by Lin Anderson
Images of the blood patterning at the crime scene suggested that Kira was already prostrate when the knife entered her body, and that she had not put up a fight, probably having already been rendered unconscious by the chloroform. That meant her attacker would have had to crouch or kneel next to her to perform the Caesarean.
If David had knelt close to the body, the knees of his jeans would have been bloodied and blood from the soles of his trainers would probably have imprinted on the back of his jeans. She’d found blood, but not in a pattern which matched either of these scenarios. In David’s statement, he’d said that he’d slipped and fallen close to the body, which could account for the smears on the back of his jeans. But blood hadn’t been the only trace evidence she’d found.
Rhona checked the image in the comparison microscope. There was no doubt that the two scales she’d retrieved from the right leg of David’s jeans came from the same knife handle as those found on Kira’s body. Could David have picked these up when he’d knelt by her body, or had he been in contact with the knife used to cut Kira open?
Rhona began to consider an alternative scenario to the one given by David. What if he had arranged to meet Kira in the mirror maze with the intention of removing the baby? The main stumbling-block in this version of events appeared to be timing. Had there been enough time between David leaving the others and raising the alarm for him to perform the operation and dispose of the baby?
The guy in the booth had reported that David entered shortly before midnight, at which point Kira had been in the tent for roughly twenty minutes. The lights had been flashed five minutes after David entered to warn him that the maze would close shortly, and the 999 call had been logged at twelve minutes past twelve. David had had between ten and fifteen minutes to immobilise Kira and extract the baby, which was long enough to perform the Caesarean section, but not to hide the baby. Unless someone else had done that for him?
David had been adamant that he wasn’t the baby’s father, admitting to Bill that he might be gay. He’d said he didn’t care that Kira was pregnant with someone else’s baby, and that their relationship was special. What if the opposite were true? What if David was insanely jealous that Kira had slept with someone else and had killed her because of that?
But if that was the case, why take the baby?
Another interpretation of events suddenly occurred to her. Maybe Kira wasn’t supposed to die. Maybe the baby was removed to prevent its paternity being established. But if you knew how to perform a Caesarean, would you also know that the umbilical cord could be used to establish paternity? One thing she was certain of, foetal theft was only one possible motive for the attack.
Rhona updated the software with her latest findings and texted Bill to let him know what she’d discovered. It seemed even more important now to find out if David was the baby’s father.
She decided to take a break and make herself a coffee. It would have been nice if Chrissy had been around to talk things through with, but this wasn’t one of her days.
As Rhona added milk to her mug she heard the ping of an incoming text. She was about to ignore it, but then it occurred to her that it might be from Bill or Petersson. The message said, Dead man walking.
Rhona checked for the caller ID, but the number had been withheld. She immediately thought of Petersson. Codes were right up his street. Maybe the cryptic text was his way of telling her that the dead soldier wasn’t dead after all. She brought up his number. It took six rings before he answered.
‘Rhona? I was just about to call you.’
‘Did you just send me a text?’
‘No.’
‘That’s weird.’
‘Why? What did it say?’
‘“Dead man walking”. I thought there had been a mistake and you were telling me Fergus Morrison was alive.’
‘Morrison isn’t alive, and I didn’t send you a text.’
‘Then who did?’
‘Did you check the number?’
‘It was withheld.’
Unnerved by the pregnant silence on the other end, Rhona decided to change the subject.
‘What were you going to call me about?’
‘I have some news. Can I come round later?’
‘News about what?’
‘I’ll tell you when I get there.’ He paused. ‘Shall I pick up some food on the way?’
She was about to refuse, then thought better of it. It would save her a trip to the shops on her way home.
‘OK.’
‘What do you fancy?’
‘Anything but chicken and vegetables,’ she said.
Petersson took charge of the meal. She’d expected something ready cooked, but that apparently wasn’t his style. As he unpacked the bag at the kitchen table, she spotted salmon, salad, wine, bread and a bottle of balsamic vinegar.
He handed her the bottle of wine.
‘It’s chilled already. Can you open it while I get started?’
It was obvious from his preparations that Petersson expected her to wait until the meal was served before she started on her questions. Rhona opened the bottle and poured two glasses.
She sipped at the white wine as Petersson tossed cubes of salmon in balsamic and began to gently fry them over a low heat. The sour-sweet scent made her mouth water.
Ten minutes later they were sitting down to the meal and their second glass of wine.
‘Eat first, then we’ll talk,’ he ordered.
They were at the coffee and whisky stage before he decided it was time. There was a quiet satisfaction in his voice as he told her.
‘I have reason to believe that DI Slater was closer to Kalinin than a detective should be.’
Rhona waited, her heart thumping.
‘Kalinin’s continued freedom from prosecution has worried me for some time. Either he’s the luckiest bastard on the planet or he has a guardian angel.’
‘And that guardian angel is Slater?’ she said, her stomach churning. Maybe eating first hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
He nodded, watching her reaction.
‘That’s a big accusation. I hope you can prove it.’
‘My source is reliable, although I can’t prove it, yet. That’s where you come in.’
‘Me?’
Petersson reached for the whisky bottle and poured himself another. Rhona waved away his offer of a refill and waited.
‘Tell me exactly what happened the night McNab was shot,’ he said.
A chill crept through her. She had no desire to relive those moments.
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I believe so.’
Rhona moved her hands below the table in case Petersson should see them tremble, and began.
‘Michael took Chrissy, my forensic assistant, to The Poker Club to celebrate. He asked me to go with them. I refused.’ Her voice broke a little, and she cleared her throat before continuing. ‘Kalinin appeared there with Anya Grigorovitch in tow. Michael thought Kalinin was still in custody. DI Slater had released him, but hadn’t warned Michael of that fact.’ She could hear the ice-cold anger in her voice. ‘Michael and Chrissy left the building immediately. He was trying to flag down a taxi when the car appeared and he was shot.’
‘When did you arrive?’
‘Anya called me from the Ladies’ room after she realised Michael was there. She thought Kalinin was planning something. I came straightaway, but . . . I was too late.’
‘McNab was already dead?’
‘No.’ She stumbled over her words, remembering the look in McNab’s eyes when he’d said her name. ‘I tried to stem the bleeding but he died shortly after I got there.’
‘Did you go with the body in the ambulance?’
She shook her head, trying to read Petersson’s expression. Where was all this leading?
‘Tell me about the autopsy.’
‘Post-mortem,’ she mechanically corrected him. ‘I didn’t attend.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Can I
ask why?’
‘DI Slater thought the death was too personal.’
‘But he was there?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Who performed it?’
‘Under Scots law, two pathologists must be present for collaboration purposes. I assume Dr Sissons would have been one of them.’
‘But you don’t know that for certain?’
‘No.’
‘Can you find out exactly who attended the post-mortem for me? I’d also like to see the report.’
She had never wanted to see the report before now, having no desire to read the details of how the bullet had shattered McNab’s internal organs.
‘Why is this important?’
‘I’m not sure yet. But if we want to identify Slater’s role in all of this, we have to know the details of that post-mortem.’ He gave her a half smile. ‘We’ll get the people responsible for McNab’s death.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘That’s a promise.’
If she kept her eyes closed, there was a similarity: in the long, lean line of his body under her hands, in the stubbled roughness of his cheek, the movements, the sounds. No two men made love in the same way, but Petersson performed with the same raw passion as McNab. If she kept her eyes shut, she could pretend for a moment that it was Michael she held inside her.
She felt his lips lightly touch her left lid, then her right. Rhona opened her eyes and looked into his.
The first time had been calculated. She’d wanted him on her side and sex had seemed the right card to play. This time was different. This time she had used him as a means of remembering. It had worked, up to a point. His blue eyes were examining her. Free now of lust, they sought something more from her, something she was unwilling to give.
She moved to extract herself, his body suddenly heavy. Reading the signs, he lifted himself clear and rolled beside her. She should rise now, go and shower, a sure sign of disconnection. Sex was one thing, relating was another. And as far as she was concerned, Petersson was a tool in her fight against Kalinin.
As she went back into the bedroom after her shower, Rhona heard the click of a key turning in the front lock. She glanced at Petersson, who was still in bed, his eyes closed. Rhona pulled on a dressing gown and opened the bedroom door.
She knew it was Sean before he appeared round the corner in the hallway. It was he who looked startled.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see any lights. I thought you were out.’
A mewing broke the silence that followed, as Tom came racing out of the kitchen and made straight for Sean’s legs, weaving in and out and purring.
‘I came for the fiddle and the rest of my things.’
‘I put them in the spare room.’
‘I’ll get them and be out of your way.’
Too late, she heard the creak of the bed and the padding of feet, as the door she had half-closed behind her swung open. She knew Petersson was still naked. She could feel his proximity in the heat from his body and the smell of sex from his skin.
Sean’s gaze rose from her face to the taller figure behind her, then he shifted his eyes back to hers and waited. The moments ticked past.
She was damned if she was going to introduce them. She was damned if she would even acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation. As Sean turned and headed for the spare room, Rhona felt Petersson’s hand rest lightly on her shoulder. She turned quickly, shaking it off.
‘You’d better go.’
She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to leave before Sean or after. What if bad timing meant they left together? Petersson, perhaps sensing her disquiet, dressed quickly. In minutes he was ready to leave.
‘Let me know what you find out,’ he said at the front door.
She nodded, then closed the door swiftly behind him and retreated to the bedroom. From there she could hear Sean moving around, murmuring to the cat. Rhona remained motionless, thinking she should go out into the hall, at least. That she should not be rude.
She felt her heart lurch in her chest, then take off like a steeplechase. This was stupid. There was nothing between them now. She did not have to explain her actions to Sean. As if to spite herself, she opened the bedroom door and went into the hall. The spare room door stood ajar. Sean was standing by the window, the fiddle case in his hand. He turned to face her.
He was thinner than she remembered, his dark hair longer, but the eyes were the same deep, dark blue.
‘You look great,’ he smiled.
‘Thanks.’
He lifted the holdall he’d brought with him, now full, and hoisted it over his shoulder.
‘I’ll be off then.’
She stood aside to let him pass. The cat was making a determined effort to restrict his exit, and Rhona swept it into her arms.
‘He’s grown.’ Sean rubbed Tom’s head affectionately.
She hadn’t wanted another cat after what had happened to Chance. It had been Sean who had taken the initiative and got her one. She’d been annoyed with him at first, then grateful as her affection for the kitten had grown. Sean had been good at interpreting her needs even when she wasn’t aware of them herself.
She heard herself say, ‘Where are you staying?’
‘I was at the club for a while, but . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Now I’m seeing Angie.’ He left the rest unsaid.
Her heart slowed and settled like a hard lump in her chest. She had no right to be surprised or upset.
‘I was really sorry to hear about McNab.’
She nodded stiffly.
‘Chrissy told me.’
She imagined Chrissy in the jazz club, chatting to Sean, and felt excluded, despite the fact that she had been urged to accompany her there on numerous occasions.
‘Rhona . . .’
‘I’ll get the door for you.’
He stood for a moment as though he would speak, then thought better of it. As he slipped past, she caught the scent of him. The memory was stronger than his smile or the colour of his eyes. She felt violated by the surge of feeling that assailed her.
Then he was through and standing on the landing.
‘Sam’s back playing at the club. I thought you might come and hear him with Chrissy and Bill some time.’
The gang, she thought, all there bar her. And whose fault was that?
‘Soon,’ she said.
‘See you then.’
‘Yes, see you.’
She closed the door and stood against it for a moment, then walked quickly to the front room and glanced down into the street. Sean was loading the holdall and fiddle case into a smart little red sports car. A blonde head was visible in the driver’s seat. Angie, no doubt.
Rhona forced herself to vacate the window in case Sean looked up. Too late, she remembered she had not asked Sean to return his key.
23
‘Why do you ask?’ Sissons was regarding her quizzically.
‘I just wondered.’ Rhona tried to keep her tone light.
‘I didn’t perform the post-mortem myself.’
‘What about Sylvia?’
He shook his head. ‘Dr Barnes wasn’t present either.’
‘Then who did do it?’
‘As far as I am aware, it was performed by a pathologist sent up by SOCA.’
‘But McNab was killed on our patch. His murder is under our jurisdiction.’ She realised her tone had changed, but it was difficult to hide her astonishment and irritation.
‘I am well aware of that. However, I assume the Met were putting a case together on the Russian connection and . . .’
‘McNab’s death was part of that,’ she finished for him. ‘I assume there was a report filed on the results of the post-mortem?’
‘One presumes so.’
‘Do you have a copy here?’
Something in Sissons’s body language suggested she was about to be dismissed.
‘Dr MacLeod, as I understand it, you were with DS McNab when he died. You found the bullet casing. What
more is there to know?’
He was right. She was sounding weird, obsessed.
‘In normal circumstances I would have been present at the post-mortem. I would like to read the report.’
He sighed, rose from his desk and went to a filing cabinet. She watched as he rifled through various drawers, making no attempt to disguise his irritation. Eventually he turned.
‘I can find no written record at the moment.’
In normal circumstances three hard copies would have been produced for dissemination and sent to the police. One to be given to the Fiscal, one for the senior investigating officer and one for the case file.
‘What about an ecopy?’
He regarded her with a stoical annoyance.
‘I suggest you talk to the office staff about that.’
This time she was dismissed, and she took it in good grace. She’d known Sissons long enough to realise that he’d already gone out of his way to help her.
Had Sissons or Sylvia performed the post-mortem, an ecopy of the report would have been in the system in case the Strathclyde police wanted it in pdf format. But if responsibility for investigating McNab’s death had moved elsewhere?
She would check with the office staff first.
If there was nothing on the system, she would try and locate the whereabouts of any hard copies, assuming they hadn’t gone south.
She decided she didn’t fancy approaching Detective Superintendent Sutherland to ask if he had a copy. Bill might have access to one but she wasn’t keen on alerting him to her interest. He had a knack of reading her motives. The only other alternative was the Fiscal, who might just humour her.
Rhona was pleased to find Dorothy Jenkins on duty in the admin office. Dorothy had been working in the job for as long as Rhona had. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather, then Rhona presented the secretary with her request. Dorothy accepted it with equanimity and immediately set about checking the system for a copy of the post-mortem results.
‘I don’t recall seeing them though. I vaguely remember someone else came to perform the post-mortem on the policeman.’ She paused. ‘They’re not in the usual place.’ She scrolled down the list. ‘We had three around that time. See the date.’
