by James Oswald
‘Give me time, Tony. I’ll get to that.’ Cadwallader peered at the cadaver’s chest, pressing lightly on the skin with his latex-gloved fingers while he made an odd tutting noise under his breath.
‘Tracy, have we got the chest X-rays?’
Doctor Sharp went to the viewing screen set up on the wall at the far side of the examination theatre. With a few well-practised taps of the keyboard, she brought up a large image in contrasting shades of green, the dead man’s ribs and palely outlined organs. Cadwallader ambled over, pushing his spectacles up his nose as he approached the screen, looking at it for long moments before returning to the table.
‘Thought these might have been bruise marks. See, here and here?’
McLean stepped closer. The harsh light of the examination theatre made Barnton’s skin almost translucent, veins wriggling just below the surface like hungry worms. His chest was bare, one nipple slightly misshapen, the other more or less normal. A narrow hand’s-breadth below both, the skin had a darker hue to it. Not quite a bruise, but certainly a mark.
‘Might he have been shoved?’
Cadwallader shrugged. ‘Possible. But it doesn’t look right. It’s not a bruise, more the sort of marking you get sometimes with powerful electric shocks. Only they tend to be small spots, not larger areas.’
The pathologist went over to the workbench that ran along the far wall beneath the screens, pulled open a drawer and took something out. When he came back to the body, he was holding what looked like a flashlight and two pairs of yellow-tinted safety goggles. He handed one to McLean, awkwardly putting the other set over his glasses with his free hand before switching on the lamp.
‘We’re not looking for fluids, are we?’ McLean asked as Cadwallader directed the light at the darker marks on Barnton’s skin.
‘Different kind of light and filter. This just helps with the contrast more than anything else. Only really works on dead flesh. Ah, that’s interesting.’ The pathologist bent low to the point where the left-hand mark showed. McLean leaned in to see what had caught his eye. The light washed out what little colour was left in the dead man’s skin, rendering it almost monochrome and bringing the dark mark into higher relief. Now it looked very much like a light handprint, but made by the hand of a tiny child. Cadwallader moved the light to the other side, showing a similar mark. When he clicked off the lamp, it almost completely disappeared.
‘Seems like your suggestion could be right. This is exactly what you’d expect from a man getting shoved in the chest by a shorter person. Only that would leave bruises, and these aren’t bruises.’
‘So what are they, then? What made them?’
‘I don’t know, Tony. I’ll have to take a sample of skin, have a look at it under the microscope, maybe send it off for some tests. Like I said, it looks more like the mark from an electrical discharge than anything. But why the shape, then?’
A mystery, but McLean wasn’t sure it was relevant to the ongoing investigation. ‘OK. Let me know as soon as you’ve got an answer. In the meantime, what about him being moved after he died?’
‘Ah yes, that.’ Cadwallader pulled off his goggles and placed them down on the tray beside the examination table, alongside the sharp instruments of his trade and the more industrial-looking tools. ‘The lividity is all right for him having sat awhile after death. Blood’s all collected around his lower back, backside and thighs. Tracey, can you help me turn him over?’
Doctor Sharp approached the table and between the two of them they expertly rolled Barnton’s corpse on to its front. McLean could see the marks clearly enough, the blotchy mess of congealed blood where it had settled after the man’s heart had stopped beating.
‘His position at the cemetery was interesting, as you pointed out, I think, Tony.’ Cadwallader flexed the fingers of both hands together as if the strain of turning the cadaver had hurt them.
‘There was quite a gap between his back and the headstone. I had Manda Parsons photograph it. Almost all his weight was being taken on the back of his head and his shoulders. Didn’t look comfortable at all. Mind you, he was dead.’
‘Aye, that’s how I remember it. Which makes these marks a bit strange, don’t you think?’ The pathologist scribed the air above Barnton’s upper and middle back. Faint, but visible even without weird lights and filters, McLean could make out lines of lividity casting horizontal shadows across the spotty flesh.
‘He was much more solidly slumped against something for a while after he died. And whatever it was, it had raised ridges on it that pushed into his skin and stopped some of the blood from draining down to his backside. No idea what it might have been, except that the ridges appear to be about two inches apart.’
‘Don’t remember seeing anything like that in the cemetery.’ McLean pulled out his phone, turned to leave, then hesitated. ‘You mind if I skip the rest? Think I need to let the boss know the body was tampered with after he died.’
Cadwallader smiled, picked up a scalpel even though Barnton was still face down. ‘Go, Tony. I know you don’t like the next bit anyway.’
Darkness wouldn’t fully claim the city for a couple of hours yet, but it was still late enough for headlights as McLean parked in the courtyard at the back of his house. With hindsight, it had probably been unwise going back to the station after the post-mortem. Given the hours he’d been working recently, he’d have been justified going home straight after the funeral, but Madame Rose’s words had unsettled him, he’d needed to throw himself back into the case. It was just a pity his earlier suspicions about Barnton’s death had been confirmed. One more complication he didn’t want to have to think about.
It was only as he pushed through the door from the utility room and into the kitchen that he remembered he’d dropped Emma at work that morning because her car wouldn’t start. He’d been so wrapped up in the day’s events, he’d quite forgotten to phone and ask her if she needed bringing home, or indeed to let her know he was going to be late.
Mrs McCutcheon’s cat was nowhere to be seen, and now he thought about it, he couldn’t recall having seen any of the other cats that had been lurking around the garden for days now. Perhaps it was a shift change or something. He dumped his briefcase on the kitchen table, a small pile of reports that he hoped he might get away with ignoring until tomorrow but probably wouldn’t. For a moment he just stood there, listening to the quiet gurgle of the Aga and the hum of the fridge. It was tempting to pour himself a beer, worry about food and a shower later. Chances were it wouldn’t go down well with Emma, though.
He found her in the library, laid out on the sofa with one hand over her head as if to shield her eyes from the glare of the light. Dressed in loose-fitting clothes, the swell of her belly was just beginning to show, or at least he convinced himself that it was. How long now until the baby was due? Not long. Not long enough. He didn’t feel remotely ready for this.
A quiet groan, and Emma lifted her free hand to her stomach, rolled over and sat up. She blinked a couple of times, eyes bleary with sleep. ‘Tony? What you doing standing there?’
‘Just got in. Sorry. I know I should have called earlier. Arranged for someone to come pick you up from work.’
‘It’s OK. Manda Parsons gave me a lift.’ She yawned, stretched wide, arms reaching for the ceiling, back arched. And then suddenly hunched in on herself, wrapping her arms around her stomach. ‘Ow!’
‘What is it, Em?’ McLean rushed over to the sofa, crouched down beside her. He wasn’t sure whether an arm around the shoulder would help or hinder as Emma squeezed her eyes tight shut against some considerable pain. Eventually, she let out a long gasp of breath and relaxed a little.
‘Keep forgetting the wee tyke doesn’t like me stretching like that.’ She smiled up at him, but it was a weary smile. ‘You eaten yet?’
McLean helped Emma to unsteady feet, supported her until she regained her balance. ‘Not yet. I was thinking of skipping straight to beer.’
‘Rub it in, why don�
��t you.’ She punched him on the shoulder, but with no strength. ‘Haven’t had a drink in ages. You should have given up in sympathy. This is your child as much as mine.’
He hugged her close, kissed the top of her head even though it smelled of musty old sofa. ‘OK. Tea it is.’
‘Rose dropped by earlier,’ Emma said as they walked to the kitchen. ‘She was a bit disappointed to find you weren’t here. You’d think she’d know you better than that by now.’
‘Madame Rose? I saw her earlier in the day. Funeral for one of the crash victims. She say what she wanted?’
‘Oh, you know what she’s like. All subtle hints at terrible things about to happen, or already happening, or happened and it’s too late to do anything about them now. She said there was something ancient and evil stalking the city and she needed to find it before it got out of hand. She did mention a funeral, right enough. Said she’d spoken to you but you’d not been listening.’ Emma put on a reasonable impression of the medium ‘ “We must gird ourselves against the gathering dark”, or something like that. Oh, and she went through a load more books. That seemed to calm her down a bit.’
McLean filled the kettle and heaved it on to the hotplate, glancing back at the fridge and its bottles of cold beer with a guilty longing. His gaze was distracted by the clattering of the cat flap and Mrs McCutcheon’s cat came padding in.
‘Oh, that was the other strange thing,’ Emma said. ‘We were in the library talking about rare books and stuff and your cat jumped up onto Rose’s lap, like she does sometimes.’
‘My cat?’ McLean put all the emphasis on the possessive pronoun as Mrs McCutcheon’s cat looked up at him, testing the air to make sure he hadn’t contaminated it. ‘I’m not sure that’s how it works.’
‘Aye, well. You know what I mean. She jumped onto Rose’s lap anyway, and I could swear it was like they were having a conversation. I don’t mean a “who’s a lovely kitty” kind of conversation either. This wasn’t one-sided at all.’
McLean raised an eyebrow, looked down at Mrs McCutcheon’s cat, who was now cleaning her arse with her tongue. ‘I wonder what they talked about.’
‘I’ve no idea, but Rose left quite quickly after that. Oh, she was polite and everything, but it was fairly obvious she needed to be somewhere else, and I couldn’t shake the idea it was all because the cat had told her something. Stupid really.’ Emma smiled, the wrinkles around her eyes making her look far older than her years.
McLean took the now-boiling kettle off the heat, poured water into the teapot and set it down on the kitchen table to stew. A splash slopped out of the spout, so he went to the sink for a cloth to wipe it up. Something moved in the gloaming outside, and as he stared through the window into the darkening shadows, it resolved into the largest tom cat he had ever seen. A great shaggy beast, it looked more like a small lion than something you’d let sit on your lap. It stared at him a moment, eyes glinting in the reflected light from the kitchen window, and then it stalked off in the direction of the drive.
He was about to turn, damp cloth already in hand, when he saw another cat saunter across the grass as if following the first. Then a pair of them hurried after it, followed by yet more.
‘Something up?’
McLean started as Emma spoke right beside him. She followed his gaze out of the window, where a line of cats now strode purposefully out of the garden. What seemed like dozens of them, all glanced briefly at the window as they passed. Big, small, young and old alike. Then the last one sauntered into the darkness and they were gone.
41
I think I know where they were taking that stuff now.
Sure, it took a while. Going to take most of the day to get there, too, scope it out, add the details to this little dossier I’ve been compiling. I’d have handed the whole thing over to the police already, but I’ve not had the best relationship with them, if I’m being honest. Who knows what would happen? What would disappear? No, I need to see this through to the end, then make sure enough of the right people know that it can’t be buried.
It’s not like they’re all bad, after all. There was Gordon at the start, and he was OK, I guess, if a bit driven. All those people he hoped to arrest on the say of a six-year-old boy who’d been traumatized to the point of murdering dozens of men, women and children in a house fire. That’s not how I thought of him at the time, of course, or how I thought of myself. I just saw him as a familiar face, a small rock of constancy in an ever-changing world. He never hurt me, never once let show the frustration he must have been feeling. The only times he ever treated me as anything other than an equal was when I asked about Maddy. Then he’d either change the subject or dismiss me with a half-answer.
Once he was gone, interest in the house fire seemed to dry up. I was too wrapped up in my own problems to really notice, but there’d be interviews, a succession of earnest or bored officers explaining what I’d done wrong or that I’d be moving to a new area or any number of other things I didn’t hear at the time. Too busy growing up and lashing out, making life miserable for anyone who tried to get too close.
And then I moved to Scotland, the west coast. A pair of middle-aged ladies living an unconventional lifestyle. Jean worked for the council, which was probably how they passed the test as suitable adopters. Sheila did some consultancy work with the police when she wasn’t lecturing at Paisley University. I guess that’s how I came to her attention in the first place. Or maybe she knew Gordon or something. It’s not important. They kept me from going completely off the rails, and gave me a purpose in life; still do, if I’m being honest, even though I don’t see much of them these days.
I’ve them to thank for bringing the police back into my life, too, I guess. That or the drugs.
I was never an addict. I know how that sounds, the sort of thing only an addict would say, but I’ve not even thought about drugs in years. It was more the crowd I hung with, what they were into. Going along with it just to be accepted. Having an English accent in a Glasgow school when everyone’s high on the thought of independence isn’t much fun.
It’s more fun than being swept up in a police raid though. Something must have pinged somewhere, because I was hauled off away from the others pretty sharpish. Next thing I knew I was talking to a man who said he knew Gordon, knew all about my background and the true name they’d taken from me. He wasn’t a bad copper as they go, a bit like Gordon only much younger, posher, like he’d been well educated. That put my back up at first. All the sad old men who’d fucked me and Maddy had talked like him.
But he let me off with a caution, then asked me if I’d be interested in working with him. With the police and the special task force he was assigned to. First job was to hack into a database and switch some data around, so the swab they’d taken from me when I was arrested wouldn’t flag up anywhere. ‘Call it a test,’ he’d said with a smile. It wasn’t even really hacking, given that I used a terminal in the police station to do it. They didn’t ask me to, but I doubled up a couple of other records, to make it harder to trace. Stuck in a little back door so I could keep an eye on things if I needed. And then I walked free.
Only, you’re never really free when someone’s got something over you, and that’s how I feel about the police. The National Crime Agency, as they call themselves these days. I hope they’re after the same sick fucks I’m after, but I’d be surprised if some of them weren’t in on it, doing their best to protect the privileged. So I watch them and they watch me.
Sure, I’m paranoid, but can you blame me?
42
The major-incident room had a buzz about it quite at odds with the previous afternoon. Something was clearly up. Despite the strange departure of all Madame Rose’s cats – or maybe because of it – McLean had slept well. Untroubled by the ghoulish dreams of recent nights, he had woken feeling rested for the first time in an age. No one had called during breakfast, no new crisis requiring his immediate attention. Even the drive across town had been relatively easy.
He’d dropped Emma off at the forensic labs with a promise to pick her up again at the end of the day, heading to the station with every intention of keeping that promise. A heady sense of optimism in the room made him feel like he might even manage it.
‘What’s up, Constable?’
DC Gregg emerged from the ebb and flow of officers, clasping a couple of report folders to her ample chest. She had a grin on her face that was quite infectious.
‘Just in from the US Consulate, sir. Seems victim number eighteen had one of those health screen DNA tests done a couple of years back. They’ve matched it with the results we sent them.’ Gregg presented the first of the folders to McLean as if it were some kind of school prize.
‘RIP Alicia Dennis.’ He flicked open the report, scanned a few of the dense lines of text within. They never made sense these things, couched in scientific levels of uncertainty, but it was close enough. He was just beginning to explore the implications of the identification when Gregg interrupted him.
‘That’s not all, sir. See that sample you and Janie Harrison found?’
‘Jennifer Beasley? Aye?’
‘Well, they’ve matched that to the last female victim. Eighty-five per cent certain it’s her.’ Gregg handed him the other folder.
‘Eighty-five. Is that good?’
‘Given the nature of the sample, it’s as good as you’ll get. If it’s no’ her then it’s her mother or sister or someone close like that. Balance of probabilities says it’s her.’
‘That’s good work, Sandy. Thanks.’ McLean looked up to the whiteboard, where the two new names had been inked in. Both still had question marks beside them, he noticed.
‘Don’t thank me. You’re the one who found her.’
‘Did I?’ McLean looked at the folders, unsure what to do with them. He’d had nothing to do with the identification of Alicia Dennis, and credit for finding Jennifer Beasley should have gone to the constable who found a discarded backpack and thought it was important. ‘I rather think the whole team did it, don’t you?’
