by Lin Anderson
‘Kira wasn’t frightened of anyone, or anything.’ Her tone was admiring, almost wistful. Then she appeared to remember something. ‘Except clowns.’
‘Clowns?’
‘Kira was scared of clowns. We tried to watch a horror film with a clown in it one night and she totally freaked. She tried to pretend she wasn’t frightened, told us she’d seen it before, but she was lying. She made us watch something else instead.’
They left her in the sitting room, the Polish girl showing them out.
‘Well?’ Bill said to Magnus as soon as they were in the car.
‘I think there probably was a pact, or at least a decision to have sex, maybe even daring each other to see who could get pregnant first. It may be Kira was already pregnant and encouraged the others.’
‘So that another pregnancy would dilute the impact of her own?’ mused Bill.
‘These girls were all expected to be something more than just mothers. Maybe they were challenging that assumption.’
Bill recalled Ms Porter saying that it wasn’t always easy being clever.
‘The principal said Kira’s family were practising Christians, that’s why she didn’t abort the baby.’
‘Kira was old enough to have an abortion without their consent,’ Magnus reminded him.
‘Then maybe what David said was true. Kira discovered she was adopted and decided to keep her baby.’
‘Or as Melanie said, Kira always had to be different.’
‘I got the impression that Melanie was hiding something more than a pregnancy pact,’ Bill said.
‘I agree.’ Magnus looked thoughtful. ‘When she turned towards me, her breath smelt unpleasantly sweet, a symptom of the presence of excess ketones. Which suggests she isn’t eating enough during pregnancy, or she’s highly stressed.’
Bill recalled the girl’s unnaturally thin frame. ‘Or both.’
‘I think Melanie’s very frightened and not just about having a baby.’
‘Maybe she’s scared she’ll be next,’ said Bill grimly.
Melanie rose awkwardly from the sofa and went to watch the policeman’s car draw away from the kerb, putting her hands on the bulge of her belly. It felt taut, the skin stretched. She wanted her stomach to be concave again, to be able to trace her hip bones, to be empty.
Her heart had been racing during the interview. She’d felt sure they must have heard it. She wondered why the psychology professor had been there. She’d wanted to ask but had been afraid to. She’d thought if she told them Kira wasn’t a friend, they would just go away. It had never occurred to her that they would know anything about the Daisy Chain.
She fetched her mobile and brought up David’s number, then remembered the steel in his voice when he told her not to phone him, that they must stay away from one another. It had been at her insistence they’d met in the park. She left the window and sat down heavily on the sofa, pushing the mobile away from her, knowing David would be angry if she called. It was all Kira’s fault. The stupid gang, the tattoo. This thing inside her. And now Kira didn’t have to face any of it.
Poor Kira. Her baby cut out, removed, never to be seen again. There were times she wanted the same thing to happen to her. To wake up and find it gone. But she didn’t want to die like Kira. Who might have killed Kira? Her secret lover? But why would he kill Kira and take the baby she said was his? And why would he write ‘daisy chain’ on her hands unless he knew about the gang? Melanie looked down with loathing at the rippling bump that had taken over her body. What if she and the thing inside her were next on the killer’s list? She closed her eyes and forced herself to take deep, heart-slowing breaths.
How had it all gone so wrong? At the beginning it had been a bit of fun. They’d downloaded erotic novels and read them together, voting on their favourite scenes. Then Kira had told them she was having sex with someone, acting out what she’d read. She’d regaled them with every intimate detail of her encounters, then dared them to try it. And they’d played along. It had been impossible not to.
Taking chances had been her idea too. Testing fate, Kira had called it. Leaving it up to the gods. Then she said she wanted to see if she could get pregnant. She became obsessed with it. She wanted to get back at her parents, her father in particular. If she got pregnant, that would show him. Anyway, she’d assured them, if it happened, it would be easy to get a termination.
So Melanie had gone along with it, never thinking it could happen to her. She hadn’t had a period for months, not since she’d begun dieting. Besides, when you were high and drunk, you didn’t care. And now she was the one left to face the consequences. How unfair was that? She hadn’t even seen the guy, because of the mask and the darkness. It was an erotic fantasy that had turned into a nightmare. When she’d told the policeman she had no idea who the father of her child was, it was the truth. None of them had known except Kira, and Kira was dead.
Melanie drew herself up from the couch and went into the hall. Blanka had said her goodbyes until tomorrow, leaving a settled silence in the house that Melanie normally liked but which now made her uneasy. She passed the hall table with her mother’s list of emergency numbers beside the phone and slowly began to climb the stairs.
Once in her room, she closed the door and pulled down the blinds before lying down on the bed. This was the one thing she liked about being pregnant. She found herself able to doze off whenever she chose. Would she be able to do so now despite her unease?
She decided to give it a try.
The mask of Dionysos stared down at her from the opposite wall, the mouth partly open in the hint of a smile. Kira had proclaimed that Dionysos would unleash the primordial exultation which was dormant in them all. It had sounded great at the time. Little had she known.
Melanie switched on her iPod, put in her earphones and closed her eyes.
26
‘Clown wigs?’ said Rhona.
‘Apparently the best ones use only yak hair. You can do anything with it,’ replied Chrissy.
Rhona thought about that for a minute. ‘The writing on Kira’s hands was done with a soft black make-up pencil.’
‘So what? A clown killed her and stole her baby? Sounds like the pitch for a slasher movie.’
‘You’re the one who brought up the subject of clowns,’ Rhona reminded her.
Chrissy nodded thoughtfully. ‘A clown outfit isn’t a bad disguise. With make-up or a mask you often can’t tell if the person wearing it is male or female.’
‘You don’t normally have clowns at funfairs, do you?’
‘No, but I don’t think people would be surprised at seeing one.’
‘Some people don’t like clowns.’
‘I’m one of them,’ said Chrissy forcefully.
‘I didn’t think you were scared of anything.’
‘Well, you’re wrong. Ugly white faces with their huge, grinning, red mouths.’ Chrissy shuddered.
‘Isn’t that a recognised condition?’
‘Being shit-scared, you mean?’
‘Fear of clowns.’
‘It’s called coulrophobia,’ replied Chrissy.
‘So you’re coulrophobic?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Good job McNab didn’t know about that.’
‘I made sure he didn’t.’
There was a small, awkward silence, then Chrissy said, ‘This is what we have to do, you know.’
‘What?’
‘Mention his name more often. Remember him without feeling guilty about it.’
‘I don’t feel guilty. I feel angry.’
‘I feel guilty.’
‘Why?’ Rhona said, surprised.
‘He died saving me, remember?’
‘McNab was the one they were after.’
‘He still made sure I was all right.’
They lapsed into silence again.
‘I’m going to the club to listen to Sam tonight. Why don’t you come?’
‘Not tonight.’
Chrissy gave he
r one of her particular looks, which indicated advice was about to follow. ‘Better to know your enemy.’
Rhona couldn’t resist asking, ‘You’ve seen her?’
‘She comes in.’
Rhona wanted to ask what she was like. She was blonde, she knew that much. And she had a smart little sports car.
‘She’s not like you,’ Chrissy offered, reading her mind.
What the hell did that mean? Rhona decided not to ask. ‘I’m busy tonight.’
‘Ah,’ Chrissy said, her eyes wide and knowing.
‘Not with Petersson.’
Being ‘busy’ would mean sitting by the fire, the shadows of McNab haunting the corners of the room.
‘If you change your mind, phone me.’
She said she would just to please Chrissy, although she had no desire to watch Sean on stage or scan the audience looking for Angie. She’d rather be alone with the ghost of McNab.
Chrissy’s lecture over, Rhona retreated to her office. Thinking about McNab prompted her to pick up the phone and call the Fiscal’s office, where she asked to be put through to Doug Cameron. They’d been on a number of jobs together, many of them also involving McNab, including the Gravedigger case. Her only concern was that Cameron might mention her request to Bill, but she would have to take that chance.
‘Dr MacLeod,’ Cameron said cheerfully.
‘Hi, Doug. Hope I’m not interrupting anything?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait. What can I do for you?’
Rhona decided not to beat about the bush. ‘I wanted a look at the post-mortem report on Michael McNab. As you probably know, I did the work on the bullet casing. I would be interested to read the pathologist’s report on the injuries the bullet produced.’ A valid-sounding question.
‘You weren’t at the post-mortem?’ Cameron sounded puzzled.
‘DI Slater didn’t want anyone there who was too closely involved. We were all still in shock.’
‘I can understand that,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Did you try the SIO? He should have a copy of the report. Or Dr Sissons?’
‘Forensic Pathology couldn’t find one on the system. Apparently a pathologist from down south was used. Something to do with SOCA building a comprehensive case against Kalinin.’
‘I see.’ There was a pause. ‘Can I call you back on this?’
‘Sure. No rush.’
Rhona swore under her breath as she put the phone down. Was it her imagination or had there been a sudden note of caution in Cameron’s voice? Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned SOCA? The delineation between Scots and English law could be a sore point at times.
Why was she beginning to feel that something wasn’t right about all of this? She realised it had started when Petersson asked her about the post-mortem results on McNab. She had never needed to know what was in them before. The bullet hadn’t left McNab’s body, it had disintegrated inside him. She’d never wanted to know the full extent of the damage it had done.
Rhona moved the plastic bag containing the carry-out meal to her left hand and fished in her pocket for the key. When she opened the front door, she was surprised not to hear scampering paws as Tom came to greet her. Then she heard a plaintive miaow from beyond the kitchen door.
She normally let the cat have the run of the house. She must have inadvertently shut the kitchen door when she’d left that morning. Rhona deposited the bag on the work surface and doled out sufficient affection to satisfy Tom before opening the wine she’d bought on her way home. She poured a large glass and slipped the plastic container of chow mein into the microwave.
While it was cooking, she carried her glass through to the sitting room, lit the gas fire and turned on the lamps. She didn’t want any shadows dancing in the room tonight. When she heard the ping from the kitchen, she suddenly realised how hungry she was. She heaped a plate high and carried it back through.
When she finished eating, she poured another glass, then fetched the duvet and got undressed in front of the fire. Tom came and nestled beside her, his purr comforting. She turned on the television, keeping the sound low, and when sleep didn’t come, she watched the silent figures move about the screen. It was a crime drama whose characters she didn’t recognise, although they appeared to be having as much difficulty in their fictional world as she was having in reality.
Eventually she must have dozed off because the entry buzzer startled her into wakefulness. She rose and walked through to the hall, still in her underwear, and pressed the intercom button.
‘It’s me. Can I come up?’
She didn’t answer immediately.
‘It’s important,’ Petersson insisted.
She pressed the release button and went to put on some clothes. When she opened the door, Petersson was standing impatiently on the mat. He strode in, bringing a draught of cold air with him.
‘Do you have any alcohol? Vodka?’ he said sharply.
‘No vodka, but there’s whisky and a little wine in the kitchen.’
He followed her through. The white wine bottle stood on the table, more than half empty.
‘Make it a whisky,’ he said.
She fetched the bottle from the cupboard. ‘Water, ice?’
‘Straight.’
She poured a double and handed it over. He drank it down and held out the glass for another. She refilled it and handed it back. This time he took only a sip.
‘That’s better. Can we go through?’
She led him into the sitting room where the evidence of her previous occupation was obvious to see.
He suddenly looked contrite. ‘I woke you up? I’m sorry.’
‘I was watching TV,’ she lied. She indicated a seat near the fire, folding the duvet up and laying it on the back of the sofa before sitting down herself.
‘The autopsy report, did you get a copy?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘There is a problem?’
‘More an oddity. Apparently the post-mortem wasn’t done by any of the usual team.’
‘Really?’
‘Someone came up from the south to perform it. Something to do with SOCA’s case against Kalinin. Maybe they had to conduct an autopsy under English law. That happens sometimes.’
Petersson didn’t look convinced.
‘What is it?’ He was annoying her now.
He took a moment before answering. ‘What if there is no report?’
‘There has to be.’
‘Not necessarily.’
Now he was really irritating her.
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘If McNab didn’t die, there would have been no post-mortem.’
The shock of the statement floored her for a second. ‘That’s utter nonsense.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was with him when he died.’
‘What if he was revived in the ambulance?’
‘He wasn’t.’
‘You weren’t with him, so how do you know?’
‘I was at his damn funeral, that’s why, as were all his fellow officers.’
‘Was it an open coffin?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So you never saw the body?’
‘I was there when his heart stopped, remember?’
‘When I was a boy, I fell under ice. When they pulled me out, I’d been dead for four minutes.’
‘It’s not the same. This is ludicrous. The kind of cover-up you’re suggesting . . . people just don’t do that.’
Petersson shrugged. ‘Who saw the body after it left in the ambulance?’
‘I don’t know. Hospital staff. Mortuary staff. DI Slater attended the post-mortem, for God’s sake.’
‘Yet there is no record of it.’
‘There must be. I just haven’t located it yet.’
Petersson’s questions were unnerving her, springing hope in what had been a desert of despair. She couldn’t, wouldn’t allow that to happen.
‘McNab is dead,’ she said firmly.
‘If McNab were alive, he would be a key witness in the case against Kalinin.’
She raised her voice. ‘But he’s not alive.’
‘Maybe we’re meant to think that.’
Rhona was growing angrier by the second. Her eyes filled with tears.
‘What you’re suggesting is arrant nonsense. More than that, it is cruel.’
His look softened. ‘I’m sorry if I’m distressing you, but I wouldn’t say such a thing without a reason.’
‘This had better be good,’ she warned him.
‘I’ve been investigating Kalinin for almost four years. For most of that time, all my leads have resulted in a dead end. Recently, I managed to hack into some files that led me to believe Kalinin had a supporter on the inside of the justice system.’
‘That’s when you told me about Slater?’
‘It looked like DI Slater was slowing things down, making things easier for Kalinin.’
‘In not pursuing the investigation into McNab’s death?’
Petersson nodded. ‘I began to dig further. That’s when I discovered that Fergus Morrison had been murdered and that the news of his death had been kept secret. I also discovered that Anya and her brother had disappeared, supposedly having returned to Russia, although I can find no evidence to support that.’
Rhona thought of the gentle Anya losing her lover to Kalinin. She had been so afraid she might lose her brother the same way, yet still she had helped McNab.
‘All this leads me to believe Kalinin is set on removing anyone who might give evidence against him. Morrison. Probably Anya and her brother.’ He paused. ‘I also think he’s looking for McNab.’
‘Kalinin thinks McNab’s alive?’
‘He has reason to.’
‘What reason?’ she said sharply.
‘Morrison was tortured before he was shot. The torture had all the hallmarks of Solonik.’
Rhona shuddered. The sadistic Solonik had once tortured McNab, almost gouging his eyes out with his thick, blunt fingers.
‘Someone had been sharing the safe house with Morrison. Kalinin suspected it was McNab, and Solonik’s job was to find out if that was true.’
‘And was it?’ She couldn’t believe what she was saying.
