by Lin Anderson
‘I planned to go there tomorrow. But if David was the killer, I don’t know where we’re going with the Coulter investigation.’
‘He still appeared to know what was happening,’ she reminded him.
Exhaustion had set in for both of them. Even strong, sweet coffee was no longer keeping it at bay.
‘Are you awake enough to drive home?’ said Bill.
‘It’s not far.’
‘I’ll let you know when the post-mortem is scheduled. It won’t be early, that’s for sure.’
48
Magnus woke with a start to find the first pink light of dawn filtering into the room. He was still sitting on the settee in front of the fire, Coulter’s diary on his knee. Beside him on a coffee table stood the remains of a bottle of Highland Park. He checked the level; he’d hit it hard, but not enough to give him a headache.
He glanced down at the open page of the diary, trying to remember where he had got to before he’d fallen asleep. Then he remembered.
Five times he’d spotted the same reference. He’d gone so far as to mark each with a slip of paper. He rose, excited. Was it too early to call Bill? He checked his watch. He would give it half an hour.
He switched on the coffee machine and headed for the shower. Under a burst of water, he almost felt like singing, but settled for some joyful humming instead.
Excitement had generated real hunger. He poured a mug of coffee, then set about frying himself bacon and eggs. Ten minutes later he sat down to a full plate with toast and more coffee and thought about what his discovery might mean.
Coulter had sent him the diary as a test. He’d planned everything, then written it in there to challenge Magnus, his own self-belief unassailable. How Coulter must have loved those hospital visits. The sparring between Dr Shan, his defendant, and Magnus, his chosen adversary. He remembered the man’s knowing smile when he’d said, ‘You’ve been reading my diary.’
He flipped through the diary again, double-checking in case lack of sleep or too much whisky had addled his brain. But the phrase was there.
I can get her anuther
Twenty minutes later he succumbed and rang Bill’s number. He thought it was about to go to voicemail, then a woman’s voice answered.
‘Yes?’
‘Is DI Wilson there? It’s Professor Pirie.’
‘Is it urgent? He only got home three hours ago. He’s still asleep.’
‘I’m sorry, but I think it probably is urgent.’
He heard the phone go down, then some whispered words, before Bill’s muffled voice came on the line.
‘Bill, it’s Magnus.’
‘You found something?’
‘I believe the baby’s alive, and I think I know where it is.’
The red sunrise had been replaced by a bright blue February sky. They were ahead of the rush hour traffic, and the city streets were just waking up to a new day.
Bill drove west along the Clydeside expressway past the Finnieston bridge, eventually cutting up into Dumbarton Road. Magnus sat in the passenger seat.
Earlier, Bill had listened intently to the professor’s theory about the references in Coulter’s diary, before breaking the news about David Murdoch.
Magnus had puzzled over that, and for the first time doubt had begun to creep in.
‘How does that fit with your theory?’ Bill said.
‘I don’t know,’ Magnus admitted.
Bill wasn’t convinced, Magnus could tell, but the DI was willing to go along with his request.
Exeter Drive was a steep street off Partick’s main thoroughfare, rising through red sandstone apartment blocks on the left and post-war flats on the right. They drew up outside the number Bill had been given, parked and climbed the steps to the communal front entrance, which was doorless, then on up to the first landing. Bill chose the central door, whose glass panel showed a light was on inside. As they approached, they heard the high-pitched cry of a baby.
Bill rang the doorbell.
A young woman opened the door to them, wearing a quilted dressing gown and slippers. Her face was fuzzy from sleep and she carried a baby’s bottle, full of milk.
‘Geri Taylor?’
She nodded, her sleepy expression replaced by wakeful suspicion.
Bill showed her his warrant card. ‘Could we come inside?’
Fear flooded her face and she made an attempt to shut the door, but when Bill’s foot prevented her, she turned and fled, running down a narrow hall and through a doorway. Bill raced after her, reaching the inner door before she could shut it in his face.
When Magnus followed, Geri was standing as far away from Bill as was possible in the tiny sitting room, hugging a bundle to her chest. A pushchair stood near the window and baby clothes hung on a drying rack close to a gas fire. The room smelt of baby: regurgitated milk and watery urine. The bundle against her squirmed, emitting a hungry cry.
‘Why don’t you sit down and feed the baby,’ Bill said quietly. ‘We can talk when you’ve finished.’
Geri’s eyes darted between them warily. A further piercing shriek decided things for her. She sat down on a nearby couch and offered the bottle to the baby’s eager mouth. The screaming ceased immediately.
Her eyes were on the baby all the time it fed, and her face was placid and happy now. She looked every inch the besotted new mother.
Magnus wondered if he could be wrong, but knew in his heart he wasn’t.
There were three babygros hanging on the drier. All were pink, with a daisy embroidered on the front.
Geri propped the baby upright on her knee and rubbed its back to burp it. While it did so, she said, ‘Well done, Daisy.’
Bill looked at Magnus.
‘I’ll call social services.’
By mid-morning, a hysterical Geri Taylor had been transferred to hospital along with the baby.
Any attempt Bill had made to question her while he waited for backup had been met with a terrified silence. Even Magnus’s soothing tones had brought no response. While they waited, she never let the baby out of her arms.
The arrival of the ambulance, paramedics and a social worker had sent her into a complete breakdown. Screaming and crying, she had begged them not to take her little girl away.
They all kept repeating that they just wanted to check that both she and the baby were well. It was a lie, and she knew it.
By the time they managed to get her in the ambulance, the whole street was twitching net curtains and wanting to know what was happening. Some came out into the street, which made it easy to quiz Geri’s neighbours about her pregnancy. As far as they all knew, she had indeed been pregnant, and nine days ago had been seen walking a newborn in a pram. There had been no boyfriend on the scene, as far as Bill could establish, and none recalled by the neighbours during the past nine months.
Bill also discovered that it had been Geri herself who’d informed social services of the pregnancy. A woman from the department had visited her and found her well and happy and looking forward to the new baby. When questioned about the baby’s father, Geri had insisted the pregnancy had been the result of a one night stand. She had been drunk at the time and couldn’t remember the man’s name. It was a common enough story, and the social worker had seen no reason not to accept it. In fact, in her case, the woman from social services had thought it better not to have a man in the picture, since Geri’s previous partner had killed her first child.
‘We had no idea the child had been born. Normally we get word from the hospital, who would have a health visitor scheduled. We would have followed up with a visit ourselves,’ she said worriedly.
Bill reassured her that this was an exceptional case. He didn’t tell her that in all likelihood Geri Taylor had never given birth.
He shuddered to think how things might have turned out if Coulter hadn’t sought to involve Magnus. If the inmate had carried out his plan without attracting attention to himself, they might never have found the baby. Even now, Coulter would be
confident in his belief that he had Magnus and the rest of them fooled.
After the ambulance left, Bill called DS Clark and asked her to check whether Geri Taylor had had prenatal care locally in Partick or had been admitted to any hospital in greater Glasgow to deliver. Before he heard back from her, he had his answer; the doctor examining Geri at the hospital called to confirm that the child couldn’t be hers.
‘The young woman in question has definitely not given birth recently.’
‘How old is the baby?’
‘About a week. We’re running some tests, but she appears in good health and has been well looked after.’
‘I need a blood sample for DNA purposes.’
‘No problem.’
Until the baby’s DNA was checked against the umbilical cord, they couldn’t say for certain – but Bill was sure it was Kira’s child.
Magnus had gone home, professing himself keen to go through the diary again. Maybe there was more to be gleaned from the pages of rambling script. Bill was just grateful for what the professor had already found.
Magnus had been of the opinion that Geri was unlikely to have carried out the foetal theft alone, and Bill agreed. Eventually Geri might reveal how she got the baby, but judging by her current state of mind, it wouldn’t be soon.
Bill left a team of SOCOs working the house and headed for his car. He called Rhona before he left.
‘It’s Kira’s child?’ She sounded astonished and delighted.
‘I’m hoping you’ll be the one to prove that. The hospital’s sending you a blood sample.’
‘How did you find her?’
‘Magnus found a repeated reference in Coulter’s diary. It said, “I can get her another”. He thought Coulter was referring to getting Geri a baby. Not making one for her. I decided it was worth checking his theory out.’
‘Thank God you did.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘The post-mortem on David Murdoch is at one o’clock. Can you make it?’
‘I’ll be there.’
49
When Bill arrived at the station, word was already out that they had found a baby believed to be Kira’s, and that Professor Pirie had somehow been involved.
The team were ready and waiting to hang on Bill’s every word. He took time surveying the assembled group before he spoke. DC Murphy looked like he hadn’t slept for a month, and he wasn’t the only one. The grind of a large investigation got to everyone in time. A week ago he’d cancelled all leave until they found the infant, and no one had complained. Well, their commitment and determination were about to be rewarded.
‘The hospital has confirmed that Geri Taylor did not give birth recently. They also confirmed that the baby found in her possession is a week-old girl, who she calls Daisy, and who is thriving and healthy.’ Bill paused. ‘Forensic will shortly confirm if the baby is Kira’s, but we are fairly sure of a positive match.’
A cheer went up and Bill grinned. It was the first piece of good news they’d had in some time, and he allowed them their moment of joy.
‘Professor Pirie and I believe that Jeff Coulter orchestrated the theft of the baby in order to give it to Geri Taylor, to somehow “replace” the child he killed. However, we still don’t know how this was achieved. Even if Geri Taylor was present at the funfair that night, it’s more than likely she had help, if only in locating Kira.’ He paused. ‘David Murdoch’s apparent suicide puts him in the frame for both murders, but as yet we have no direct link between him and Coulter. We have been unable to question Geri, who is too distraught at the loss of a baby she thinks is hers.’
Bill allowed time for all that to sink in before continuing.
‘Meanwhile, we concentrate on David Murdoch. The post-mortem should tell us if he did inflict the knife wound himself. The knife is similar, perhaps identical, to the one used on Kira, traces from whose handle were found on Melanie Jones. If David is innocent of both murders, then he is also a victim. I don’t have to remind you that Dr Delaney and Ronald Reese-Brandon are still in the frame.’
His brief concluded, Bill asked for anything they’d turned up in the interim. Roy Hunter spoke first.
‘The text to Delaney was sent from a pay-as-you-go mobile. Reese-Brandon’s text came from the same number. Both Brandon and Delaney admitted in interview with the DI that despite her expensive handset Kira sometimes used pay-as-you-go mobiles for private calls. We haven’t linked the number directly with Kira, but both texts originated in the vicinity of the funfair. They were sent within minutes of each other, around ten fifty-two.’
Bill said, ‘From what we’ve learned of Kira, she may well have liked the idea of orchestrating a meeting between the two. Alternatively, her attacker could have been drawing them to the funfair in the hope of implicating them in her murder. Perhaps the perpetrator was aware of the relationship between Kira and Delaney, and summoned her father in order to expose this. The only person we know so far that Kira confided in fully was David Murdoch.’
Bill headed for the post-mortem the moment the strategy meeting was over, cursing the city centre traffic. It wasn’t yet rush hour, but it was heavy enough to make him late.
He gowned up quickly and went in to join the rest of the party. Dr Sissons was performing the post-mortem, with Sylvia acting as corroborator. A SOCO was already video-recording the proceedings and a youngish male Fiscal, whom Bill didn’t know that well, was on the scene too. His colour above the mask suggested this might be his first attendance at a post-mortem.
Bill met Rhona’s eyes and acknowledged her hidden smile of congratulation. He realised he hadn’t told her about his brief conversation with Sutherland, and made a note to try and mention it after they’d finished here. When they’d solved this case, he would have more time to spend finding out what SOCA was doing about McNab.
Dr Sissons had not yet removed the knife but David’s hands were no longer wrapped around its handle, which was rough and grey and eight inches in length. The angle of entry was photographed and measured. Before Sissons withdrew the blade, Rhona indicated she wanted to speak.
‘When I attended the scene, the victim’s hands were round the knife handle, although not engaged with it. I subsequently discovered partial prints, which weren’t David’s, on the surface beneath. I have also checked since then and found that David Murdoch was right-handed. The manner in which his hands were set on the knife suggested he was left-handed.’
After the post-mortem, Bill stripped off his suit and stuffed it in the basket provided.
‘So he didn’t kill himself?’ he said.
‘It’s unlikely,’ replied Rhona.
‘What about the partials?’
‘I’ll run them through the database, but there may not be enough for a match. What about the handwriting on the note?’
‘I’ve sent it to your forensic graphology colleagues with a copy of David’s school work for comparison.’
‘The note was in capitals.’
‘That does make it tricky,’ he admitted.
‘If David Murdoch didn’t commit suicide, then he didn’t kill those two girls either,’ said Rhona decisively. ‘Magnus is right; Coulter is the one in the driving seat. He’s controlling someone, someone who knew that Kira was afraid of clowns and who hated her enough to steal her baby.’
They left the mortuary. As the door swung shut behind them, Bill said, ‘I spoke to Sutherland about—’
Rhona cut him short.
‘It’s over, Bill. I’d rather forget about it.’
He watched her walk away, head held high, the sound of her heels sharp in the frosty air. He’d known Dr Rhona MacLeod for a long time. And he knew when she was lying. Rhona had no intention of giving up on Kalinin, but he suspected she wanted him to.
He called DS Clark. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘OK, Sir. I have some news – a backpack has been found in the River Kelvin by two young boys. It had a clown suit inside.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes, wait outs
ide for me.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’
50
The school was so quiet that it was difficult to believe seven hundred girls were inside. Every other school he’d visited had seemed a hive of noisy activity, kids in corridors and crossing the playgrounds, the frantic sounds of a gym lesson in action. At Morvern, quiet study was the status quo. No one was allowed to enter a classroom once a lesson was in progress, as the learning process must never be disturbed. Only the sound of the bell brought activity of sorts: quiet, well-behaved girls moving from class to class.
Bill and DS Clark arrived around three thirty. Morvern’s classes ended at four, but various after-school clubs kept many pupils in the building or the nearby playing fields until five thirty. A babysitting service for the wealthy.
Standing in the hushed school, he thought of how Margaret always complained that her afternoon lessons were hell, as the E numbers kicked in from lunch. Some of the children consumed nothing but fizzy drinks and fast food at midday, bought at the nearby shops.
No one here left the premises during the school day. The girls ate healthy lunches in the dining hall, which did not even offer fizzy drinks. You wouldn’t find a Coke machine in the corridors here, whatever profit it might make for school funds.
When the Principal arrived to collect them from reception, they were enjoying freshly brewed coffee and chocolate biscuits. DS Clark was experiencing the same first reaction to Morvern he remembered: stunned amazement that this could be a school. Obviously she had not been privately educated.
Diane Porter was dressed as before, chic but casual. He caught her scent, pleasant and unobtrusive. She smiled warmly, although he knew she couldn’t be pleased to see him.
‘Detective Inspector Wilson. I apologise for keeping you waiting. Prospective parents,’ she said. ‘I’ve sent them off round the school with two of my sixth formers.’
