Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

Bill went silent for a moment. ‘How did you do with the fingers?’

  ‘Good. A ten-print form. I sent it to AFR and entered it on the software.’

  ‘Excellent. Listen, I had coffee with Liam this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He and a mate visited the Olympia Bridgeton. He said the projection room has been used recently. He’s also convinced the missing film and the body are in some way connected to Jude’s disappearance.’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ she said.

  ‘He also mentioned something I should have thought of.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve only seen the first few frames of the film. What if it recorded something worse than bondage and that’s why someone wanted it back?’

  ‘Whatever’s on it happened a long time ago. Black and white film started to go out in the sixties, even among amateur film-makers,’ she reminded him.

  ‘If someone was killed in that film, it doesn’t matter when it happened,’ Bill replied. ‘I think we should take a look at the Olympia.’

  ‘OK. What about the other cinemas she visited?’

  ‘I’ll get a team to check them over, but it’ll take a while.’

  When Bill rang off, Rhona tried Liam’s number again. The phone rang several times before finally switching to voicemail. Rhona imagined Liam seeing her name on the screen and choosing not to answer. It looked as though he was willing to talk to a policeman, but not to her.

  The idea took root and soon became the only explanation for the unanswered call. She considered how much effort it had taken Liam to come round that night to ask for her help, only to find Petersson looking as though he had his feet under her table. She recalled Liam’s enquiry after Sean, and his disappointment and embarrassment when she’d revealed that they were no longer together. Rhona could well imagine the conclusion he’d come to – that he had a mother who was incapable of sustaining any relationship, with a lover or a son.

  The thought depressed her.

  She discarded the remains of her coffee and went back into the lab. Skirting the evidence from the Rosevale, she made instead for McNab’s coffin.

  A team had winched it out of the grave and delivered it to the lab. She’d managed to retrieve a couple of prints from the surface and had a good idea of the shape of tool used to prise open the lid. Her work round the grave area had also produced the clear sole pattern of a trainer, which unfortunately was not on the shoe database. She was still waiting to find out from AFR if they’d found a fingerprint match.

  Chrissy had made a big scene when the coffin arrived, raving on about how long it had taken her to choose and how much it had cost. Eventually Rhona had said, ‘Would you rather McNab was still in there?’

  Chrissy had shut up then, temporarily, at least.

  Rhona ran a hand along the still glossy surface, wondering why people bought such solid expensive wooden coffins. Did they think that sealed in one of these, the body of their loved one would remain intact for ever? That no insects, or bacteria, or worms could get to it?

  For her, the coffin brought other memories, of waking from sleep only to find herself buried alive. When she’d begun to believe McNab might not be dead, her recurring nightmare had been of him desperately trying to tear his way out of this coffin.

  Just like the Rosevale victim.

  The broken fingernails had been packed with brick and cement fragments, evidence that the victim had tried to claw his way out from behind the wall. Rhona had dreamed the horror; the man behind the wall had lived it.

  There was no easy way to die. When asked, people often said they wanted to die peacefully in their sleep. That didn’t work for Rhona either. It made her think of either being too fearful ever to go to sleep or waking up to find someone you love lying dead beside you.

  She knew her dance with death was her way of avoiding thinking about McNab. She didn’t want to run the various scenarios over in her head any more. Her brain was like some old cine film flickering its way through imagined horror, the soundtrack even worse than the pictures.

  24

  ‘What did the cop want?’

  Ben had really got into this. Fancied himself as some sort of Sherlock Holmes. Which put Liam in the role of the nice but not-so-bright Watson.

  ‘I told him about the Olympia.’ At Ben’s panicked look, Liam added, ‘Not how we got inside.’

  ‘Phew.’

  ‘Your prints aren’t on a database somewhere, are they?’ Liam asked, half joking.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A juvenile indiscretion. Nothing more.’

  ‘Shit, Ben.’

  ‘No worries. Well, what did the cop say?’

  ‘He’s going to take a look at the Olympia. In fact they’re going to check all the old cinemas.’

  Ben nodded. ‘That’s good. So we don’t have to.’

  ‘You want out of the Govanhill trip?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But what if the cops turn up?’

  ‘There are forty-four cinemas on Jude’s list.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t mention the Facebook stuff?’

  ‘There wasn’t anything to mention.’

  ‘But there is now,’ Ben reminded him.

  Ben had set up a ‘Find Jude’ page as promised. It had attracted a few responses, most of them for entirely the wrong Jude. Even Ben had been deflated. Then a contact that sounded promising. Someone claimed to have seen a girl who looked like Jude with a man, photographing the exterior of the old Govanhill Picture House in Bankhall Street.

  They’d gone online and checked out the cinema. Liam recognised the crumbling white Egyptian-style façade as one of the images on the memory stick.

  ‘Maybe we should head there now? Before the police pick up on it,’ Ben suggested.

  Liam nodded his agreement. Doing something felt better than hanging around waiting for a call, from Jude or from the police.

  Govanhill wasn’t on the underground line, and without a car it wasn’t that easy to get to. From an online map they located the nearest railway station as Crosshill and settled on heading into town and catching a train there from Central Station.

  The carriage was half empty. They sat near an Asian woman with four young girls, aged from a baby on her knee up to a serious-looking girl of about thirteen. The only one not wearing a headscarf was the baby. The woman and her brood alighted with them at Crosshill, along with two Eastern European men who were speaking in a language Liam thought might be Polish, and a black couple who were smartly dressed and carried bibles.

  This was a part of Glasgow neither Liam nor Ben was familiar with. During the day it all looked fine, but after dark Govanhill’s reputation wasn’t so good. Immigrant gangs, particularly Eastern European and Romas, were said to run various rackets from there, including prostitution, drug dealing and human trafficking. Liam’s knowledge of this had come from news reports focusing mainly on two recent high-profile cases, the rape of a middle-aged woman and the murder of another, whose body had been discovered in Queen’s Park.

  Liam imagined Jude coming here to meet someone she didn’t know. It wouldn’t have bothered her. When she’d set her mind on something, Jude didn’t let fear stand in her way.

  ‘OK. Which way?’ Ben had come to a halt where two roads crossed.

  Liam had no idea. ‘Right?’ he ventured.

  It wasn’t hard to find. The Olympia, though built in red sandstone like the surrounding tenements, had stood out because of its grandeur; the Govanhill Picture House stood out because it was completely weird.

  Ben whistled his admiration. They’d viewed the images online, but the photos hadn’t prepared them for the reality of the building. ‘It looks like the fucking Taj Mahal.’

  ‘It’s Egyptian not Indian. Look.’ Liam pointed above the entrance. ‘That’s a scarab.’

  Ben whistled again. ‘Egyptian, eh? Hope we don’t find any more mummies.’

  ‘That’s not funny,’ Liam said sha
rply.

  ‘No, sorry, bro.’

  ‘How do we get in?’

  ‘Let’s do a recce.’

  This cinema wasn’t a tall building, nowhere near the height of the Rosevale or the Olympia, but the frontage was the most architecturally complex they’d seen. The white and grey marble-tiled entrance was pillared, the moulded scarab set between two domed copper-topped towers. The openwork balcony running the length of the building was lined with windows, all of them heavily barred.

  Ben had a quick look at the main doorway. It had a blue-painted metal shutter which looked pretty secure, a peeling gang slogan suggesting how long it had been there. The portico entrance jutted outward. In the right angle between it and the main building was a small barred window and a door, also shuttered.

  ‘No chance,’ Ben pronounced.

  They walked on, turning nonchalantly into the side street. Here was a two-storey wall, peppered with small barred windows. There were also two exit doors, both heavily shuttered.

  ‘Take out your mobile. Pretend to be photographing the place,’ Ben said. ‘If someone asks, we’ll say we’re cinema buffs.’

  Liam did as he was told.

  Ben swore under his breath as he checked both doors. This place wasn’t going to be as easy as the Olympia to get into. They’d reached the end of the building. An eight-foot wire gate, firmly padlocked and partially screened by a clump of low trees, blocked the way into a derelict concreted yard.

  Ben glanced at the row of tenements that faced this side of the building. There was at least one inhabitant watching them with interest from a second-floor window. A middle-aged man, balding, with a paunch.

  ‘Maybe that’s the guy who contacted you on Facebook?’ Liam suggested.

  ‘I can’t tell, he had no photo. Maybe we should find out,’ Ben said, giving the guy a wave.

  Liam wasn’t impressed. ‘What if he thinks you’re taking the mickey?’

  ‘Then in good Glasgow style he’ll come looking for a fight and we’ll run.’

  The man had deserted his post at the window. Minutes later, the entrance door opened and he emerged. At close quarters, he wasn’t at all scary. Shorter than both of them, his weight might be put to good use in a fight, but only if they stayed around for one.

  ‘You two looking for that lassie? The one on Facebook?’

  ‘Yes. Did you see her?’ Liam said.

  ‘Like I said. She came here about a week ago with a man. She took pictures with a fancy camera, not a mobile like you.’

  ‘What day was that?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t remember exactly.’

  ‘She disappeared last Tuesday.’

  He thought about it. ‘It was before that, I think.’

  ‘What did the man look like?’

  ‘About my height. An old guy, grey hair where there was any. Wore glasses.’

  A description that could fit half of the male population of Glasgow.

  ‘Did they go inside?’ Ben said.

  ‘I don’t know. I went to answer the phone, when I came back to the window, they weren’t there.’ He eyed them with interest. ‘Are you planning going in?’

  Liam looked at Ben, not sure how to answer.

  ‘We’d like to,’ said Ben.

  ‘If you can get over the fence, there’s a door at the back that’s not shuttered.’ He watched as they considered his proposition. ‘I haven’t told the polis I saw her. If you check she’s not in there, I don’t have to.’ His expression suggested he had no desire to make himself known to the police.

  ‘OK,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  Liam wasn’t so sure. ‘It’s still daylight. What if someone sees?’

  ‘That won’t be a problem,’ the man told them. ‘Folks round here mind their own business. You just go ahead.’

  Ben was the first to try. He took a running jump at the gate and caught a good hold on the top. Then he was up and over with ease.

  Liam hesitated, not anxious to make a fool of himself in front of the paunchy guy or Ben. Once Ben was out of sight, Liam made his move. It wasn’t as graceful a leap as Ben’s but he managed to catch a grip, and though winded he scrambled his way over, landing with a thump on the other side, his knees creaking in protest.

  He shouldn’t have worried what it looked like. Ben wasn’t interested in his ungainly arrival, so intent was he on picking the lock. It was taking longer than the Olympia, but close on the back wall and shielded by the trees, they were less exposed than they’d been there.

  Eventually Ben made a pleased noise that suggested success.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, easing the door open.

  Liam followed him inside. The choking smell of damp had been bad in the Olympia, but it was much worse in here. The plaster walls were slick and green with mould. Ben led the way along a doorless corridor, the barred windows filtering enough light to see by.

  A door at the end opened into what must have been the auditorium. Stripped of fitments and seating, the large space had obviously ended its life as a warehouse of sorts. The stage was still there, although possessing none of its former glory. At the rear, the balcony sloped down to meet the stalls, separated by a wooden partition. The place was in an even sorrier state than the Olympia.

  Liam pointed at the portholes above the balcony.

  ‘The projection room.’

  They made their way across the floor, skirting the rubbish and broken boxes. Ben stopped suddenly and held up his hand.

  ‘Did you hear something?’

  ‘What?’ Liam asked, heart pounding.

  The three pigeons seemed to appear from nowhere. Liam ducked to avoid the flapping wings as they came in to land. Ben, startled, reacted by flinging his hands in the air and shouting, ‘Fuck off!’

  The pigeons did as directed, disappearing up into the roof space.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Ben looked at Liam and they broke into semi-hysterical laughter. ‘Must be a way out up there, otherwise those pigeons would be dead meat by now.’

  It was an uncomfortable choice of words, but Liam didn’t bother remonstrating. ‘Come on.’ He headed for a set of double doors to the right of the balcony.

  Back at the rear of the building again, they realised they’d travelled in a full circle. It took the torch to finally locate the door with the telltale ‘No Smoking’ sign.

  Liam came to a halt outside it, a terrible sense of dread assailing him, although he had no idea why. There was nothing to suggest that Jude had got in here. Without a key or Ben’s breaking and entering skills, it didn’t look possible.

  ‘OK, mate?’ Ben said impatiently.

  ‘Sure.’

  Liam said a silent prayer and opened the door to the projection room.

  25

  Bill’s conversation with Liam had unnerved him.

  It had crossed Bill’s mind that Jude’s disappearance might be linked with the older crime, but it was often too easy to jump to dramatic conclusions. In all likelihood, there was a more mundane explanation.

  She’d had a fight with Liam and stayed away to punish him.

  She’d met her uncle and was spending time with him.

  A fellow resident at the Hall, knowing her room was empty, had taken her laptop.

  There were other, less comfortable explanations, but still nothing to do with the walled-in corpse.

  She was hiding from someone she feared. Perhaps the caller, or the supposed uncle.

  She had been abducted by that person.

  She had been killed by that person.

  As soon as she’d been officially reported missing, they’d done the usual media calls, alerting the public to their concerns about Jude’s welfare. Response had been minimal. One unlucky Detective Constable was currently trawling her way through CCTV footage from Dumbarton Road. Nothing so far, although the quality was poor, and they had no idea what Jude had been wearing, so it was doubtful she would be able to recognise the girl anyway.

  Now Bill was on his
way to the charity shop with the intention of talking to the backroom staff, the men who dealt with the shop’s furniture donations. Carol Miller had sent him through a staff list; the five workers all lived within walking distance of the shop. One was a teenager, three in their early fifties and one an older man.

  The tinkling bell that sounded on his entry brought Carol Miller from the office. She looked as worried as she had the last time he’d seen her – selling furniture for a charity hardly equipped you to deal with turning up at work to find a dead body hidden behind a wall.

  ‘You’re here to talk to the boys?’

  ‘If I may, yes.’

  ‘They’re on a tea break. I’ll take you through.’

  They skirted a polished dining table, six chairs and an upended black leather settee, all waiting to be placed on display. Behind was a red door marked Staff Only. When Carol pushed it open the sound of friendly banter drifted out, only to be silenced when the men saw who was with their boss.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Wilson. I told you he was coming in to talk to you.’

  All immediately fastened their eyes on Bill, except for the teenager who studied his can of Irn Bru instead. The older man, Angus Robertson, was easy to spot, although he looked pretty fit for 69. The teenager Bill remembered as being called Jason Donald. The other three, all in their fifties, he couldn’t put individual names to.

  ‘I’d like to see you one at a time.’ He looked to Carol. ‘If I could use your office?’

  ‘Of course,’ Carol said, flustered. ‘It’s through here.’

  Bill decided to start with the oldest, because he looked the least concerned.

  ‘Angus?’ he offered. ‘You want to make a start?’

  ‘No, problem, son. Lead the way.’

  Carol’s office was cupboard sized with a small desk, a half-height filing cabinet and only one chair. Carol apologised and said she would get one of the men to bring in another seat. When she disappeared, Angus said, ‘The lassie feels terrible about this. Like it’s her fault some bampot got himself killed here.’

  Bill said nothing. It was almost impossible to keep crime-scene details a secret. Police personnel talked to one another, and this scene had given them plenty to discuss.

  ‘I used to come here as a kid,’ Angus continued. ‘Cowboy films on a Saturday morning.’