Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

  Rhona couldn’t answer any of the questions, but just seeing McNab alive with someone who wasn’t Solonik had made her feel better.

  Petersson pulled himself up. ‘Let’s eat. You must be starving.’

  He poured them each a large glass of wine and they settled to devouring the pizza. Rhona was glad of the chance to think, because she had questions of her own.

  Petersson appeared to anticipate what she planned to ask. As they slowed on the last slice of pizza, he said, ‘Bill hasn’t seen these yet. And if you don’t ask how I came by them, I won’t have to lie.’ He met her eye as he topped up her glass. ‘McNab definitely hasn’t got in touch with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I would tell you if he had.’ Even as she said it, Rhona wondered if that were true. What if McNab asked her not to?

  Petersson was studying her closely. They had played this cat and mouse game before. Neither trusting the other. He suddenly smiled in that disarming way of his. ‘Let’s finish the wine, then have a whisky to celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate what?’

  ‘The fact that he’s still alive.’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain.’

  ‘If McNab were dead, Kalinin would have made sure we knew it by now. And there’s something else. If McNab was back at the hotel by one o’clock, then it’s unlikely he shot Brogan.’

  She’d already worked that one out. Bill must have filled Petersson in on the time frame, otherwise how did he know when Brogan was shot? Rhona pushed the refilled wine glass to one side.

  ‘I need to go home and get some sleep.’

  Petersson tried to hide his disappointment. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  ‘No need. I’ll pull the door behind me.’

  ‘I like to double lock it.’

  He followed her to the door. He was walking more freely now. Rhona wondered if his discomfort had been exaggerated for her benefit. But why would Petersson pretend to be more injured than he really was?

  Once outside, Rhona walked swiftly to the car, and when she got inside she locked the door and switched on the radio for company. It was late, and she was home in minutes. She slipped her key in the lock, her eyes heavy with fatigue.

  Her first impression was that the flat was very cold. The central heating, set on a timer, would have switched off by now, but the cold felt sharper than that. Then she remembered the kitchen window.

  Rhona called softly for Tom. When no cat appeared she headed for the kitchen. The window sat open, Tom’s basket empty. Rhona swore under her breath. She was damned if she was leaving the window open all night. She leaned out and called the cat again. When no answering miaow came she pulled the window closed. The night was getting shorter by the moment and she desperately needed some sleep.

  Shivering, she shut the kitchen door and headed for the bedroom where she stripped quickly and slipped under the duvet. Her mind was racing, but Rhona tried to focus on one thought and one thought only. McNab was alive.

  But for how much longer?

  21

  Petersson. It was the only way they could have known he was at the hotel.

  Bastard, thought McNab.

  Anger quickened his heart, its pounding so rapid it pained his chest. He took a deep breath and tried to slow it down. His eyes blindfolded, feeling a crushing sense of airlessness, he tried to imagine space around him, a room, high ceilinged with a window that opened on to countryside. Acres of open fields and an endless sky.

  Christ, he hated the countryside.

  He yelped as vomit swelled into his throat, then coughed the hot liquid out into the darkness.

  Fucking bastard.

  Kalinin must have got to him. But how? Did it matter now? It mattered because the Icelander was still out there, pretending to be something he wasn’t. Manipulating Rhona. Maybe even fucking her. The last thought made the anger swell again. A huge wave of it slamming his heart, vibrating it like stones on a beach. Maybe that was how it would end. His heart would beat at twice its normal speed until it finally gave out. For a moment he wanted it to happen. That would piss the Russian off. No more fun. No more games. No more pain.

  He wondered what it was like to enjoy inflicting so much pain. It was like a sexual turn-on for Kalinin, he could tell. When McNab imagined turning the tables, he pictured a room with three seats. One for Kalinin. One for Solonik. And a special one for Petersson.

  22

  Liam played the message again. Rhona’s voice sounded different on the phone. Was it guilt that she hadn’t called before now? Or was she just pissed off at having to phone at all?

  He’d chosen not to pick up when he saw the caller’s name the previous night. He’d struggled a bit, in case it had been news about Jude, then reminded himself that DI Wilson had promised to get in touch if they had any luck tracing her. To put his mind at ease, he decided to call the Detective Inspector and check.

  ‘DI Wilson?’ Liam said.

  ‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Liam Hope.’

  There was a sound like a door banging and someone said, ‘Sir?’ in a questioning voice. Liam heard a muffled answer before DI Wilson came back on.

  ‘I’m glad you called, Liam. I was going to suggest we talk.’

  ‘You’ve found something?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Maybe. Can you come down to the station?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘In about an hour? Just ask for me at the desk.’

  Liam’s hand was trembling as he slipped the mobile in his pocket. They’d found something. That’s what he’d said. They’d found something.

  Slater had commandeered an office all to himself and his sidekick, Flash Harry. That’s what the team were calling the smart-suited SOCA detective, who was absent for the moment. As for Slater, he was non-affectionately known as The Louse. Bill felt sorry for Slater’s namesake, the poor wee woodlouse, who had definitely got the rough end of the deal.

  Slater was regarding him now with some impatience. The more irritated Slater looked, the more patient Bill became.

  ‘Remind me again why Dr MacLeod went to the hotel,’ Slater said.

  ‘McNab was staying there.’

  ‘You knew this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how did she?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her.’

  Slater pursed his lips. ‘If Dr MacLeod was withholding information as to DS McNab’s whereabouts while aware that SOCA sought him …’

  ‘DS McNab was not obliged to stay with SOCA. He is not a fugitive; not from them, anyway.’ He threw Slater a hostile look. ‘You did run a check on the night porter’s mobile before you let him go?’

  ‘Why would we do that?’

  ‘He made a call as Dr MacLeod left the hotel. He also threatened her while she was there.’

  ‘He thought she was a hooker.’

  ‘And that makes a threat of sexual assault OK?’

  Slater decided to let that one drop. He never fought a battle he didn’t expect to win. ‘CCTV picked up McNab leaving the building with another man around one a.m.’

  That was the first Bill had heard of it. ‘Who?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I’d like to see that footage.’

  ‘You will, in due course.’

  ‘After McNab’s dead?’ Bill said, sharply.

  ‘He left of his own free will.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘It was obvious.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s bloody obvious. First, Fergus Morrison is shot while in SOCA’s care. McNab gets out of the safe house by the skin of his teeth. McNab knows Brogan was in the car. So guess what, Brogan’s next on the shooter’s list. And finally, they pick up McNab.’

  Slater studied him for a moment. ‘We have no evidence to suggest Kalinin has McNab.’

  ‘And you couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Just what are you insinuating?’
>
  ‘That the mess you made when you released Kalinin that night is about to be cleared up.’

  Bill knew he had overstepped the mark.

  Slater’s face flushed a deep, ugly red but he came back fighting. ‘You might be interested to know that I expect a result on the gun used in Brogan’s murder shortly.’

  ‘And I’m sure you expect it to conveniently turn out to be the one taken from the safe house.’

  ‘Perhaps your view of McNab is a little clouded. I was his partner once, remember?’

  ‘And I am his commanding officer. As such I expect to be kept fully informed about this enquiry.’

  ‘Didn’t I just do that?’

  Bill took a deep breath. So that was what this was all about. Slater had been ordered to keep Bill informed and had just fulfilled his obligation as minimally as possible.

  Bill could depart now or fire another shot. He decided on the latter. After talking to Rhona, he’d done a little investigating of his own. He might not be in charge of the case, but that didn’t mean he was completely off it.

  ‘I meant to tell you something about the list of customers at the Poker Club,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘It isn’t complete.’

  Slater had looked down in attempted dismissal, but at this his head snapped up again. Now that he had Slater’s attention, Bill continued.

  ‘There was a private party that night, all of whom seem to be missing from the list. Lord James Dalrymple, Edward Stewart, the esteemed advocate, and his wife Fiona …’

  Slater’s face was a picture, and it told a story. Slater had known about Dalrymple’s presence there, but hadn’t realised anyone else did.

  ‘Dr MacLeod knows the Stewarts. Edward chatted to her in the bar and told her that’s why they were there. He seemed pretty pleased about it.’

  Slater was rallying. ‘We are aware of that. Lord Dalrymple and his guests left early.’

  ‘They were in the building at the same time as Dr MacLeod and DS McNab. I take it you’ll be questioning them too?’

  Then something happened that Bill didn’t expect. Slater seemed to muster himself. The anger faded from his face. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured, almost persuasive.

  ‘I know we don’t see eye to eye, but I’m going to have to ask you to trust me on this.’ He was watching Bill intently. ‘I want McNab brought in alive, just like you do. I need him to testify. I’ve spent the last two years trying to nail Kalinin. I intend to do just that.’

  Bill felt utterly perplexed when he left Slater’s office. A sneering, two-faced Slater he could handle. A Slater who asked to be trusted, in a voice verging on actual sincerity, was another matter. It had been his mention of Dalrymple that had changed the tone of the exchange.

  He could of course ask Superintendent Sutherland if he was aware that Dalrymple was there that night. Bill wasn’t up for that, not yet anyway. There might come a time when he really needed to rock the boat.

  And what if it hadn’t been Sutherland? If he hadn’t been instrumental in omitting Dalrymple’s name, maybe Slater had – but why? The boss had his golf outings to think about, but Bill couldn’t recall if Slater’s name had ever been officially linked to Dalrymple’s. A DC at the time of the rent-boy murders, he hadn’t been directly involved in the investigation.

  Despite the fact that, on parting, Slater had reiterated his plea for Bill to trust him and promised to keep him informed, Bill opted for one of his alternative sources of information.

  Chrissy answered on the third ring.

  ‘Hey, you took your time. You and Rhona both.’

  ‘She hasn’t been in touch?’

  ‘She called. I couldn’t answer. I called her back, she was engaged.’

  ‘Can we meet?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Jazz Club. Sam’s playing tonight and Mum’s babysitting. You can buy me a drink. As an undercover agent I deserve one.’

  ‘Will you let Rhona know, or will I?’

  ‘She’s been avoiding the Jazz Club. Sean, remember?’

  ‘I’ll speak to her. Shall we meet there at eight? And listen, I’ve got Petersson working on this – unofficially. Would you object if I asked him along?’

  Chrissy agreed immediately. ‘It’ll make a change to know what Rhona and him are up to,’ she finished, dryly.

  When reception called, Bill went straight down. Liam was waiting for him, looking guilty as hell. Being summoned to a police station tended to do that to people. Bill considered taking him to an interview room, but opted for a nearby coffee shop instead.

  The café they chose was more upmarket than the Central. The majority of customers were ‘to go’, so they had no difficulty finding a seat. They carried their coffees to an empty table at the window.

  Liam’s eagerness was obvious. They were barely seated when he asked, ‘You said on the phone that you’d found something?’

  Bill stirred the froth into his coffee before answering. ‘I spoke to Student Support. They confirmed that Jude had been diagnosed as having Asperger’s.’

  ‘Oh.’ Liam looked disappointed. He was expecting more.

  ‘They also confirmed she’d been brought up in care, but that a man professing to be an uncle had contacted them wanting to get in touch with her. Did Jude ever mention an uncle?’

  Liam looked puzzled. ‘No, she didn’t.’

  ‘Also, Charlie says someone phoned the halls of residence looking for Jude before she disappeared. The caller said he was helping her with her project.’

  ‘She never mentioned that either, although it could’ve been the guy she interviewed and recorded.’

  Liam looked apprehensive, and Bill asked, ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  Liam shook his head vigorously, then caught Bill’s eye and seemed to think the better of it. ‘Me and Ben, my flatmate. We went looking in the old Olympia Bridgeton.’

  So that was the secret. Liam had been doing some sleuthing of his own.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday. The whole place is a mess, except the projection room. Someone had cleaned up in there. There was an empty metal cabinet. It looked like a place you would store film reels.’ Liam rushed on, his anxiety gaining momentum. ‘Jude found that film in there, then she visited the Rosevale and found the body.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Liam was struggling to put his thoughts into words. ‘Maybe someone saw her take the film. Maybe someone saw her in the room where the body was hidden.’

  ‘We don’t know for certain that Jude did discover the body. And as for the film, none of what’s on that is illegal nowadays.’

  ‘But we only saw the start, the few frames that Jude had photographed. What if someone was killed in that film, like the body in the Rosevale? That would be a reason to get it back, wouldn’t it?’

  23

  A person’s fingerprints were unique, and once the ridges and patterns were formed in the womb they stayed that way for life.

  Not even identical twins had the same patterns. If superficial damage occurred the skin grew back in exactly the same way as it was at birth. Plus, fingerprints were one of the last features to decompose after death. So even a mummified body could render up the pattern for study, if treated properly.

  As this mummy had done.

  Rhona was pleased with the results. Now the fingers would have to be returned to the corpse and re-attached. Not her job, she was glad to say.

  Fingerprint impressions from all those convicted of a criminal offence in Scotland were held in the National Fingerprint Collection. In excess of 350,000 records. If Spike, as she was calling the corpse, was in there, they could give him back his real name.

  She updated R2S’s software with her results. The details of the crime scene were already in there. Maps of the locality, architectural plans of the building, videos they’d taken through the wall before they’d dismantled it.

  Roy had al
so created a body map, a blank-faced computer-generated version of the body, accurate in all dimensions. Alongside, Roy had displayed photographs he’d taken of the various items found on the body: the harness and jewellery, the nails from the hands, the cuff.

  Rhona selected each hand on the body map and attached an electronic copy of the fingerprints, before scanning the results of the post mortem again. After her departure, Dr Sissons had added more details about the condition of the body. On careful removal of the testicle cuff, the dried remains of the scrotum showed evidence of tearing or cutting. It was the only obvious wound apart from the nail holes in the hands.

  The pathologist had estimated the victim’s age as early twenties, based on the fusing of the bones and evidence of wisdom teeth. As to how long he had been imprisoned there, that was up for conjecture. Ageing mummified remains would require the expertise of a forensic anthropologist, unless they could identify the victim and try to pinpoint when he had disappeared.

  Rhona spent the rest of the morning working on the samples she’d collected at the scene. Bill’s call came in around midday. She’d taken a break with coffee and a sandwich and was missing Chrissy’s usual lunchtime chatter. The phone calls between them had continued to cross, so Rhona was delighted to hear that they were all meeting up – until she heard where.

  ‘I’m not sure about the Jazz Club.’

  ‘I thought you and Sean parted on good terms?’

  Rhona decided to be honest. It was Bill, after all. ‘Sean has a new girlfriend. According to Chrissy she hangs about the club a lot.’

  ‘So?’

  Bill was right. Why should she care? ‘OK, what time?’

  ‘Eight. I intend asking Petersson along.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Have you spoken to him this morning?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  ‘He has CCTV images of McNab leaving the hotel with someone who isn’t Solonik. He said you hadn’t seen them yet.’

  ‘Slater only informed me of their existence this morning, and I didn’t know we’d ruled out Solonik. How did Petersson get a hold of them?’

  ‘He said not to ask.’