by Lin Anderson
Rhona set about removing the clothing. If the body was moved from the site with the clothing intact, the bloodstaining evidence on it might be compromised in transit. When she’d finished doing this, she double-checked the area for a handbag. Roy hadn’t mentioned one, but maybe he’d videoed its position, then handed it over as evidence. None of the jacket pockets held a mobile. If there had been one, it had already been removed.
She now concentrated on examining the wound. The perpetrator had had to cut through various layers – the outer skin, then muscle, then the uterine layer. A midline longitudinal incision had been made using a sharp blade, judging by its edges, giving plenty of space to extract the contents of the womb.
Babies born by Caesarean usually had to have amniotic fluid sucked from their nose and mouth before they could breathe. If the attacker wanted the child to live, then there was a chance they’d done that and spat the fluid out in the vicinity, along with some incriminating saliva.
Once she was finished with the immediate surrounds, she focused on the closest mirror. Convex in shape, it reflected light outwards, rendering everything smaller and covering a wider field of view than a normal plane mirror. Rhona was suddenly aware of her own reflection repeated around the room, a score of versions, all deformed in some way or another.
The sound of footsteps on the treads brought her head round. Now it was DI Slater who was multiplied twenty-fold. Not a pretty sight. He was short and heavily built, with the face of a boxer who’d taken a lot of hits. What he didn’t have in looks, he made up for in cunning. When he’d been brought in to cover Bill’s suspension period, Slater and McNab had been instantly at odds. The pair went back a long way; when they were partnered as rookie cops, McNab had found Slater self-serving, more intent on making himself look good than on getting the right result. And it had worked. Slater had reached DI level, while McNab stayed a DS and got killed saving someone’s life.
‘Dr MacLeod.’
Slater’s voice always sounded like it had a sneer in it.
‘Detective Inspector Slater.’
‘Got your samples?’
‘I’ll be a while yet.’
He grunted as though humouring her. ‘The incident tent’s up. I’ll await your orders as to when we open the back canvas,’ he said sarcastically.
Rhona bit off a similarly toned reply. She didn’t need to prove anything to Geoffrey Slater. Her only concern here was the victim, not Slater’s inability to relate to anyone unless they provided a leg up the ladder.
‘Do we know who she is?’ she asked.
‘The boyfriend says her name’s Kira Reese-Brandon. A pupil at Morvern School for Girls, no less.’
Morvern was an independent school on the north side of the city, not that far from where they stood. Teenage pregnancies were fairly common in the impoverished areas of Glasgow, but not among the pupils of a school famous for producing scientists, advocates and doctors.
‘Not our usual murder victim,’ continued Slater.
‘Not our usual murder,’ Rhona agreed. ‘Do the parents know?’
‘The mother contacted the station an hour ago, worried when her daughter hadn’t come home from the funfair. They thought she might have gone into labour. Apparently she was due in a couple of weeks. They checked the hospital, then called the station.’
Which meant Sissons was right, the pregnancy was almost full term.
‘Any sign of the foetus?’
Slater shook his head. ‘The dogs haven’t found it.’
Rhona looked up, hearing the beat of rain on the overhead canvas. It was February and close to freezing. Add rain into the equation and it didn’t bode well for a newborn abandoned in the open. Hopefully the care that had been taken to remove the foetus meant that someone wanted it alive.
Rhona watched as the mortuary van pulled away, creating muddy tyre tracks in the sodden grass. The temperature had risen a little with the rain and her breath no longer condensed like a speech balloon in front of her.
She had sat with the body when she’d finished her forensic examination, recording everything she’d found. It was a habit Chrissy thought morbid and often chided her for. Sitting with the dead. Rhona thought it was the least she could do. It was also the quietest spot at any crime scene.
A team of SOCOs had arrived to scour the tent and surrounding area. Rhona bundled all the evidence she’d collected into the boot of the car. She would drop the bags at the lab, then try to grab a couple of hours’ sleep.
She drove through the park gates to see sunrise touching the university spires. Morning lectures would begin in an hour. Students would sit in those towers, as she had done in years gone by, listening to the cooing of the resident pigeons while being lectured on Moral Philosophy. A world away from what had happened below.
When she eventually reached the flat she was staggering from exhaustion. She didn’t bother undressing, just grabbed the duvet from the bed and settled down on the couch, sinking into a troubled sleep in which she was a child again, lost in a mirror maze, calling for her father.
4
Some would describe the location for Scotland’s maximum security institution as bleak. Professor Magnus Pirie, a native of the windswept and treeless Orkney islands, saw beauty in the surroundings rather than desolation.
He rolled down the car window and breathed in the upland air. His sense of smell was legendary among family, friends and colleagues. He now regarded this ability as a gift, but its intensity could be overpowering at times. Not today, though. A fresh breeze brought the scent of juniper, frosted heather and peat bog.
To his eye, only the Victorian monstrosity he was approaching looked bleak, fashioned by man to incarcerate his fellow human beings.
Magnus had visited prisoners before in his capacity as a criminal psychologist, but this visit promised to be very different. The inmate he was about to meet was unlikely ever to be released, despite his exemplary behaviour over the last two years, or the hobby that had made him something of a celebrity.
Magnus had sat far into the previous night reading and rereading Coulter’s diary, written during his first year of confinement. The note that had accompanied it had reiterated that the inmate had given up writing the diary since transforming his life. I view the world differently now, it had said.
Jeff Coulter had been ruled criminally insane after killing his six-week-old daughter. According to the pathology reports, he had simply snapped the baby’s spine.
It had taken a month to get the authorities to agree to this initial meeting, which Magnus hoped would be the first of many. The apparent psychological transformation of such a man fascinated him. A study of Coulter would provide ample material for an academic paper and provide a good discussion topic for his advanced psychology students.
There had been a great deal of controversy when Coulter had come to trial. Naturally the public were horrified by the crime of which he had been accused. This, coupled with the ongoing controversy over whether vulnerable children should be taken into care (Coulter’s child had been on the protection register), meant that social workers in charge of the case had taken a pounding. Once the prosecution had proved Coulter killed the child, a decision had to be made. Was he suffering from a mental illness at the time, or was he psychopathic? In any book on psychopaths, the chapter on treatment for the condition was pretty well non-existent, because there wasn’t one. If he was deemed mentally ill, however, he could be treated.
Coulter and his defence counsel had opted to plead mental illness. After many interviews with professionals specialising in psychiatric and psychological conditions, the results were inconclusive. Despite this, Coulter was incarcerated in the building on the horizon, and prescribed medication. It had apparently worked. According to Coulter, at least, he was a new man.
The State Hospital was due to move to a new purpose-built facility within the next two years. From what Magnus knew of the older building, it was not before time. The treatment of the mentally ill – c
riminal or otherwise – had improved considerably over the past decade, but still had some way to go. In previous eras cancer had been the dirty word. Mental illness, although experienced by a quarter of the population at some time in their lives, had replaced it as the Cinderella of the medical establishment. The fact that the general public tended to look to the criminally insane for their understanding of mental illness only served to reinforce its stigma, in spite of a string of high profile celebrities who’d recently admitted to conditions such as depression and bipolar disorder. Fear drove this attitude, and when you saw a hospital like this, you could understand why.
Magnus followed the signs to the car park, which was half empty. He parked as near as he could to the modern glassed entrance, a welcome extension to the starker older building. The open plan interior, brightly painted walls and potted plants did succeed in softening the clinical atmosphere. Only the posters on the notice board indicated the true nature of the place he had just entered.
‘Can I help you?’
Magnus slipped an identity card across the counter.
‘Professor Magnus Pirie. I have an appointment with Jeff Coulter at nine thirty.’
The young woman gave him a pleasant smile, then examined the photograph, ticked off his name on her list and pushed a visitors’ book towards him.
‘Great accent. Where are you from?’
Magnus was used to such questions when away from the islands, even though at home he was regularly accused of losing his accent.
‘Orkney.’
‘Like that guy Cameron on Big Brother?’
Magnus was surprised.
‘That’s right.’
She grinned. ‘I voted for him.’
Magnus wasn’t sure whether he was expected to thank her for supporting a fellow Orcadian. He covered his indecision by clipping the security badge she produced to his lapel.
‘Have you read the visitor literature?’
He had.
‘Then you know there’s a security search?’
The information had been clear enough. His briefcase would be put through an X-ray machine and he would walk under a metal-detecting arch, similar to those used in airports. If he sounded an alarm, he would be physically searched.
There had also been a long list of items he was not allowed to take through. Among them were aerosols, badges, lighters, glue, alcohol, drugs and, intriguingly, fishing lines, string and coat hangers. Magnus could see how those last items might be used as weapons, but had reminded himself that Coulter had needed nothing but the strength of his hands.
‘Someone will come to collect you.’
She was true to her word. Seconds after her short phone call announcing his presence, Magnus heard the click of the lock on a nearby door and a woman emerged. She was small and slim, her hair straight and glossy, her features oriental. As she approached he caught the scent of roses. She held out her hand, which seemed tiny in comparison to his own.
‘Dr Jacqueline Shan.’
‘Professor Magnus Pirie.’
‘If you would like to come through, Professor.’
‘Magnus will do fine.’
She acknowledged his offer with a slight nod, but didn’t volunteer an abbreviation of her own. A swipe of her security card released the door lock and she ushered him through.
Magnus was immediately assailed by the smell of strong disinfectant. He strove to ignore it, trying to concentrate instead on Dr Shan’s rosy fragrance.
After he’d successfully negotiated the various security measures, she ushered him into a small interview room.
‘They will bring Mr Coulter to you here.’
‘Are you his doctor?’
‘I am one of his clinical team, but not his consultant.’
‘Do you know him well?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I have spoken with Mr Coulter many times.’ Her eyes rested on Magnus.
He produced the diary Coulter had sent him. ‘I just wondered if you’d read this?’
She glanced at the notebook.
‘His diary . . .’ he explained.
‘I am aware of what it is, although I haven’t read it.’
Magnus wondered if that was the reason for the trace of annoyance he’d sensed in her manner.
‘If you could wait here, please.’
She left the scent of roses behind. Magnus tried to analyse it, coming to the conclusion it wasn’t eau de cologne but oil, such as might be used in massage. He wondered if Dr Shan was a proponent of Chinese alternative medicine as well as psychiatry.
When Coulter arrived, he was accompanied by two orderlies, both heavy-set men. In contrast, he was much slighter, although wiry, the sinews of his arms visible in a short-sleeved shirt. His hair was shaved close, he wore a day’s stubble and smelt of aftershave. Had he been dressed in a snazzy suit, he could have passed for any Glasgow guy about town.
He offered Magnus his hand.
‘Professor Pirie. It’s good to meet you at last.’ He indicated that Magnus should take a seat.
Behind him the two orderlies took up a stance, one either side of the door.
‘For your protection.’ Coulter’s voice held a tinge of pride.
Although Coulter was obviously in good shape, Magnus was pretty sure he could have held his own, being six inches taller and considerably heavier. The inmate might be able to snap an infant’s spine, but Magnus didn’t imagine his own would break so easily.
‘So what do you think of my diary?’
A complete analysis of the unpunctuated, yet fascinating scrawl would take a lot longer than he’d had up to now. He decided to be non-committal.
‘Thank you for sending it and for agreeing to see me.’
Coulter met his steady gaze, his own direct and intense. Magnus had the sensation that he had never truly been looked in the eye until now.
‘I don’t remember what I wrote in that diary or why I wrote it. I’m not the man I was then.’
The gaze was unrelenting, with none of the quick glances away that most people indulge in to soften their stare. The air around Coulter seemed to buzz with energy.
Magnus wanted to ask why he had sent the diary. Why not simply destroy it?
He, along with many others, had not been convinced by Coulter’s plea of insanity, which was partly why he was here. The diagnosis presented to the court had been conflicting. Proponents of psychopathy had pointed to Coulter’s arrogance, his lack of empathy, shallow emotions, violent outbursts and, most important of all, his lack of remorse, shame or guilt. When asked what he felt about the death of his baby son, Coulter had responded, ‘I can always father another one.’
Yet the covering letter that had arrived with the diary had painted a completely different picture. One of sadness and remorse, and a need to make amends for what he had done.
But then again, psychopaths were also known to be inveterate liars.
‘Would you like to see what I do now?’
‘Is that possible?’
Coulter turned to his minders. ‘What do you say, guys? Can I show the professor my babies?’
The tiny hand was curled shut, the central nail clasped against the palm.
‘Newborn nails are blueish in tone. They change to pink a few weeks after birth,’ Coulter told him.
Magnus watched as he chose colours, mixing blue and pink pigment, adding clear liquid.
‘Glazing gel. Helps it to set and gives a glossy finish.’ Coulter stroked the brush gently downwards. When he had completed all ten nails, he moved to the feet, where a delicate thread of veins marked the ankle. ‘I painted those in. Realistic, eh?’
He lifted a tiny foot and showed Magnus the pink-blushed soles.
‘You have to be sparing with the paint, build it up over a few coats, but it’s worth it to get to this warm look.’
He began coating the toenails to match the fingers.
Magnus could hardly bear to watch. The small body looked so real, every sign pointing to life –
‘stork bites’ on the back of the neck, milk bumps on the cheeks, a sucking blister on the lip.
Coulter ran his finger down the delicate groove from the doll’s nose to its lip.
‘This is called the angel’s touch.’ His voice was almost reverential. ‘Its length and depth is a baby’s most distinctive feature before the eyes open.’
He laid the newborn gently inside a satin-lined box and handed Magnus a photograph.
‘What do you think?’
The likeness made Magnus’s skin crawl.
‘Cot death at five weeks. Still, this one won’t cry or shit its nappy.’
He snapped a lid on the box. Magnus wanted to remonstrate, as though the baby might not be able to breathe. He knew it was just a doll, yet his brain told him otherwise.
As Coulter cleaned his brushes and tidied up, Magnus pondered why a parent would crave a replica baby. Yet there they all were. Photographs on the wall of smiling parents, nursing dolls that looked like their dead children.
He tried to understand his own feelings of abhorrence. He would have been unable to hold that doll, had it been offered to him. Maybe it was the scent of paint and plastic instead of flesh and blood that had made him recoil. Something that looked human, yet wasn’t.
Coulter was observing him, sizing up his reaction.
‘It gets some people like that.’
Magnus strove to make his feelings less obvious.
‘How did you start?’
‘I saw a programme on TV about someone who did it for a living. I made it my Art Project. It takes a lot of skill and patience, you know.’
Coulter’s enthusiasm was obvious. Psychopaths were known for grandiose schemes which rarely came to fruition. If he was a psychopath, he seemed to be bucking the trend.
‘Jimmy Boyle took up sculpture in Peterhead. Now he’s a millionaire.’ He laughed at his little joke. ‘I’m doing not too badly in the celebrity stakes myself.’
That much was true. The newspapers loved the story of the child killer turned fashioner of ‘Reborns’. There was even talk of a movie.
