by Lin Anderson
There had been no family members present at the funeral at Glasgow Cathedral, the only mourners his friends and colleagues. That was another thing they’d had in common: no family left alive. It had been her assistant, Chrissy, who told her that McNab’s mother was dead and he’d never known his father. All the time they’d been colleagues – and occasionally lovers – he had never told Rhona that.
You never really know someone. Not truly.
She couldn’t blame him for not confiding in her. They had briefly played at being together, but it felt more like a game than a relationship. Nevertheless, when she’d ended it, he had reacted badly and it had taken DI Bill Wilson, his superior officer, to sort things out. Bill had dispatched McNab on a police training course to break his obsession with Rhona.
Bill had never chastised her about that unfortunate liaison. It was never wise to get involved with colleagues, and it was a particularly bad idea for the area’s Chief Forensic to sleep with a Detective Sergeant, as they had to work so closely together; but the habit was widespread. You were constantly in one another’s company, inhabiting a strange world that only those who were part of could possibly understand. Violent death drew people together, and sex was a good way to celebrate being alive.
When McNab had reappeared, she’d already moved on to Sean Maguire, an Irish charmer who played the saxophone in a local bar. She’d even gone so far as to allow him to move in with her – delightful at first, but inevitably a disaster. He had figured out her notes and learned how to play them, but she’d grown suspicious that she might not be the only tune he was playing. She had no proof, but the time she spent thinking about it disturbed her. So Sean had gone the way of the others and solitude had returned.
I can’t count on anything or anyone. I am better off alone.
If McNab could hear her he would have mocked her self-pity and then made a pass at her, fully expecting the usual knock-back.
But McNab was dead.
An officer killed in the line of duty. It could happen to any one of them, which was why so many of his colleagues had been at the funeral, a hundred at least. McNab’s real family, the people he had worked with day after day. The people who would seek his killer, however long it took.
Chrissy had given the reading, and it was she and Bill who’d organised the funeral. Rhona hadn’t known McNab was a Catholic, although she’d seen him rub both sides up the wrong way by humming the wrong tune in the wrong bar. It takes one to know one, Chrissy had said. And it’s easier to do it this way. The priest takes care of everything.
It was more than that. McNab had saved Chrissy’s life and that of her then-unborn child, a little boy she’d named Michael in tribute. She might profess to be a lapsed Catholic, but she’d preferred to hedge her bets where McNab was concerned. If it’s not true, it won’t matter. If it is, then I’ve seen him right.
Chrissy’s voice had been strong as she’d recited Corinthians, Chapter 13. Rhona had heard a muffled sob beside her as DS Janice Clark had striven to contain herself. Rhona would have put her hand on Janice’s arm had she been able to control her own trembling. Most people there that day wouldn’t have been inside a church for years, but you didn’t need to be religious for the final proclamation to ring true.
As it is, these remain: faith, hope and love, the three of them; and the greatest of them is love.
Chrissy had taken her place on Rhona’s other side and she’d felt a hand slip into hers as the predominantly male voices had risen in unison to sing ‘Be Thou my Vision’.
She was in the kitchen making coffee when the phone rang, just after midnight. She’d already spoken to Chrissy at eleven thirty; her assistant had taken to phoning during her nighttime breastfeeding sessions. According to Chrissy, her partner, Sam, managed to sleep through everything, only waking if she shook him. ‘He’s not got the right equipment anyway.’
These nighttime chats, Rhona knew, were more about her state of mind than Chrissy’s, although looking down at her baby son was bound to bring back thoughts of McNab. The calls didn’t last long, but she was always glad to hear Chrissy’s voice in what had become her solitary darkness. Chrissy had tried on one occasion to get her to seek counselling for post-traumatic stress, but to her shame Rhona had greeted the suggestion with frigid silence. After that, Chrissy had taken it upon herself to be her nocturnal companion.
When the phone rang again, she’d thought Chrissy had forgotten to impart some vital piece of news about baby Michael’s progress, like an imagined smile, but it was an unfamiliar voice she heard. The operative couldn’t tell her the full details, just that her presence was required at a suspicious death in Kelvingrove Park.
The street outside the flat was deserted, patched by darkness where a street lamp had failed. She unlocked the car remotely, shivering in the frosty air. In the distance rose the majestic edifice that housed Glasgow’s famous Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery, and on the hill behind was the towering outline of Glasgow University. Surrounding all this lay the park, a place of Victorian splendour, its landscaped curves following the River Kelvin from which it took its name. Criss-crossed by numerous leafy walkways and cycle paths, it was a favourite haunt for all age groups in daylight but, like most inner city parks, it was not for the faint of heart after dark.
As she turned in at the park gates she saw the pulsating blue lights of three squad cars. There had been general disquiet among residents about the siting of the funfair, but their objections had been overruled by the city authorities – something they would probably regret now.
The entrance to the funfair was cordoned off, and a constable had taken charge. McNab had been the Crime Scene Manager on numerous incidents she’d been involved with, and Rhona was used to seeing his familiar figure, hearing his jocular welcome, and watching him eye up any female personnel he hadn’t yet persuaded into bed. The young constable who handed her the log book didn’t even know who she was and insisted on checking her ID before letting her pass.
Walking onto a scene knowing the team she’d worked with for so long – her family – no longer existed was the most difficult part of each new case. She’d thought her new role as an independent expert under the auspices of the university would help. She liked working alongside Roy Hunter, the former DCI who had developed a digitised crime scene management system that made CSI Miami look like a bunch of amateurs. Spherical High Definition recording of major crime scenes, software that incorporated every item of information gathered – maps of the area, post-mortem findings, her own forensic notes, including DNA and fingerprint results. All of this was regularly updated and available twenty-four hours a day via laptop, phone or PDA. A far cry from notebook drawings, and definitely the future of policing.
Despite her new status, the absence of McNab, Chrissy and DI Wilson, who was currently awaiting a court appearance for assaulting a prisoner, had only served to accentuate her feeling of isolation. So she was relieved when she spotted one friendly face in the guise of DS Janice Clark, who had been promoted recently and taken over McNab’s role as Crime Scene Manager.
‘Michael would be proud of you,’ Rhona told her.
‘He taught me everything I know.’
Rhona left a moment of silence before she spoke. ‘What’s going on?’
‘The body of a teenage girl was found in the Hall of Mirrors.’ Janice grimaced, and Rhona noticed she looked pale.
‘That bad?’
She gave a swift nod. ‘The pathologist is in with her now.’
Rhona didn’t ask for details. She would see for herself soon enough. She made her way over to a black tent fronted by a ticket booth, where a curtain had been pulled back to allow entry. The place smelt of diesel from the generators and damp, trodden grass. A narrow corridor lit by an orange light led to a second curtain, also tied back.
The first image that greeted her inside was herself, kitted out in a boiler suit, resembling a white balloon. The ludicrous reflection was more disquieting than amusing.
‘Disturbing, isn’t it?’
She wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the crime scene or his counterpart in the mirror. He stepped aside to give her a full view.
The victim was lying on her back, a loose dress drawn above her waist to expose her stomach, or what was left of it. Beside the body lay the whitish coil of an umbilical cord still attached to the plump reddish mass of a placenta. Rhona was still processing the implications of this when Sissons confirmed it.
‘Her assailant cut out a foetus.’
Rhona was shocked. She was used to scenes of violent death, but that didn’t mean she was immune to them. Most Glasgow killings were the result either of drunken violence or turf wars. Rogue males attacking other rogue males with results that filled accident and emergency departments with hideous regularity, giving surgeons plenty of practice in sewing together the victims of Glasgow’s knife culture.
But she had never seen a knife wielded in such a way before.
She scanned the floor of the tent, but Sissons shook his head. ‘Whoever did this took it with them.’
‘Was it mature enough to be viable?’
‘Judging by the size of the placenta, I’d say yes.’
Rhona breathed deeply and tried to distance herself from the horror of the scene. There was nothing she could do for the victim now apart from carry out her job properly.
‘Did the removal of the baby kill her?’
‘I don’t see any other wounds. She probably bled out.’ He indicated a small white mask that lay next to the head. ‘Looks like she was knocked out with something first. Smells like stain remover.’
‘Chloroform?’
‘Probably.’
‘I don’t recall any foetal thefts being recorded in the UK, only in the USA.’
‘Given time, what happens there happens here.’
Sissons’s job was to certify death, so he was ready to leave. ‘The PF’s been, so you’ve got the place to yourself.’
Under Scots law, the Procurator Fiscal determined whether the death was suspicious. Here, his presence would have been a formality. You couldn’t die accidentally from a forced Caesarean section.
Sissons said goodbye and left her to her own devices. His clipped voice and hankering after a gong often irritated Rhona, but she had to admit he was a consummate professional.
She would attend the post-mortem, as would the DI in charge of the case, together with a second pathologist for corroboration – a requirement where a death was deemed suspicious.
Scots law was big on corroboration. The boys on the beat were always moaning about it. There had to be two of you before lifting and charging a suspect, so – unlike in England – you had no chance of pulling someone in, however guilty, if you were on your own.
She wondered who the officer in charge on the ground might be. Most likely it would be Bill’s replacement, DI Geoffrey Slater; McNab’s nemesis, he was still hanging around like a bad smell.
Still, that was not her main consideration at the moment. She wasn’t planning to disturb anything but it would be better if the loci had been fully recorded before she set to work. As if on cue she heard footsteps and Roy Hunter’s multiple reflections appeared in advance of the man himself. He answered her unspoken question.
‘We’ve taken photos and a spherical recording already, so no worries there.’
‘That was fast.’
‘We aim to please, especially when the investigating officer is DI Slater.’
They exchanged a meaningful look.
‘Is he planning to open up the back of the tent?’
Once she had taken samples from the body and its immediate surroundings, it would be useful to have clear access from the back for the other SOCOs.
‘When you’re finished.’
‘Who discovered her?’
‘The boyfriend, apparently. He says she went to buy candyfloss and never reappeared, so he went looking for her. When he discovered she’d bought a ticket for the mirrors he came in to check if she was still in here. He found her shoe first.’
‘Where?’
‘In the next aisle.’
Rhona imagined the boy’s concern when he found the shoe, turning to horror when he came across the remains of his girlfriend. Assuming he wasn’t the one to kill her in the first place.
‘I don’t like places like this.’ Roy gave the nearest mirror a wary glance.
‘You didn’t enjoy the fairground when you were a kid?’
‘The rides were OK, but I didn’t fancy the ghost train or the mirrors. Too creepy.’
‘Something Wicked This Way Comes,’ said Rhona.
He frowned quizzically. ‘Wasn’t that the name of a show at the Tramway recently?’
‘Ray Bradbury wrote the book. A carnival comes to town, bringing evil with it.’
‘Art imitating life.’
‘You couldn’t make up what we have to deal with every day,’ she said.
‘Too right,’ he replied. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’
He left the tent and she set to work. Her job was to retrieve what forensic evidence she could from the body in situ. Before she began, she took time to study the scene. First impressions were important. She’d caught the faint sweet scent of the chloroform mask on approach. Now she took time to absorb the details of the victim; its exact position, the injuries and the resultant pattern of blood spattering. Roy had captured all of this, both as static photographs and in a moving 360-degree image, but there was no real substitute for actually being here.
The general public often misunderstood the role of forensic science in solving a crime, thinking it was to provide observations based on the results of tests. Unfortunately some DIs, like Slater, thought the same. The truth was, forensic science was about solving a problem, which depended on asking the right question. That’s why she and Bill had worked so well together; he had listened to the questions she’d asked.
The majority of the blood lay pooled beneath the body, but luminol indicated low spattering on the canvas wall and evidence of spraying on the nearby convex mirror, which increased the likelihood that the perpetrator had traces of blood on them, however microscopic.
Chloroform would have rendered the victim unconscious, but if she’d been aware of her attacker before he applied the mask, she would probably have called for help or tried to fight him off.
The funfair was quiet now, but earlier Rhona had been able to hear it from the flat. Pulsating music, throbbing generators and plenty of screaming from the nearby rides would have drowned out any cries for help. Even so, the operation would have had to be swift, in case anyone else entered the tent.
As far as she was aware, a normal Caesarean section took around five to ten minutes for someone who knew what they were doing and who was interested in the welfare of the mother. Here, it looked as though the only concern had been the swift removal of the foetus.
The girl’s pants and tights had been pulled down to her knees. In normal circumstances that would indicate a sexual motive for the attack, but in this case, it could simply have been done to bare the abdomen.
Rhona directed an ultraviolet light on the lower torso and its surrounds. The fluorescent glow indicated either semen or urine. She applied dampened blotting paper to the girl’s inner thigh, then sprayed it with a solution of reactants. There was no colour change, so no seminal fluid was present.
She tried to recall what she’d read about foetal theft. A rare occurrence, it was also unusual for a violent crime in that it was generally carried out by women. The idea of a woman doing this to a young girl was extraordinary.
She took a blood sample from the umbil
ical cord before moving on to the victim, where she dealt with the head first, carefully swabbing the mouth and ears, registering no marks or bruising on the face or neck area. When she’d finished, she bagged the head and moved on to the hands. If the girl had tried to fight off her attacker, her hands would hold evidence of that.
She used the magnifier and was rewarded by two strands of coloured hair or fibre caught under the nail of the middle digit on the right hand. She bagged the fibres, then carefully scraped under each nail, before turning the hand over. She was surprised to find marks on the palm written in what looked like black crayon.
She took a series of images of the scribble, then used a swab to sample the material used to write it.
She repeated the same procedure with the left hand, cleaning under the nails before turning it over. There was writing on the left palm too, but it wasn’t the same:
She held the left hand up to the full glare of the arc light and caught a glimpse of its reflected image in a nearby mirror. Although distorted by the glass, it now looked like a word.
Rhona took a small mirror from her forensic case and held it up to the palm. The scrawl was a word and the word looked like ‘chain’. Whoever had written it had done it in mirror writing.
Excited by the discovery, she checked the right hand. This time she thought the backwards writing said ‘daisy’. Someone had written ‘daisy chain’ backwards on the girl’s hands. The writing wasn’t smudged, which suggested it had been done either post-mortem – by the killer – or not long before she died.
Rhona bagged both hands, then began to tape the exposed skin on the remainder of the body, using numbered transparent plastic adhesive-coated strips, adhering them to a clear acetate surface, then sealing them in a clean polythene bag. When she’d finished, she moved on to the clothes.
Over her loose-fitting dress the girl wore a soft suede jacket, fringed and festooned with zips. Rhona checked the label. Gucci. So it hadn’t come cheap. She examined the other items of clothing. All high quality. The dead girl had come from a family with money if she could afford designer wear.
