by Lin Anderson
The next morning he’d been woken by his stepdad leaving for work. Not long afterwards, Owen had destroyed his carefully constructed peace of mind by leaving a voicemail saying the police knew about the parties and that they were all to go down to the police station and be fingerprinted and swabbed. Owen had sounded quite excited about this as though it was all just a game.
The thought of going back to that police station had scared the shit out of him. The police had already taken his fingerprints and a mouth swab ‘to eliminate him from their enquiries’. Why the hell would they want him back there? He’d tried to stay calm, but when the call came he didn’t pick up, just waited before listening to some woman on voicemail asking him to report immediately to the police station.
In the hours since finding Melanie, he’d come to the conclusion that the killer had smothered her. He’d seen it done numerous times on TV, a pillow placed gently over someone’s sleeping face. And she was so little and skinny, it would have been easy. Then he thought about the way he’d covered her mouth tightly with his hand.
What if they found flakes of his skin on her mouth and thought it was him who’d smothered her? Once it had occurred to him, his brain had gone into overdrive, reliving everything he’d done in that room. Sitting on the bed, touching her arm, gripping her wrist. He’d shaken her arm up and down, for fuck’s sake – his DNA must be all over her.
He’d tried to calm himself down by recalling how he’d wiped her mouth, her arm, her wrist and got rid of his fingerprints. It was then he realised he had no idea what he’d done with the towel.
After ten frantic minutes of searching he’d found it in the washing machine among his clothes. He’d gone on to hide the damp clothes in his wardrobe, thinking hanging them out on the line (which he never did) would have looked suspicious. He’d taken the towel with him and tossed it in a skip in the city centre.
Now he was standing in the line at McDonald’s, trying not to look or act like a fugitive from the law – which, he had to keep reminding himself, he wasn’t. Jesus, he’d never realised how many CCTV cameras were trained on the city centre. He’d counted at least eight on the way here. How the hell did the neds get away with anything? That must be why they all wore the same hoods and baseball caps, so you couldn’t distinguish one from the other.
He took possession of his breakfast and headed for the darkest corner. No one even glanced up. He was back to being invisible, just like he’d been before Kira had taken him under her wing. He didn’t know whether to be sad or glad about that.
As he ate, he worked on his plan. He could stay away for at least a couple of nights before Gary freaked. Since his mother had died, the two of them had pretty much kept out of one another’s way; with her gone, they had nothing and no one in common. He was actually surprised Gary hadn’t asked him to leave once he’d reached seventeen, and had always felt that’s what would happen should he put a foot wrong.
Well, he’d certainly put a foot wrong now.
As he polished off the burger, he wondered if he might delay things by sending Gary a text saying he was staying with mates. But if the police went round to the house looking for him, that wouldn’t wash for long.
He might be better to lose the mobile altogether. He was savvy enough to know that the police could trace him if he used it. He should throw it in a skip like the towel, say some ned had stolen it from him. He brought it out of his pocket and stared at it. The thing was, he couldn’t bear to lose his phone. It would be like losing his right arm. He put it away again.
He was suddenly aware just how difficult it was to lie, properly and consistently. It seemed that one lie just tripped up another. He’d occasionally lied to Gary about where he was going, although Gary always looked as though he couldn’t care less, but proper lying was much harder. Kira had been great at it. He’d been shocked at first by her ability to tell the Daisy Chain something that sounded true, but which he knew to be a lie. She was always so convincing. You just believed everything she said.
She’d assured him that he was the only one she would never lie to, and he’d believed her, although that night at the funfair he hadn’t been so sure. She’d never mentioned liking candyfloss before, and when he’d offered to fetch some for her, she’d given him a look that had scared him.
He swallowed the last mouthful of Coke, then got rid of the tray. Where to now? He made a quick decision to head for Kelvingrove and put in some time at the Dr Who exhibition. His plan was to stay warm and off the radar.
41
She’d spent ages listening to the message left on the Skye number. The voice had said her name, just once, then nothing more. When she’d eventually fallen asleep on the couch, she still had no idea who the voice belonged to.
McNab had known about her father’s place on Skye. He’d even tried to persuade her to invite him there for a few days’ walking, during their brief affair. All a ruse, of course. McNab hated the great outdoors. His plan had not been to see the Isle of Skye but to have a weekend of uninterrupted sex.
He’d called her there once, and she remembered how annoyed she’d been. She’d accused him of stalking her and told him to fuck off.
All that seemed a lifetime ago. McNab’s lifetime.
She’d spent a restless night, the voice on the phone echoing through her dreams, and had been glad to finally glance at her watch and realise it was morning, albeit before sunrise.
Now, during a long, hot shower, she asked herself whether she should enlist Roy’s help in trying to find out where the Skye call had come from. She would claim she had a potential stalker as an excuse for her request to check out the ‘dead man walking’ text, and it would be easy to add the Skye voicemail to that scenario.
Or maybe she should just tell Roy the truth?
If she did, she would have to admit to herself that she was giving credence to Petersson’s story. She would also have to reveal that she’d supplied him with information about the post-mortem which, if not illegal, was unprofessional.
She stepped out of the shower, quickly dried her hair and got dressed. By the time the phone rang, she’d fed Tom and was pouring her second cup of coffee.
‘I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,’ said Magnus.
‘What about Bill?’
‘He’s not coming. Something about watching phone footage of the funfair that night. He wants you to sit in on the interview with Coulter before examining the workshop.’
Rhona had never been to the State Hospital before, although she’d given evidence in court about a number of its inmates.
As they crested the hill, she caught her first glimpse of it. In the cold morning light of late February there was something Alcatraz-like about its position, but surrounded by mist-swathed moorland instead of water.
‘Dr Shan has requested a meeting before we interview Coulter.’
‘What’s she like, this Dr Shan?’
‘In her thirties, oriental, probably a Buddhist judging by the décor of her office. I think she resents my visits to her patient.’ He paused. ‘Coulter has . . . a way with women. He makes them feel special – chosen, even.’
‘You think he has some influence over her?’
‘Perhaps. What I do know is that Coulter can be very persuasive and very charming. Scarily so.’
‘So I should be on my guard?’
‘You can try.’
The woman who approached them was exactly as Magnus had described. What he’d failed to mention was how beautiful she was.
It was Magnus who performed the introductions.
‘Dr Shan, this is Dr Rhona MacLeod. She will sit in on the interview.’
The woman appraised Rhona.
‘You are a medical doctor?’
‘A forensic scientist.’
Her finely plucked eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Really.’ She looked to Magnus for an explanation.
‘Dr MacLeod is here to examine Mr Coulter’s workroom. DI Wilson wants her to meet Mr Coulter before she does tha
t.’
A flash of something resembling anger crossed Dr Shan’s face. ‘We have already searched both Mr Coulter’s living quarters and his work space, as you requested. We found nothing untoward.’
‘You’re probably right, but I’d like to take a look anyway,’ Rhona said pleasantly.
Magnus wisely changed the subject. ‘You wanted to speak with us before the interview?’
‘I wanted to register my disquiet at your repeated visits to my patient. As he is confined here and under watch all the time, he cannot be involved in crimes committed outside these walls. Secondly, I believe your continued interest in him is affecting his progress.’
‘How is that?’ Magnus said, with genuine interest.
Dr Shan hesitated, perhaps sensing she should have phrased her complaint differently. ‘He has become more agitated than usual, and continually asks when you will return. Visitors are few here, very few in Mr Coulter’s case. It is unfair to give him hope that more visits will take place.’
‘I get the impression that Mr Coulter likes being the centre of attention.’
‘I don’t believe that to be the case at all. I think he is unnerved by it.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Yes, he did.’
Rhona decided it was time to come clean. ‘I apologise if that’s the case, Dr Shan, but this is a necessary visit. It relates to a police investigation into the murder of two young girls.’
‘Two?’ Dr Shan looked shocked.
‘Kira’s pregnant friend, Melanie Jones, was found dead on Friday afternoon under suspicious circumstances.’
Dr Shan’s hand fluttered to her mouth. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Jeff Coulter has fashioned two Reborns which may be linked to this case. One, called Daisy, he made for Kira’s mother. It was found near the scene of crime. The other doll Mr Coulter said he had named Melanie, and he made a point of telling Professor Pirie that on an earlier visit. Since that visit, Melanie Jones and her unborn baby have both been killed.’
Dr Shan was speechless, her face a mask of surprise.
Rhona continued. ‘We think at the very least Mr Coulter has been receiving information about these crimes that wasn’t readily available from watching the news reports.’
Dr Shan recovered herself a little. ‘All this may be just a coincidence.’
‘That’s why I’m here. To see if it is.’
Dr Shan indicated with a nod that she would delay them no more. ‘I’ll take you to the interview room and let the ward know you’re here.’ She picked up the phone.
Coulter was not the first killer Rhona had been in close proximity to. Some, like the Gravedigger, hadn’t been from choice. Others had been in a court of law with at least a dock between. A smiling Coulter was a table’s width away.
‘Well, Professor, who do we have here?’
‘Mr Coulter, I am Dr Rhona MacLeod.’
‘Dr MacLeod? A psychiatrist?’
‘No, a doctor of science.’
He took a moment to consider that.
‘And what kind of science, exactly?’ he said.
‘I specialise in forensics.’
‘Wow,’ he laughed. ‘Brains as well as beauty.’
His gaze was openly admiring but not overtly sexual. He was less intimidating than Rhona had expected; his eyes were friendly and his manner pleasant and unthreatening. He looked interested in her, but there was another quality about him. A sort of magnetism that drew and held her.
‘So, Dr MacLeod, why are you here?’
Although he wasn’t shifting in his seat, there was a sense of restless energy about him.
‘To take a look at your workshop.’
‘They already did that. They didn’t find anything.’
‘I know.’
He leaned back, folding his arms. ‘Well, if you’ve got the time to spare, I’m happy for you to take another look.’
‘I’d like to ask you a couple more questions first,’ Magnus said.
Coulter switched his attention to him. Rhona felt a strange surge of relief that he no longer held her in his gaze.
‘Fire away,’ he said with enthusiasm.
‘Tell me about Geri.’
‘You’ve been reading my diary!’ He sounded pleased by this. ‘Geri’s my girlfriend.’
‘She visits you here?’ asked Magnus.
‘When she can. She writes to me a lot and we talk on the phone.’
‘Does she live alone?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just wondered, with you in here long term, whether she had another partner?’
‘I told you, she’s my girlfriend.’
The pleasant façade had cracked momentarily, but it was back up before they had time to see what lay beneath.
‘What does Geri have to say about Caroline?’ persisted Magnus.
‘She knows other women write to me. If it helps, she doesn’t mind.’
‘I see. Tell me about Caroline.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Her age, what she does for a living, what she writes to you about.’
Coulter frowned. ‘That would be breaking a confidence.’
‘She writes to you in secret?’
‘Some people might not approve.’
Magnus sat in silence for a moment.
‘How’s the Melanie doll coming along?’
Rhona watched as a small smile played on Coulter’s lips. This was what he’d been waiting for. ‘She’s all ready. Do you want to take a look?’
The doll was tiny, with fuzzy, dark hair and rosebud lips. She was dressed in a pink suit with a daisy motif, just like the one they’d found in the park.
‘Would you like to hold her?’
He held it out to Rhona, who was standing with Magnus in the doorway of the workroom. She wanted to refuse, but her arms seemed to move of their own accord as she accepted the doll from him. She had expected to feel revulsion, but found herself cradling it as though it were a real baby. And it did look and feel exactly like one, even down to its soft, floppy body.
‘Don’t you just love that wee face?’ Coulter’s eyes lit up as he gazed at the doll. ‘Look, the eyelids even look slightly damp. Moist glaze medium does that.’ He turned to smile at Rhona. ‘Attention to detail is what makes these dolls special.’
She handed it back to him, and he took it gently, even cradling the head.
‘Who’s this one for?’ she asked.
‘Geri. A present.’
‘Did she choose the name?’
‘Yes.’
Rhona wondered if the Reborn had been made to replace Geri’s own baby, the child he had killed.
Coulter laid the doll carefully in its box.
‘When you examine the room, Doctor, you’ll be careful with my tools?’
He indicated the neat row of instruments that resembled a surgeon’s implements, and Rhona had a sudden unpleasant image of him carving the doll’s face from clay, excavating the eye sockets with a scalpel.
When Coulter and Magnus left, accompanied by the orderlies, Rhona looked around the room. Coulter had been completely relaxed about the possibility of a search, with nothing in his manner to suggest he was worried. But then, if Magnus was correct in his assessment, the man was a practised liar.
The workroom was quite small, more like a large cupboard, a table filling one wall. Behind it were shelves stacked with materials, all labelled. A small jar of the glaze he’d talked about sat next to a selection of brushes. The numbers and different sizes made Rhona think of an artist’s studio. A paint set named ‘Peaches and Cream Complexion’ was open. Perhaps it had been used on Melanie.
Magnus hadn’t mentioned Melanie’s death to Coulter, yet Rhona couldn’t help but feel that he knew about it already. He had been relaxed, confident, almost triumphant about the newborn he’d given her name to.
Assuming Coulter was aware of Melanie’s death, who could have told him? Not Dr Shan, whose reaction made it
clear the news had come as a shock. It hadn’t been made public yet, so Coulter would have to be in touch with someone close to the case. For that to be true, he had to have a means of communication.
He had to have access to a mobile.
Mobiles in prisons were either hidden whole, or were taken apart to hide, the SIM card being the most important part. Although it was a recent phenomenon, dogs were already being trained to sniff out mobile parts. It was the only option, short of trying to block all mobile calls in and out of prison. Both methods were difficult to achieve, but were imperative if they were to prevent crime and drug empires being run from behind bars.
Rhona was sure she would unearth something to prove Coulter had found a way of communicating with the outside world. She set to work.
42
Bill could sense the energy when he entered the room, and wondered if it meant they had made a breakthrough. Multiple officers had been working on the mobile images gleaned from the calls they’d made to the public, and they wouldn’t be so excited if they had found nothing.
Roy had placed mobiles at the scene via the calls they’d made and received. If their killer had made a call when at the funfair, he or she would be among those detected.
A hush descended as Bill walked to the front. Roy was seated next to a laptop, whose screen was duplicated on a whiteboard above him. On it was a map of the site, showing the location of every van and every funfair ride the night Kira was murdered.
Bill gave Roy a nod, and he began.
‘Over sixty images were made available to us from that night; their locations are marked on the map. During the hour before Kira’s disappearance we have a record of fifty calls bouncing off nearby masts, and all of these have been logged by the time the call was made. When we concentrated on the area around the dodgems, the Waltzers, the toilets and the mirror maze, the number narrows down to nearer twenty and the images to ten.’ He paused. ‘Just after Kira left the others at the dodgems, she showed up in the background of a short video.’ He enlarged an image and set it to run.
