Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

  ‘Close enough to stagger home.’

  ‘I’m not staggering – yet.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  The flat was two floors up, facing south. Open plan, airy, with a good view of the city.

  ‘Very nice,’ she said.

  ‘I like it. Take a seat. I’ll bring a starter.’

  In moments Rhona had a plate of olives, feta cheese and bread placed before her.

  ‘Main course in ten minutes. D’you want any more wine?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Rhona ate a good portion of the olives and bread before sipping cautiously at the wine. She watched Sean move about the kitchen, engrossed as he always was when cooking. Maybe it was the wine or the smell of the food, but she found she didn’t mind being on such dangerous ground.

  ‘OK. We’re ready.’ He ushered her to the table.

  ‘I haven’t eaten a proper meal at my kitchen table since …’ She came to a halt, suddenly realising what she was about to say.

  ‘Since I left?’ Sean suggested.

  ‘Einar can cook,’ she said defensively.

  ‘I’m not getting into a cooking competition with your Icelander.’

  ‘He’s not my Icelander.’

  ‘Good.’

  Sean placed a plate of spaghetti in front of her and sat down with his own. ‘Tomatoes, black olives, basil and anchovies.’

  It smelt like heaven. Rhona attacked the food with gusto, realising just how long it had been since her last meal. When they’d cleared their plates, she sat back with a contented sigh. ‘That was delicious.’

  ‘Good. Coffee?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Take a seat. I’ll bring it over.’

  She carried her replenished wine glass with her. The food had restored her equilibrium, although she was well aware how weird this evening had turned out to be. Her plan tonight had been to avoid Sean at all costs, not to let him cook for her. Yet she felt OK about it. Maybe even better than OK.

  Sean re-introduced the subject of Liam over coffee and listened in silence as she revealed her fears.

  ‘I don’t believe it. There’s not an ounce of violence in the boy.’

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’ Rhona protested.

  ‘When you’ve had a father like mine, you recognise the signs, however well hidden. You’re not really serious about suspecting him, are you?’

  ‘Some things don’t add up. I can’t really say what they are.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it?’

  ‘Professionally, I can’t.’

  Sean thought for a moment. ‘What about Bill?’

  ‘He’s asking all the right questions.’

  ‘But what does he think?’

  ‘He’s a detective. He knows something’s not right.’

  ‘But does he believe Liam’s involved?’ he persisted.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  ‘That’s not all. Liam thinks I’m not taking Jude’s disappearance seriously, so he’s been breaking into disused cinemas looking for her himself.’

  Sean looked impressed. ‘It’s obvious who his mother is.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was funny, just that it was obvious. I take it you told him to stop?’

  She nodded. ‘And he told me not to contact him again.’

  ‘He didn’t really mean that.’

  ‘I think he did.’ Rhona took refuge in her glass of wine. ‘I think he’s disappointed in me. In more ways than one. When he came round to ask for my help in finding Jude, Petersson was there.’

  ‘That happened to me once,’ Sean said dryly.

  ‘It wasn’t like that. We were discussing McNab’s situation.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s just, Liam asked after you as though he expected us still to be together.’

  ‘But you put him straight?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So. Let me read this correctly. You’re worried that Liam thinks his mother can’t hold down a relationship, and that he might have applied that logic to how you feel about him?’

  Rhona said nothing.

  ‘That was what you were thinking?’ he insisted.

  She conceded. ‘More or less.’

  ‘And if we add in a prick for a father?’

  ‘A lying one, who’ll say anything to cover his mistakes.’

  ‘Let’s face it. The boy’s doomed.’

  There was a moment’s silence as they eyed one another, then the absurdity of it hit Rhona and she started to laugh.

  ‘You can’t outdo the Irish when it comes to making a drama out of a crisis,’ he said.

  She knew that she still wanted him, but now was not the time. For now, she was glad to have him back in her life.

  30

  Bill arrived at work early next morning.

  He’d risen and left home before breakfast, trying not to rouse the sleeping household. The previous night, after a restless couple of hours, he’d eventually moved to the spare room to give Margaret peace. He was aware they hadn’t had a proper conversation in days and felt guilty about it, but when he arrived home and saw she’d gone to bed, he’d been relieved to have the time to himself. He’d slipped the meal she’d left for him into the microwave. The truth was, he’d done enough talking and listening for one day and had found himself none the wiser for it.

  What Petersson had said troubled him, mainly because the journalist had only reinforced what he already knew; anyone who messed with Nikolai Kalinin had their card marked. But he was also unsettled by Petersson’s manner and the sudden revelation that he had a partner, hidden from view. Bill couldn’t shake off the feeling that he’d been issuing them with a different warning, more subtle and therefore more worrying.

  His talk with Rhona hadn’t gone well either. He’d found himself defending Liam, giving the impression he believed the boy, though he wasn’t sure he did, not entirely. And Rhona was shrewd enough to pick up on that.

  All in all, it was a mess. And they still had no idea who the cinema victim was, nor any sightings of Jude.

  Now Bill headed to the canteen and bought himself tea and a filled roll, carrying them up to his office. He was surprised to find DS Clark already in the incident room.

  ‘You’re early,’ he said.

  ‘So are you, Sir.’

  ‘Something on your mind, Sergeant?’

  ‘A lot of things. Can I show you?’

  He waved her into his office and they both took a seat.

  ‘The Tech boys have been examining the audio recording from Jude’s computer,’ she told him. ‘They say the voice in the interview isn’t one man, but two – but the voices are virtually identical. It wasn’t until they started studying them in detail that they discovered the differences.’

  Bill sat up in his chair. ‘The former manager of the charity shop said a set of twins came to view the old cinema when he was in charge. Apparently they’d worked there as projectionists. Their name was Mulligan, Jim and John. See what you can find out about them.’

  ‘We also have a sighting of someone we think is Jude outside the Rosevale pub about seven.’

  ‘Show me.’

  She led him through to the small room where junior officers were put to work watching endless CCTV in an attempt to put them off the job for life, found the required section and set it running. The clock on the footage said 19.10 and it was dated the day Jude disappeared.

  A couple of men stood smoking outside the pub. Neither of them was Angus. A figure appeared from the side road, wearing a blue coat. She was slightly built with shoulder-length dark hair, and carried a backpack.

  ‘That’s Jude,’ Bill said.

  A figure came into view beside her. Male, not tall and blond, but medium height and also dark haired.

  ‘Stop there.’ Bill stared at the screen.

  ‘You recognise him, Sir?’ Janice said.

  ‘His name is Jason Donald. He works in the charity s
hop, shifting furniture. Any more?’

  Janice set the tape running again. After a short but animated conversation with Jason, Jude walked east past the Rosevale and Jason entered the pub, just as Angus emerged for his smoke.

  ‘No sign of a tall fair-haired man in the vicinity?’

  Janice shook her head. ‘Jude must have turned off Dumbarton Road shortly after that. We’ve checked all CCTV in either direction, but there’s no other sighting.’

  ‘So she came out of the old cinema by the fire exit, possibly with Jason. They parted at the Rosevale and she left Dumbarton Road?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like, Sir.’

  ‘OK, Sergeant. Well done on that. Anything on the cinema body?’

  ‘We have a match based on the fingerprints retrieved by Dr MacLeod.’

  Now this was good news. ‘And?’

  ‘Well. The victim doesn’t appear to be dead, Sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His name is Dominic McGeehan. He was charged in connection with a drugs offence ten years ago and his prints taken then. According to our enquiries the same man is currently living in Dennistoun.’

  ‘No two sets of prints are the same, Sergeant, even twins.’

  ‘I know that, Sir.’ Janice looked offended.

  ‘Is this McGeehan aware we’re interested in him?’

  ‘Not yet, Sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  They were getting somewhere at last. A dead man pretending to be alive. And a girl who still might be.

  ‘Get me McGeehan’s address. And bring in Jason Donald. I’d like a word with him away from Angus Robertson.’ He halted Janice on her way out. ‘And find out what you can about Johnny Lang’s current activities. Keep your enquiries low-key, for the moment. I don’t want Lang alerted to any interest we might have in him.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘You think he’s involved in the cinema case?’

  ‘It’s always good to know what Johnny’s up to,’ Bill said.

  He had promised Petersson he’d wait until after the post mortem before he launched a full-scale search for Lang. He would keep his word on that.

  When Janice had gone, Bill checked his watch, then rang the number the Admiral’s cleaning lady had given him for her predecessor. Moira Cochrane sounded delighted to hear from him, and Bill got the impression she was more than a little anxious to dish the dirt on her former employer. He made arrangements to meet her later that day and sat back to enjoy his filled roll and mug of tea, cold now, just the way he liked it. Things were moving at last on the cinema murder and he would be able to tell Rhona that they had CCTV footage to prove the man Jude met outside the pub wasn’t Liam.

  McGeehan’s flat wasn’t far from Glasgow Green, within sight of the colourful tiles and decorative glasswork of the famous Templeton’s Carpet Factory, said to be modelled on the Doge’s Palace in Venice. There was nothing else like it in Glasgow.

  The area surrounding the unique building had seen peaks and troughs, but was currently on its way up again. Plenty of new flats were being built, one of which turned out to be the living dead McGeehan’s.

  Bill located the number and buzzed. It was ten o’clock so he didn’t really expect an answer, not if McGeehan was a nine-to-five man.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dominic McGeehan?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Wilson.’

  There was a pregnant silence. ‘With regard to what, exactly?’

  ‘Just a general enquiry.’

  A thoughtful moment, then the click sounded. ‘Come on up.’

  McGeehan might be dead but he wasn’t stupid; and better still, he was curious. Almost a decade was a long time to be living undiscovered as someone else, especially if the real McGeehan was walled into a building and unlikely to be revealed in your lifetime. Might make a man confident. Possibly over-confident.

  The door on the first landing was open, the flat’s owner standing there. Bill did a quick calculation. Ten years ago the man in front of him must have been in his teens or early twenties. The real Dominic had had a drugs conviction, never repeated according to his paperwork. A teenage indiscretion. There were plenty of people who had those, including current MPs and MSPs.

  The man smiled. He was tall with blond hair, cut in a contemporary style. Dressed in a striped open-necked shirt and smart suit, he looked like a Merchant City banker. Cool, modern and not short of a bob or two. So why was he wearing a dead man’s shoes?

  Bill held out his warrant card.

  ‘This is official, then?’

  ‘I’m obliged to show you my ID.’

  Dominic led him through to a designer sitting room. All black leather and shining glass. A TV big enough for cinema showings, and no doubt excellent surround sound from the hi-fi system. A man of means.

  ‘How can I help you, Detective Inspector?’

  Bill wasn’t sure how he wanted to play this. He’d assumed Mr McGeehan would probably not be at home, and planned to take a look around, speak to a couple of neighbours and find out who the dead man was, or at least something about his impersonator. Finding him at home had been a bit of a surprise.

  Bill decided to go for gold.

  ‘Have you ever had your fingerprints taken?’

  Dominic looked taken aback, then recovered. ‘Not that I remember,’ he joked.

  Bill smiled, because that was what was expected of him. He wondered if Mr McGeehan, or whatever his real name was, had heard about the body in the Rosevale cinema; was he aware that the dead man whose identity he’d stolen had been discovered?

  ‘We have a set of prints on the database that have your name on them.’

  The man looked puzzled. ‘There must be more than one Dominic McGeehan in Glasgow.’

  ‘What were you doing ten years ago?’

  ‘That’s easy. I was at Glasgow University studying Astronomy.’ He indicated his get-up. ‘As you can see, I did not become an astronomer. I changed my course and became an accountant. More reward in managing money than in studying the stars.’

  He had an answer for everything.

  ‘Would you be willing to have your fingerprints taken, then?’

  ‘Since I’ve done nothing wrong, I’d be happy to.’ He eyed Bill with some concern. ‘What exactly is this about, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘The remains of a man bearing the fingerprints registered as belonging to Dominic McGeehan have been found in the old Rosevale cinema on Dumbarton Road.’

  His reaction was not what Bill expected; McGeehan’s legs seemed to give way under him. Bill caught him as he crumpled, and eased him on to the fancy leather couch.

  ‘Jesus. Dominic.’

  ‘Would you like me to fetch you some water?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’d rather have a whisky. From the cabinet over there.’

  Bill went to fetch him one. McGeehan took the double in both hands and swallowed it in one go. If he was pretending to be in shock, he was doing a hell of a job. Bill waited until some colour came back in his cheeks.

  ‘Want to tell me who you are?’

  The man looked up at Bill for a long moment, then shrugged resignedly. ‘What the hell. If you have the fingerprints, you’re going to find out anyway. I’m Tony, Dominic’s younger brother.’

  ‘Why are you using his name?’

  ‘Because he was in America and I had some debts I couldn’t pay.’

  ‘You had no idea your brother was dead?’

  ‘Last time I saw Dominic was at Mum’s funeral, nine years ago. With Mum gone we had no other family. He told me he was planning on emigrating to Canada or America.’

  ‘And you’ve never heard from him since?’

  ‘I got a card when he arrived. One five years later. He was doing well. Married with kids.’

  ‘You never went to visit?’

  ‘He never sent an address. I figured he didn’t want to be reminded of the old life.’

  ‘Which was?’

 
‘Scotland. Glasgow.’ He paused. ‘You said you found his body. How did he die?’

  ‘Asphyxiation.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  Bill decided to spell it out for him. That way he might get some answers. ‘Someone buried him alive behind a brick wall.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. What kind of maniac would do a thing like that?’

  ‘I was hoping you would tell me.’

  McGeehan looked at him in horror. ‘You can’t believe I would harm my own brother?’

  ‘You didn’t mind stealing his identity?’

  ‘He’d left the country, I told you. When he went he said he had no intention of coming back here.’

  ‘He knew what you planned to do?’

  ‘We didn’t discuss it.’

  ‘You waited until he left?’

  McGeehan nodded.

  Bill tried another tack. ‘Was your brother into bondage?’

  McGeeghan looked nonplussed. ‘He dressed a bit punky for a while, wore chains and had his ears pierced, if that’s what you mean. It was a phase. Everyone goes through phases.’

  ‘What about sado-masochism?’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Was your brother involved in S and M?’

  ‘Jesus. I don’t know.’ Tony McGeeghan collapsed against the back of the seat. ‘Look, I feel sick. I’ve not eaten yet and the whisky’s not doing my stomach any good.’

  Bill let him be for a moment. His distress seemed genuine, although Bill supposed it might have been brought on by simply being found out. The next question supported that theory.

  ‘Will my employer have to be told?’

  ‘If you used your brother’s National Insurance Number, yes.’

  A thin film of sweat was breaking out on McGeehan’s brow. ‘God. I’m up shit creek.’

  ‘At least you’re alive.’

  The remark seemed to bring him back to his senses. ‘Look, I thought my brother was in the States and happy. He sent me postcards, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Do you still have them?’

  Tony regarded Bill in disbelief. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Who the hell keeps old postcards?’

  ‘Pity.’

  McGeehan sighed as though the whole world had just landed on his shoulders. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘You come down with me to the station and we take your prints. On the way you try to remember everything you can concerning your brother in the run-up to the time you thought he was leaving the country.’