doll, her limp arms outstretched, desperate to make that emergency call before her inevitable drop into unconsciousness.
In that moment, somewhere between hallucination and rationality, Rhona saw it.
Hunch-backed, dark and brooding, it squatted in the corner of the room, watching and waiting. The demon in the Fuseli painting had come, and this time it was for her.
64
McNab stood in silence, waiting.
It would have been easier not to ask, but he’d given the boss his word not to go AWOL this time round. Instead, he’d come and told him where Ollie believed Ellie was.
Finally, the tall, spare figure turned from the window.
‘Has she been in touch with anyone since the call to you?’
McNab indicated she hadn’t. ‘I checked with her supervisor at the shop, Roddie Symes. He maintains she hasn’t made contact.’ McNab paused there. Izzy he’d believed when she’d said the same, but he hadn’t liked Symes’s attitude and thought he was probably lying. ‘Having said that, sir,’ McNab continued, ‘he may be covering for Ellie. She’s asked him to do that before now.’
‘Will Symes be at the rally in Aviemore?’
‘West Coast Harley always have a stall at it.’
‘And Ellie might go there?’
McNab nodded. ‘I assume so.’
‘What about the guy who supplied them with the keys for the tunnel?’ DI Wilson asked.
‘DS Clark checked him out. He’s not a threat, she says, and his story matches Ellie’s.’ McNab cautiously returned to his subject. ‘About Ellie, sir?’
DI Wilson turned again to his view of Glasgow. Beyond him, McNab could make out the familiar morning skyline. McNab knew the boss was aware he was angling to go north, alone, to try and locate Ellie.
Even though I fucking hate the countryside.
McNab took a deep breath, knowing the response was about to come.
‘Tell the Aviemore police you’re on your way and give them a description of Ellie. Don’t inform West Coast Harley. If Ellie knows more than she’s said already, she may be in danger.’ He didn’t add ‘like Claire Masters’, but McNab knew that’s who he meant. ‘I want her back here and under our watchful eye.’
McNab let go his breath.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He hesitated, knowing he could screw the whole thing up with his next enquiry. ‘There’s one other thing, sir?’
McNab handed him the papers that had been delivered from Mary along with the bike. After casting his eye over them, the boss shot him a perplexed look, though not, McNab noted, without humour.
‘We’re talking about the wife of Davey Grant here?’ He raised an eyebrow.
McNab nodded. ‘The bike’s hers to give, sir.’
‘Are you playing this woman, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir,’ McNab said truthfully.
‘Then I have nothing to say on the matter.’
‘If I go by bike—’ McNab began.
‘You’ll blend in,’ the boss finished for him. ‘Think you can ride that distance? It’s been a long time since you were on the bikes.’
‘I’ll find that out, sir,’ McNab said. ‘And, sir, if she’s moved on, it’ll be easier to follow her.’
Emerging minutes later, McNab had a smile on his face. He’d taken a chance mentioning the bike along with the trip north, but after the boss had indicated DCI Sutherland’s displeasure at his performance in the strategy meeting, and the DCI’s order that the detective sergeant take a much lower profile in the current case, McNab had decided it was worth a try.
And it seemed the boss had been on his side. Keeping him on the case, but giving him a role well below the DCI’s radar, and having a stab at locating Ellie and bringing her in at the same time.
For once it seemed things were going his way.
McIvor had deserted his post at the desk and was hanging about the entrance, savouring the said bike through the glass doors, envy written all over his face. He wasn’t the only one, McNab noted as he went outside, fully kitted up via Mary, and glanced up at the windows.
McIvor had followed him, keen to get nearer the object of interest and envy.
‘You do know what you have there?’ he said.
‘No. You tell me,’ McNab said, although he’d already gained his knowledge on the bike via Mr Google.
‘A top of the range CVO Street Glide.’ McIvor’s eyes popped as he said this. ‘Limited edition. See that badge? That means it’s one of only two hundred of these beauties. You know how much these cost?’ McIvor was waiting for an answer.
‘It was a gift,’ McNab said, as though he didn’t wish to discuss money.
‘Jeez, some friends you’ve got.’
The word would get out soon enough where it had come from and he would be punished for it by his colleagues. But McNab didn’t care. The boss had okayed it. Anyone else could go fuck themselves.
Even as he climbed aboard, he knew there would be a price to pay, and most likely the demand would come from Mary. But for the moment he would pretend it was a gift, freely given and accepted, with no strings attached.
As he roared away for the benefit of his colleagues in the upper windows, McNab remembered he hadn’t checked on Rhona this morning. He knew she wouldn’t tell him what she’d decided, but he could at least have gauged from her voice if she was okay about it.
Rhona’s not your responsibility, McNab reminded himself. And she would be the first to tell you that.
Besides, he had his own woman to find.
65
When he tried McNab’s mobile after the morning lecture, it went to voicemail again. Frustrated, Magnus considered leaving a message explaining why he needed to see the detective sergeant, but in the end he just said, ‘Call me.’
He could of course try via the police station. If McNab was in a meeting, they would at least give him a message when he came out.
Magnus dispensed with that idea. McNab was wedded to his mobile. If he wasn’t responding it was because he couldn’t.
After McNab had departed the previous evening, Magnus had headed home with the dissertation list, his aim being to study it in more detail and compare the titles with the background details of the participants on the taught course.
Which had proved to be sufficiently interesting to make him want to run it past McNab.
They could, Magnus acknowledged, be spending too much time and energy on that particular line of enquiry, but the investigating team, he knew, were covering a much wider remit. Although, according to DC Fleming, they’d come up with nothing as yet to give them a lead on the perpetrator.
Magnus checked his watch, establishing he had just twenty minutes before he was due at a faculty meeting about next session’s intake. His hope of making contact with DS McNab fading, he helped himself to the new
ly brewed coffee and contemplated the previous evening’s meeting with DC Fleming.
From the onset it had become clear, to his psychologist persona anyway, that DC Fleming had no interest in him personally. The suggestion that they have a drink together had been for the relay of information only.
Magnus suspected that he’d proved a disappointment on that front, providing less than she’d hoped for. As for DC Fleming, she’d given her information freely, but it was, Magnus suspected, already available to him through the usual channels.
One thing she’d wanted to know more about was the soil and vegetation analysis of both loci, which had struck Magnus as interesting. The detail of such scientific data wasn’t normally discussed at the strategy meetings. When he’d told her so, she’d seemed disappointed, mentioning that the topic had featured in a lecture in the course given by a Dr Mackie, a colleague of Dr MacLeod’s.
Once Magnus had pleaded ignorance on this, she’d seemed to lose interest and had swiftly finished her drink and indicated she had to leave.
They had parted on friendly terms, Magnus did acknowledge that, with even a suggestion that they could try this again, maybe after we’ve caught the bastard.
Magnus didn’t hold out much hope of a developing relationship, having decided he was a necessity in DC Fleming’s world only as far as passing her diploma and helping in her attempt to move up the ladder.
Still, Magnus smiled in memory, he did admire her tenacity and grasp of the psychology of interview techniques. DC Fleming, he decided, was definite promotional material.
His interest piqued by her focus on the forensic soil aspects, Magnus took a quick look down the list again, recalling at least one that had referenced soil science. It had been submitted by a Ray Howden, who was a volunteer with Dr Conor Williams at the sleep clinic. Reading that reminded Magnus that he had, at Rhona’s request, been asked to contact Dr Williams about his response to Andrew Jackson’s death and had failed to do so.
Although, Magnus reasoned, Dr Williams could hardly blame himself now that Jackson’s death was no longer considered a suicide. Still, it might be useful to talk it over with him.
With a quick glance at his watch, Magnus took a last look at the titles he’d singled out, together with his noted reasons alongside.
