by Lin Anderson
The scent eventually led him to the back door. She was sitting on the wall, enticing a seagull with a piece of bannock taken from his bread bin. It was a dangerous endeavour. The gull, eyes protruding with desire, screeched above her. It finally swooped and she flapped it away. It dived again, more determined this time. Before the beak met the bread, she had thrown it into the water. She ducked as the gull swooped past her, the beak barely missing her head.
A risk taker, Magnus thought, but it didn’t need a psychologist to work that one out.
Suddenly bored with her play, she threw the remainder of the bannock into the water and three more gulls arrived to fight over it. Angry, threatening squawks, fury-filled eyes and pecking beaks followed her action, causing a satisfied smile.
‘Hello?’ Magnus said.
She took time to turn, although it was obvious she’d heard him. When she did, Magnus saw a heavily made-up face, long straight black hair, a nose ring and pale pink lips. The effect in the darkness of a club might have been attractive. In bright June sunshine she had the look of a pretty clown.
Now she was examining him. His face first, then his upper body, finally fastening her intent gaze on his crotch. Psychopaths, Magnus could deal with. Sexually blatant young women he found more of a challenge. He refrained from shielding his privates from her exploratory stare, but with some difficulty.
Eventually her eyes rose to his face, to check if she had unnerved him. Magnus strove to assure her by his expression that she had not, with some success. Annoyance clouded her eyes and her mouth formed a petulant pout.
‘Can I help you?’ Magnus offered.
She slid off the wall and sidled towards him. Dressed in skin-tight jeans and a short top, further piercings became evident. Under the make-up, he judged her to be in her late teens. She came close enough to make him want to step back. Magnus chose not to. He was a great deal taller than she was, which put her head mid chest.
She ran her finger up his left thigh. Just in time, Magnus caught her thin wrist in his large hand.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
She tried to free herself and Magnus tightened his grip. ‘Well?’
She sagged and her eyes misted with tears. Fearing he may have hurt her, Magnus let go.
At this, she gave a triumphant laugh and strutted back to the wall, rubbing her wrist. Settling herself on top, she pulled out a joint and lit it. The pungent smell wafted towards Magnus. He had a sudden image of his elderly neighbour, Mrs Clouston, coming in for a visit, to find him here with a pot-smoking teenager.
‘So are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ he said.
She regarded him for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision.
‘The girl at Brodgar. How did she die?’
‘Did you know her?’ Magnus asked.
‘I want to know how she died,’ she repeated.
‘They’re not sure,’ Magnus said quietly. ‘But if you think you know who she is—’
She cut him off before he could finish. ‘I know she was a stupid bitch,’ she spat at him.
‘Why was she stupid?’
‘She meddled in things she shouldn’t have.’ A flicker of fear crossed her face.
‘What sort of things?’
She contemplated him for a moment then nipped the joint and stuck it in her pocket, and slid off the wall. Magnus realized she was about to leave and he’d learned nothing. He stepped in front of her.
‘Did Tanya send you?’
She looked blank. ‘Who’s Tanya?’
Something in her tone said she was telling the truth. Magnus stood aside. He fired his final shot as she reached the gate that led to the road.
‘I want to find out who killed the girl. Will you help me?’
At first he thought she hadn’t heard him, or else was ignoring his request. Then she paused and turned.
‘Why do you care?’ she said.
‘Because no one deserves to die like that.’
She observed him for a moment, her eyes wide with fright, then she opened the gate, slipped quickly through and was gone.
Magnus wasted precious moments wondering what her visit might mean before realizing he had no idea how the girl had got there. Hurrying through the house, he threw open the front door. There was no sign of her on the single-track road that curved round the bay. Yards away, the vehicle ferry was boarding for Hoy. He searched the passengers, looking for her dark head, but couldn’t spot it. A car was heading swiftly up the track towards the main Orphir road, but it was already too far away for him to tell if she was in it.
Back on the jetty, he contemplated why the girl had sought him out, why he had been tested, and whether she did know something about the dead girl. He ran the entire scene over again in his mind and came to the conclusion she had come here to tell him something. Something that frightened her more than baiting a seagull.
18
The victim was slim but not overtly thin, her hair glossy, her face clear. In life she would have been a healthy, pretty young woman. The only blemishes were the ugly wounds in her hands, exposed now with removal of the two spikes.
Rhona listened as the pathologist recorded the state of the body, making the same judgement as herself. The hands had been pierced after death. How the victim had died was not outwardly obvious. No evidence of bruising, even round the wrists. It seemed the young woman had met her end, in whatever form, without a fight.
Dr Sinclair raised the right arm to check underneath, then the left, this time exposing a tattoo. She motioned Rhona to take a look.
A tattoo was a very personal adornment, especially those hidden from common view. Rhona recognized the symbol almost immediately, having seen it on a young man she’d examined, who’d been washed ashore after a fishing accident.
It was a beautifully fashioned white eagle, with a golden beak and talons, wearing a gold crown, all set within a red shield. The angel wings on either side were elaborate and more feminine than those found on her fisherman, but it was undoubtedly the Polish coat of arms. Below were the words To ja napisze zakonczeme mojej historii, which Rhona couldn’t translate.
Dr Sinclair looked at Rhona over her mask.
‘You recognize the tattoo?’
Rhona explained what it was.
‘Do you know what the words mean?’
‘No.’
‘We have Polish staff in the hospital, including one in the mortuary. Let’s see if we can find out.’
Dr Sinclair waved through the glass at an assistant and requested that Antoni come in. Minutes later a young man appeared.
Dr Sinclair indicated the tattoo.
‘The Polish coat of arms,’ he said immediately.
‘And the inscription?’
He studied it for a moment. ‘Roughly translated, it means “In my story, I write my own ending”.’
Not in this case, Rhona thought sadly.
Two hours later she had learned that the girl had not had sex prior to her death. That she had died sometime during the night before she’d been found. Her stomach contents consisted of fish and chips, much of which wasn’t digested. The internal organs appeared healthy, yet her heart had failed. Heart failure was a mechanism for death in broad terms, but it didn’t indicate the underlying pathology and therefore wasn’t an acceptable cause of death. So the PM was negative and they would test for Long QT, just as in the Glasgow case.
‘We send samples of the skeletal muscle to the Molecular Genetics department at Aberdeen Royal,’ Dr Sinclair told her. ‘They’ll look for the faulty genes associated with Long QT. Toxicology samples go to their Clinical Biochemistry department.’
One young death from Long QT might be a possibility, but two, in similar locations, with a similar signature, didn’t seem possible or probable, unless the perpetrator had worked out how to scare people to death. Which meant they would have to look to toxicology for an explanation.
Once de-robed, Rhona gave McNab a call.
‘Dr MacL
eod. I thought you were lost.’
Rhona ignored the jibe. ‘I’ve just come out of the PM on the Orkney victim.’
She could sense McNab’s impatience as he waited for her to go on.
‘Her hands were pierced after death. There were no other signs of violence. She hadn’t had sex and she was laid out just like the Glasgow victim. This time the hands were arranged to point due southwest and southeast, and she had a stone in her mouth with the number four on it.’
Rhona heard McNab’s muttered ‘Fuck’s sake’ under his breath.
‘How did she die?’
‘The PM was negative. They’re going to check for Long QT and look at toxicology.’
‘Just how common is this Long QT?’
‘Last report I read suggested it could be one in two thousand in that age group, but it doesn’t always lead to sudden adult death. That’s usually brought on by stress, extreme sport or shock.’ She didn’t use the word terror, but it would have been just as apt.
‘When are you back?’ McNab said.
‘Tonight.’
‘Let’s talk tomorrow.’
McNab rang off, mention of Magnus conspicuous by its absence. If McNab chose not to involve Magnus, there was little she could do about it.
The police helicopter had been summoned to an emergency. Dougie had opted to go with it, but Rhona decided to catch the train back to Glasgow. The carriage was busy with summer visitors, which rendered the prospect of working impossible, so she spent the time watching the highland landscape pass her by, this time at ground level.
The journey reminded her how long it had been since she’d ventured north and west. Her holiday trips to Skye had ended abruptly with her father’s death and she’d visited the island only once since then on official business. Forensic experts weren’t in great demand in the remote parts of Scotland, at least not until now.
A call came in from Chrissy as the train entered Drumochter Pass, but it was quickly cut off by the encircling mountains, much to the annoyance of Rhona’s neighbours who were deep in their own mobile conversations, loud and mundane for the most part.
How much of our lives was recorded on mobiles, Rhona thought. Which was probably why the perpetrator had made certain one wasn’t found on the Orkney victim.
A text pinged as the train drew into Perth station. It was an order framed as a request. Chrissy wanted Rhona to come to the jazz club as soon as she got off the train. Rhona said a silent goodbye to a shower and a Chinese takeaway, knowing she would learn more from Chrissy in half an hour than if she read every report written in her absence.
She caught the subway from Buchanan Street to Byres Road, grateful she only had a small overnight case to carry up and down the stairs. Glasgow was enjoying similar weather to Orkney. A clear sky, still bright with midsummer light. Its residents were making the most of it. The outside tables on Ashton Lane were packed, with little standing room on the narrow street. The sandwiches had run out on the train and she had blunted her hunger with crisps and coffee. The smell of food from the various eateries reminded her of how empty her stomach was.
The cool shadow of the basement was in direct contrast to the late sunshine. Rhona stood for a moment at the back of the cavern-like room. All eyes and ears were on Sean and his saxophone. It was a sound and a sight she was used to, yet it often reminded her of the first time she’d watched him play. It had been at a police party in the club to celebrate DI Bill Wilson’s fiftieth birthday. Bill was a big jazz fan, Rhona most definitely not, but she had taken a shine to the saxophonist, as he had to her.
Sean Maguire, part owner of the club, had sought her out during the break, bringing a bottle of red wine to her table and two glasses. Rhona had made no attempt to resist his Irish charm. Sean had walked her home. And the rest was history.
Catching sight of her now, Sean brought the piece to an end and immediately launched into ‘Misty’, a number he knew she liked. Rhona smiled over her thanks.
Chrissy was at the bar, a cocktail glass containing a bright pink concoction in front of her. Quick to recognize the change in melody and the reason for it, she turned to acknowledge Rhona’s arrival. ‘About time,’ she declared.
Rhona ignored the reprimand and ordered a large glass of white wine and another packet of crisps, real food having become a distant dream.
‘Well?’ Chrissy said.
‘Well what?’
Chrissy sighed in exasperation. ‘How did the Orkney one die?’
‘The PM was inconclusive. They’re testing for Long QT.’
‘Seems to be an epidemic of that. I wonder if our medium foresaw that one.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Word is McNab went back to the church alone. Gave Menzies a hard time. So bad he called Janice.’
‘Did he register a complaint?’
‘Patrick Menzies knows Janice and her mother. He didn’t want to make a fuss.’
‘Has McNab referred to the Orkney case yet at any of the team meetings?’ Rhona said.
‘No, but DC Watt knew about it anyway,’ Chrissy informed her. ‘He comes from Kirkwall.’
So the cat was out of the bag. Maybe when she talked to McNab tomorrow, she could bring up the topic of Magnus. Three glasses of wine and two packets of crisps later, Rhona declared herself tired, hungry and intent on heading home. Chrissy was unperturbed, having divulged all her news, stated her opinion on both cases and asked when to expect Magnus’s arrival.
As Rhona carried her bags to the door, Sean appeared.
‘Leaving already?’
‘I need to eat something other than crisps.’
He took the bags. ‘We’re two minutes away from my flat and food.’
‘I was—’
‘Going to order a Chinese takeaway?’ he finished for her. ‘I’ll have food in front of you quicker than that.’
The offer was tempting. Of all the men who had entered and exited her life, Sean had been the best cook. She missed that about him. That, and other things.
Sean led the way upstairs and along the road. Five minutes later she was under a hot shower, anticipating the meal whose aroma she could already smell. This was what her life had been like when she and Sean had been together. Coming home after work, the anticipation of good food, wine and company dispelling whatever crime she had pored over during the day.
Rhona turned off the water and stepped out, burying her head in a large towel, reminding herself that telling Sean to move out of her flat had been the right choice, and that she preferred living alone. As she dressed, she nevertheless found herself examining the toiletries and being strangely pleased to find no evidence of a current female resident in his domain.
The table had been set. A bottle of wine stood open, taking the air. Sean proudly showed her the label. Rhona feigned surprise and delight. Sean, the wine connoisseur, smiled, knowing full well the name meant nothing to her. He poured her a glass. Rhona took a sip and declared it delicious, which seemed to satisfy him.
‘Take a seat. I’ll dish up.’
Moments later she was gulping down the freshly cooked pasta with garlic and broccoli as though she feared he would remove her plate.
‘Good?’ Sean asked.
‘Mmm.’
‘It’s an old Sicilian recipe, which featured on Montalbano.’ When Rhona looked blank, Sean explained. ‘An Italian cop programme. Inspector Montalbano loves his food.’
He had made her laugh. It was a trick of his. One of the things Rhona liked about him, along with his blue eyes, dark hair and …
‘What are you thinking about?’ he said.
Rhona shook her head to dispel the image of Sean naked in her kitchen, whistling an Irish tune while making their morning coffee.
‘Nothing much.’
He accepted her non-committal reply. ‘Coffee? Whiskey?’
Rhona nodded, wondering if she was past refusing any delight Sean might offer tonight.
He sent her to sit on the couch while he prepared the coffee, fully clothed this time
. Rhona glanced about the room, remembering the night Sean had brought her here after the cinema murder. How he had soothed her fears about her son Liam. What had happened afterwards.
He placed a bottle of Irish whiskey on the coffee table with two glasses. ‘Help yourself.’
Rhona eyed the bottle, knowing what might happen if she drank any more. She poured one anyway. The whiskey tasted strong after the mellowness of the wine.
‘How’s Magnus?’
Sean’s question caught her off guard.
‘Fine,’ she said cautiously. Sean, like McNab, was not a fan of the Orcadian professor, his reason being personal and a lot to do with her. Rhona expected Sean to continue, but he seemed to think the better of it. He suddenly set his glass on the table, glanced at his watch and rose.
‘I’m afraid I have to get back to the club.’
‘I was just about to call a cab,’ Rhona said promptly.
Sean looked down, a smile playing his lips. ‘And here’s me thinking you were planning on staying the night.’
‘You wish,’ she retorted, already on her feet. She retrieved her mobile and brought up the taxi number, irritated with herself for relaxing her guard. Sean was playing her, like he always did. And she’d almost succumbed, seduced by good food and too much wine.
‘It’ll be here soon. I’ll wait outside.’ Rhona made for the door.
Sean followed her into the hall and retrieved her bags.
‘I can manage,’ Rhona insisted.
‘We can leave together,’ he said in answer to her look.
When they reached the street, Rhona urged him to go. ‘The taxi’ll be here any minute.’
Sean looked as though he would say something further, then shrugged. ‘See you.’
‘See you.’
Rhona didn’t watch him walk away, but sensed nevertheless when he turned to look back. She kept her eyes firmly forward. With Magnus and McNab she always felt she had the upper hand. That had never been true of her relationship with Sean Maguire, which was why it must never be rekindled.
19
Stromness was a long town, traversed by a narrow street that weaved its way along the shoreline. On the seaward edge, fisher houses stood side on, each with their own small jetty. On the northern side, the ground rose steeply. Ancient narrow flagstone lanes with intriguing names like Khyber Pass divided front-facing houses, leading you to the top of a sizeable hill. Sheltered from the main force of the Atlantic winds, Stromness, also known by its older name of Hamnavoe, offered a safe haven for its inhabitants, and for the main ferry service that ploughed its way between here and Scrabster on the mainland.
