Picture Her Dead (Rhona Macleod)

by Lin Anderson

  Slater indicated where the pile of rubble had been partially removed to expose a blackened and burnt object. It didn’t look like a human being, but judging by the sickening smell it used to be one.

  ‘We received word that someone was being held in one of the flats across the road from here. We believe it was McNab. By the time we got there the place had been emptied. Someone had taken fright when they heard you were bringing Lang in. This is the result.’

  A wave of horror swamped Bill. He forced himself to step closer to the corpse, seeking something, anything that might identify it. The face was unrecognisable, nothing left of the hair. Bodies shrink when incinerated, but he would take a guess that the victim had been taller than Johnny Lang. Which meant it could very well be his sergeant.

  Bill rose and faced Slater, furious. ‘Why haven’t you ordered a scene of crime team here?’

  ‘See what happens when you stick your nose in where it’s not wanted?’

  ‘You stupid bastard. This isn’t about me. This is about you trying to shift the blame for your cock-up. Again.’ Bill stabbed a finger in Black’s direction. ‘Is this how you go about things down south? Cover your back at every available opportunity?’

  A flicker of discomfort crossed Black’s face.

  Bill turned from them and pulled out his mobile to call for a scene of crime team, his hand shaking.

  42

  ‘So you think there’s a possibility Rosevale man might be linked to the MacLean murders?’ said Chrissy. ‘I suppose the timing fits.’

  ‘And the method.’

  ‘Gavin didn’t crucify them and wall them up alive.’

  ‘True. But the asphyxiation and mutilation mirror his attacks,’ Rhona pointed out.

  ‘And you don’t usually get multiple perpetrators operating in the same way in the same city at the same time.’

  ‘There’s also the possible link between the manager of the charity shop and Dalrymple.’

  ‘God, how I would love to nail that bastard.’

  Rhona felt the same, but said nothing.

  ‘So you want me to take over on the plastic sheeting while you check out your theory?’ Chrissy said.

  Rhona nodded. ‘I’ve recorded the wire puncture marks and taped inside and outside for fibres.’

  ‘What about the Quaser?’

  ‘It identified blood but no semen on the sheeting. Let’s do the superglue trick, see if we can pick up any fingerprints.’

  ‘You think we’ll get lucky?’

  ‘Let’s hope we do.’

  If Gavin MacLean had had anything to do with the sexual mutilation of the body behind the wall, then he’d left something of himself behind. Taping the body had proved to be virtually impossible without risking it collapsing further. She’d had to rely on careful swabbing, particularly round the mouth where the Quaser had definitely identified semen. A rich source of DNA, it could provide their best hope of identifying the attacker.

  Deep in concentration, Rhona didn’t initially hear Chrissy calling her to the phone.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Bill.’

  Rhona took in Chrissy’s anxious face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say, but his voice was shaking.’ Chrissy looked on the verge of tears. ‘Is it McNab?’

  Rhona couldn’t speak, but she forced herself to walk to the phone, removing her gloves and mask on the way.

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘Rhona. We’ve found a body.’

  ‘McNab?’

  ‘It’s very badly burned and unrecognisable. Slater maintains it might be.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the M74 site close to Eglinton Street.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Chrissy didn’t give Rhona time to put down the receiver. ‘Is it him?’

  ‘The body’s badly burned.’ Rhona didn’t repeat what Bill had said about Slater.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’ Chrissy’s expression brooked no argument.

  It was a silent journey across town. It’s come full circle, Rhona thought. It began with an incinerated corpse in a skip. Maybe that’s where it’s going to end.

  ‘Are you OK with this?’ she asked as Chrissy got out of the car and began to suit up.

  Chrissy gave her a steadfast look. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Chrissy touched her arm. ‘Let’s go then.’

  As they approached the incident tent and the accompanying huddle of officers, Rhona realised Bill’s face was ashen not from shock, but from fury.

  ‘That bastard Slater received a tip-off that McNab was being held in the building across the road. By the time he got his arse down here, the place had been emptied.’ Bill eyed Rhona with concern. ‘You sure you want to be the ones to do this?’

  ‘We’re sure.’

  Rhona pulled up her mask, lifted the flap and stepped inside. Arc lights had already been rigged up and she stood for a moment getting used to the glare and the smell. Beyond the stench of burnt flesh she detected the cloying stink of petrol.

  The blackened shape was situated near the back of the tent against a pile of rubble. A body set alight tended to writhe about as the flames took hold, collapsing to lie on the ground as it was consumed. The shape of this body suggested a crouching position, chin to knees with the arms behind the back. Rhona’s first thought was that the victim had been restrained, tied in that position before being set on fire.

  What Bill had said was true; at first glance it was unrecognisable. Rhona made a swift estimate of the height and build. Definitely taller than Johnny Lang, broader too. If there had been any hair, it had been consumed in the fire. She crouched lower, examining the remains of the mouth, trying to picture McNab’s smile and match it to the blackened teeth.

  Her best chance was to find a part of the body not completely destroyed by the conflagration. If the victim had been placed here, then set alight, the chances were the stones had protected the rear. Rhona began picking away at the rubble, exposing the hands. They were fastened together with barbed wire, similar to the wire they’d removed from Sinclair’s corpse.

  Now that the hands were free of the rubble, she could make out a gold ring on the fourth finger of the right one. Did McNab wear a ring? She’d seen his hands often enough and she was trained to be observant. Why the hell couldn’t she remember if he wore a ring?

  Frantic now, Rhona brushed aside the remaining stones and crumbling concrete and spotted something she did recognise. Encircling the blackened remains of the wrist was a watch. A watch she was sure she’d seen on her bedside table in the flat, its soft quartz tick audible as she’d lain awake in the darkness.

  Her anguished, ‘Oh God,’ brought a similar cry from Chrissy.

  ‘What is it?’

  Rhona unclipped the watch and eased it free. She rose, legs shaking, the words forcing their way through her rigid lips. ‘It’s not McNab.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Rhona held out the watch for Chrissy to view, then turned it over. The inscription on the back read:

  Heimsins besti pabbi – pín Brynja

  43

  ‘Why wasn’t I informed that we’d identified the footprints?’

  ‘You were, Sir. Two days ago. I left the report on your desk.’ Janice brushed a pile of papers aside and retrieved the folder.

  It was the day he’d been busy with Nelson. He’d hardly been in the office. Bill opened his mouth to remind his DS of that fact, then shut it again. It was not her fault. She had no way of knowing what this information really meant, or that by ordering her to bring in Lang, he had put McNab’s life in danger.

  ‘Is there anything else I should know about?’

  ‘The material we collected from the yacht is here.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘The films haven’t been viewed yet. The photographic books are all gay erotica, pretty widely available.’

  ‘Get the films looked at.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.
’

  ‘And Nelson?’

  ‘He’s waiting for you in interview room two.’

  ‘The dead man has a daughter,’ Bill told her. ‘She flew to London late last night, and from there to Switzerland. Her name is Brynja Einarsdóttir, and she’ll have to be told once we confirm the body as her father’s.’ Bill felt sick just saying this. ‘See if you can locate her.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Janice hesitated. ‘You’re sure it’s not McNab?’

  ‘We’ll be sure of nothing until the post mortem, Detective Sergeant,’ Bill said sharply, then softened when he saw her stricken expression. ‘But what we do know strongly suggests the body is Einar Petersson, an investigative journalist who’s been trailing Nikolai Kalinin for some time.’ He rose from his desk. ‘I’m going to interview Nelson. Meet me down there in five minutes,’ he instructed her.

  Bill took his coffee with him, aware that the caffeine was the only thing keeping him on his feet. Last night he would have been delighted to take a pot shot at Nelson. Now he couldn’t think past what had happened under that flyover.

  On Bill’s entry to the interview room, Nelson immediately rose to his feet, righteous indignation suffusing his face. ‘Now, look—’ he began.

  Bill held up his hand before the man could let rip.

  ‘Tea or coffee, Mr Nelson?’ he enquired politely.

  Nelson’s thirst must have momentarily won out over his fury, because he snarled, ‘Tea, two sugars,’ and sat down again.

  Bill indicated to the officer on duty outside the door to do the honours, then took a seat opposite. ‘DS Clark will be with us shortly.’

  ‘The woman who searched my yacht?’

  ‘And took your dirty books and films away. Quite a collection, I hear?’

  ‘There is nothing illegal in my collection.’

  ‘Lying to the police is illegal, Mr Nelson.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You said you’d never heard of Jude Evans. In fact, you implied you didn’t even know if Jude was a girl’s or a boy’s name.’

  ‘I had never heard of this girl before you mentioned her.’

  ‘Yet she was given your name by Jim and John Mulligan. She wanted to speak to you about an old film she’d found, one that pandered to your sexual proclivities. Did she get in touch with you?’

  Nelson’s naturally ruddy face began to drain of colour. It looked as though Bill’s stab in the dark might have found its mark.

  ‘I think you knew what that film was, and you wanted it for your collection.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Nelson spluttered.

  ‘I also believe you kept your set of keys for the Rosevale, and that you arranged to meet Jude there.’

  Nelson sat open mouthed, all his bluster gone, as though a clairvoyant had just recited his life story.

  ‘What about the body behind the wall, Mr Nelson? Trussed up, like the men in your films?’

  Nelson, his composure slightly recovered, pressed his lips firmly together. ‘I’m not saying anything else until I speak to a lawyer.’

  Just then DS Clark walked in with the tea. Bill indicated she should set it down and come out with him.

  ‘He’s hiding something. Bring the duty lawyer down. I want to hear what Nelson has to say about that club in St Vincent Street, and who else uses his reel-to-reel service.’

  44

  Liam rose and showered, aware he’d missed yet another nine o’clock maths lecture. He checked his timetable; nothing now until a physics lab at two, although if he headed to the university right away he might catch someone coming out of maths and cadge a copy of their notes.

  He stuffed the relevant books in his backpack and set off up University Avenue towards the main library, changing his mind at the last minute when he spotted Gary from his maths class headed into the Reading Room. He was on his way up the steps when his mobile rang. It was Aurora’s name on the screen.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey, you. How’d it go last night?’

  Shit, he’d forgotten he’d even told her they were setting up a meeting. She must have been waiting for him to call.

  ‘I’m sorry. My head’s mince. It was two guys, twins. They were very helpful – it turns out Jude had a rendezvous set up with them the same night she missed meeting me. The brothers have gone to talk to the police themselves.’

  ‘Won’t that get you into trouble?’

  ‘I don’t care any more.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Aurora’s voice sounded weird.

  ‘Outside the Reading Room. Why? What’s up?’

  ‘I’d rather not say on the phone. Can you come here?’

  ‘To your room?’

  ‘No. The Driftwood.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ Liam said, unnerved by her tone.

  ‘I’m fine. See you shortly.’

  Liam retraced his steps to Gibson Street and half walked, half sprinted towards Charing Cross and the Driftwood again, feeling like a character in one of Ben’s online games. Forever running down city streets, endlessly looking for someone he would never find.

  Aurora was already in the café hunched over a coffee, her eye on the door, waiting for him. Liam hurried across, pulled out a chair and sat down beside her.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  Her voice cracked as she spoke. ‘I know where Jude’s laptop is.’

  ‘Where?’

  Aurora swallowed hard. ‘Charlie has it.’

  ‘Charlie!’ Liam lowered his voice as the people at the next table glanced round.

  ‘It’s in the boot of his car. He was taking something out and I saw it.’

  ‘How did you know it was Jude’s?’

  Aurora stared at him, big eyed. ‘Her initials are marked on the underside in permanent marker.’

  Of course they were. ‘Does Charlie know you spotted it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Aurora said anxiously.

  ‘You’re sure, really sure the laptop was Jude’s?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, I think so. I only saw it for a second,’ she said, suddenly uncertain. ‘What are we going to do?’

  Liam’s mind was racing as he tried to fit this new information into the overall story. Charlie could have just taken his chance and lifted the laptop, knowing the room was empty. But what about the film reel? Had he taken that, too? And if so, why? No matter how he looked at it, Liam found it difficult to picture Charlie as a thief. But then he couldn’t picture him as a sexual predator either.

  He pulled out his mobile, dialled and composed himself as it rang. He would ask to meet up with Rhona, then run the whole lot past her. Everything. The more he thought about it, the more important it became to unburden himself. When he was diverted to voicemail he left a message asking her to call him back as soon as possible.

  ‘Who’s Rhona?’ Aurora said when he’d ended the call.

  ‘A forensic expert. And my mother.’

  Rhona had supervised the transferral of the remains to the mortuary. Three post mortems in twice as many days. Glasgow was more than living up to its reputation as the crime capital of Scotland.

  With a heavy heart, Rhona had to admit to herself that she’d found enough to confirm that the body was Petersson’s. Apart from the matter of the watch, she’d cut away enough singed cloth to reveal evidence of the tattoos she’d seen on his upper torso the night he’d shared her bed. Her final corroboration had been the contents of the wallet she’d extracted from a back pocket. Inside was a photo of Brynja as a child with an attractive woman, both of them smiling at the camera.

  No wonder Petersson had been worried for his daughter’s safety, and insisted Brynja leave the country almost as soon as she’d arrived.

  ‘I’m going to take a look at the room they were holding McNab in,’ she told Chrissy, who was still taking samples from the area where the body had recently been.

  ‘Slater’s got a team in there already. He told me I wasn’t needed,’ Chrissy said.


  Rhona didn’t care what Slater said. He could hardly order her off the scene of a crime. She crossed the road and lifted the tape strung across the entrance to the flats. On closer inspection it was obvious the job of renovating them had ground to a halt, probably occasioned by the financial downturn. There were dozens of construction sites like this one scattered round the city, waiting for the banks to start lending again.

  Rhona made her way to the third floor, the scent of dust and plaster gradually displaced by a stink of human waste and blood. She felt bile rise in her throat as she entered the cordoned-off flat. The smell was nothing new but it was almost impossible to process the knowledge that this time the scent was McNab’s.

  A chair sat in the centre of the room, a length of barbed wire hanging loose from its back. Below and around on the concrete floor was the smeared evidence of blood, urine and faecal matter. McNab had sat on that chair for days. God knows what he had endured.

  Rhona backed away, the image of what might have happened there too powerful to cope with, even for her. The two SOCOs working the scene threw her sympathetic looks from above their masks.

  ‘Is DI Slater about?’

  ‘Next door.’

  Rhona pulled herself together. If the Russian’s henchmen had already dispensed with McNab they would have left him there to find, just like Petersson. The only reason to move him was if he was still alive. She had to believe that.

  Slater and Black were in the neighbouring room, deep in discussion. The look Slater shot her indicated she wasn’t welcome.

  ‘We have people working the scene. We don’t need you here.’

  ‘Where have they taken him? Do you know?’

  Slater eyed her, his malice undisguised. ‘We’re dealing with this, Dr MacLeod.’

  ‘If they’d executed him, they would have left him there,’ she said. ‘Is he still alive?’

  Slater blanked her, turning his attention back to Black.

  ‘Is he alive?’ she shouted this time, her voice echoing shrilly in the empty concrete space.

  ‘We have no idea.’

  ‘Why was Petersson killed?’

  Black looked to Slater, who gave a slight nod. ‘Because he betrayed them.’