For the child’s body to be so well preserved, it would have been deposited when the bog water was at its coldest, in winter or spring. According to McNab, Mary McIntyre had been abducted on 1 May 1975.
Up on a Scottish moor in May, the temperature of the bog water would have still been sufficiently cold to prevent the process of decay, and checking the weather of 1975, Rhona had found that snow had fallen as far south as Portsmouth during the first week of June.
Returning to the measurements she’d taken of the body, she now considered the dress they’d extracted from the plastic bag. The post-mortem would result in more precise estimates for the measurements of the victim, but in Rhona’s judgement, the dress buried with the girl looked on the small size to have been worn by her.
When she’d carefully compared the size of the shoes and the remains of the feet, she wasn’t convinced that they would fit either.
Maybe the clothes weren’t those of the victim at all.
Sean’s voice broke into Rhona’s thoughts.
‘Hey. Can I smell fresh coffee?’ Sean padded across in his boxers and poured himself a mug. ‘You hungry? I can make us some breakfast?’ he suggested.
‘There’s food in the fridge?’ Rhona said, surprised. Not a cook herself, she relied mostly on takeaways unless Sean cooked for them.
Sean displayed the contents. ‘I can offer you sliced sausage, eggs and tattie scones.’
‘You’re joking? I haven’t been to the shops recently,’ Rhona said, amazed.
‘I took the liberty of stocking up for you when you were up on the moors with Chrissy,’ he said, almost apologetically.
‘You didn’t happen to buy rolls?’ Rhona said.
Sean opened the bread bin and flourished a pack at her.
‘Chrissy’s taken to feeding me porridge of a morning,’ Rhona explained her excitement.
‘I know. Hence the contents of the fridge. Fancy doing something together later?’ Sean suggested as he brought things out.
Rhona knew what she intended doing, and she had no intention of including Sean in her plans. Judging by his expression, he was picking up on that.
‘You have to work?’ he said.
‘In a way,’ Rhona admitted. ‘I’m going to take another look at the locus.’
‘I thought Chrissy said you’d finished up on the moors?’
‘I’m not sure we are yet,’ Rhona said.
Noting her expression, Sean nodded. ‘Fine. It was just a thought. Well, if you’re heading out, I’d better get frying.’
‘You don’t have to leave when I do,’ Rhona offered.
‘I know,’ Sean said with an easy smile. ‘And I’ll make sure Tom’s inside before I go.’
The cat normally had access to the flat roof of the tenement block via an open kitchen window. Despite Sean’s entreaties about Rhona shutting the window at night, she’d usually failed to do so, preferring to give Tom free range as to when he went out. Something that, since the sin-eater case, no longer happened.
‘If you would.’ Rhona smiled her thanks.
The weather had reverted from heavy rain to spring sunshine. The drenching had brought the moor to life, as though the prolonged downfall had been exactly what the mosses and heather had craved.
Having agreed that DS Strachan could leave the locus the previous evening, all that was left of their excavation was a roped-off area.
The grave was part-filled with water from yesterday’s rain, with softened peat reshaping the sides she and Chrissy had so carefully dug out. Rhona wasn’t concerned by this. They had, she believed, retrieved all the evidence that had lain there.
Making her way onto the small stretch of sand that bordered the northern end of the lochan, Rhona undressed and pulled on her short wetsuit, before fixing her head torch and wading into what felt like ice-cold water.
The little stream she’d watched spring to life with the downpour had dwindled again in strength, but the water it had fed into the lochan had raised the level by at least half a metre.
As the water filled her wetsuit, Rhona felt a warm layer begin to form. Wading further in, it took only a metre before she had enough water to swim. She stopped after a couple of strokes to feel again for the bottom, but it was no longer there, indicating the probability that the lochan had a deep core.
She suspected, once she’d dived a little to confirm this, that the incoming stream, when in spate, had succeeded in carving out the peaty soil from the deepest area, and what she could see and touch there was in fact bedrock.
Moving towards the bank that lay between her and the grave, she had to submerge again to look for the cavity that had housed the tangled roots interwoven with the fingers of the victim. Filled again with soil, had she not mapped its location, she would never have identified its position.
As Chrissy had said, the window of opportunity in which the body might be discovered had been small, relying as it had done on the long spell of unseasonably dry weather, plus the presence of a wild and curious swimmer.
Rhona, diving again, began to slowly map out the underwater world of the lochan. What she was looking for she had no idea. If asked, she could have only declared it as a hunch. But, as Magnus Pirie often said, intuition was just psychology in action.
Ever since she’d acknowledged, to herself at least, that the outfit and the victim were possibly not a match, Rhona couldn’t avoid the thought that more than one child might be involved. Maybe the Saddleworth Moor episode had influenced her thinking on that. Then again, child killers rarely stopped at one child, and generally went on killing until caught. And Mary McIntyre’s abductor had never been identified, let alone apprehended.
If she gleaned any evidence to suggest there might be more than one gravesite in the location then she could ask for a fuller search of the surrounding area. Recent advances involved using small unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) for aerial photography, which could examine the surrounding area for anomalies. Nutrient flush might be spotted where greener grass had come about because of leachate, a product of water passing through a deposition site.
Peat vegetation in general took a long time to get back to normal, although if the area had been heavily grazed, chances were it would all look similar over time. On her trips up here Rhona had seen no grazing sheep, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been any in the intervening years.
Although she’d begun to feel the cold, she submerged once again, to cross and recross the small yet deep loch, her reasoning being that since the fingers had managed to exit the grave, something might have escaped with them.
She had all but given in to the cold when the beam from her head torch glinted back at her. Going closer, Rhona saw a circular object, likely tarnished metal, wedged between two stones. Prising it free, she rose to the surface, desperate for air.
She now swam towards the beach, knowing she’d stayed in too long and was seriously chilled by her time in the water. Securing her prize on a stone, she quickly stripped off the wetsuit and got dried and dressed. After which, she poured some coffee from her flask and, nursing the cup, warmed both her hands and her insides.
When her teeth had finally stopped chittering, Rhona fetched her camera from her backpack and photographed the item she’d retrieved from the floor of the lochan.
It was clear what it was, despite the tarnished appearance. The vintage-style sterling silver bracelet, once popular as a gift for a child, had likely been a celebratory present for the special event in a little girl’s life, her confirmation into the Roman Catholic Church.
16
Despite the chill in the morning air, Magnus was having his morning coffee on the balcony so that he might watch the boundless flow of the River Clyde as it wound its way westward to the Irish Sea.
Living in a city that stood on a river, in an apartment that overlooked the river, wasn’t the same as living in a stone house on the shores of Scapa Flow in Orkney, but it was a decent enough substitute.
Especially on mornings li
ke this, Magnus decided.
After the sudden downpour, it was as though the earth had sprung to life around him. Spring had already arrived, albeit a little tentatively. With a sunny spell followed by a plentiful water supply from the heavens, everything had decided it was time to sprout. Even his meagre selection of plants that occupied the balcony space with him.
Magnus’s thoughts turned back to Orkney and when he might next visit his island home. He was particularly fond of spring, when the mayflowers appeared. Known in Glasgow as primroses, they weren’t as abundant here as in Orkney, where they turned the roadside verges into a bright blanket of dancing yellow.
From his home at Houton Bay he also had a great view of the hills of Hoy on the other side of Scapa Flow. Here in Glasgow, the scene across the river was undoubtedly urban, but impressive nonetheless. Gone were the huge shipyards that had made Glasgow famous, and in their place were landscaped green living spaces for the new city dwellers.
Magnus loved this gregarious and garrulous city, its friendliness to strangers easily equal, in his opinion, to that of his homeland of Orkney.
Refilling his coffee mug, he resumed his outdoor seat to further enjoy his positive mood, which, he acknowledged, was as much a product of having finally completed his current stack of student marking, the topic being: ‘High-risk young people with developing personality disorders – a possible treatment.’
Although there was no established treatment for psychopathy in adults, his own university of Strathclyde was home to the Interventions for Vulnerable Youth project, which his criminal psychology students were currently studying.
That thought led immediately to another, featuring the man he’d recently interviewed in Barlinnie. Alec McLaughlin, in Magnus’s opinion, had a psychopathic personality, which old age, Magnus feared, had neither diminished nor improved, despite a long jail sentence and the further education courses he’d successfully taken while incarcerated.
Having drafted his piece on Old Alec, Magnus had harboured no desire to see the man again. However, that was before he’d received a message on his university email stating that Alec McLaughlin had been released on schedule and that he would like to meet with Professor Pirie to talk further. He was happy to come to the university to do so, if that suited the professor.
When Magnus had replied politely that he had all he needed for his paper on the topic they’d discussed, Alec had responded that he wanted to talk to Professor Pirie on another matter entirely, which had arisen from the recent news of the discovery of a child’s remains buried on the moor south of Glasgow.
Magnus had yet to answer that particular email, which had arrived late last night. His first instinct was to advise Mr McLaughlin to speak to the police, but he also suspected that Old Alec would do no such thing, having just been released after serving fifteen years in Barlinnie Prison.
Sitting here, his eyes resting on the slow-moving waters of the Clyde, Magnus decided he would agree to meet Alec again, who was after all a free man now, and see what he had to say. Then, should such a meeting warrant informing the police, he would contact DI Bill Wilson, with whom he’d worked as a profiler on a number of occasions, and ask his advice.
His mind made up, he went through to his office and sent the required email, suggesting today at 1 p.m. would be a suitable time to meet, and that Alec should come to reception at the Graham Hills Building and ask for him. The email brought an almost immediate response, confirming that Alec would be delighted to come along today at that time.
The morning passed without anything else of note. Magnus delivered a couple of hour-long lectures, then decided to have a light lunch in his office, only to discover a queue of students who wished to talk to him personally about the marks posted on their recent papers.
Magnus agreed times to speak to each of them, and by then it was almost time for Alec’s arrival. He now found himself intrigued by what might occur during their meeting, plus relief that he would have a break from justifying his student scores to their recipients.
Checking his watch, he noted he had thirty minutes left to review what information he had on the body on the moors, or at least what he’d gleaned via the press and TV reports. For his own interest, he’d already looked through old newspaper articles around the time when the burial was mooted to have occurred.
Being a professor of psychology, Magnus was even more aware than the general public that neither the newspapers, websites or television channels were renowned for telling the truth, then or now, relying as they all did on capturing and entertaining an audience.
He’d briefly contemplated calling Rhona to enquire what she knew regarding the recent discovery, or even DS McNab, with whom he had a chequered history, but had decided rather to wait and hear what Alec had to say first. After all, he’d not been invited as yet to become involved as a criminal psychologist in the case, so they would be reluctant to give out confidential information.
The current news reports had made two things plain at least: the body was believed to be that of a child and it was likely connected to an unsolved case from up to fifty years ago.
It hadn’t taken long after that to unearth (an unfortunate term) the missing children’s cases in Scotland in that time frame. And the disappearance of Mary McIntyre just north of the deposition site, after her church confirmation in 1975, appeared the most likely match to the body that had been found on the moor.
Which was certainly the train of thought favoured by the press.
Armed with this information, Magnus headed for reception as soon as the call came through that he had a visitor.
Having discarded the prison’s red fleece, and also the walking stick, Alec McLaughlin looked a different man, and definitely younger. The personal details Magnus had been given prior to his interview with McLaughlin had stated his age at sixty-one, which meant he’d been incarcerated at the age of forty-six. Magnus hadn’t been given the exact details of his conviction, although his own research had provided some answers.
As Archie had said, it had taken a long time to catch him, but they finally had through the three children of a former partner. The two girls and a boy, now grown up, had accused McLaughlin of numerous counts of rape during their childhood. At the time these had occurred, McLaughlin had been in his thirties. Archie had suspected there had been many more assaults on children which they hadn’t yet discovered or proved.
Spying Magnus’s exit from the lift, Old Alec had come swiftly towards him, hand outstretched. ‘Professor Pirie, I am delighted to meet with you again. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.’
Magnus saw no sign of the stiff gait he’d noted in their prison encounter. Alec was, to all intents and purposes, now apparently totally mobile. Deciding not to mention this, Magnus shook the outstretched hand, then, having asked if McLaughlin had signed in and receiving the affirmative, ushered him towards the lift.
They exchanged the required niceties on the ascent to Magnus’s floor – focusing on the weather and work in general, wherein Alec professed to rather enjoying his current work-free existence, including no academic classes to take.
‘Alas, for me,’ Magnus said, ‘that is not an option.’
On arrival at his office, Magnus found another two of his first-year female students waiting for him outside. He didn’t remember their names, but, listening to their requests for a meeting, asked the two to email him for an appointment.
Once inside with the door firmly shut, Alec ventured, ‘I see you’re very popular, Professor Pirie. Is your popularity confined to your female students or does it cross the boundaries of gender?’
‘My popularity at present depends on what grade I gave them on their last paper,’ Magnus said firmly, ushering Alec to a chair.
‘I take it they think you scored them too low?’
‘No one comes to complain about a mark that is higher than they anticipated,’ Magnus confirmed. ‘Can I offer you a freshly brewed coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ Alec’s
eyes lit up. ‘I could smell it when I came in. Good coffee is one of the many joys of being free. That and being able to walk for miles in a straight line. Something I haven’t been able to do for fifteen years.’
Magnus busied himself pouring the coffee, while his inner voice screamed his distaste that McLaughlin should feel sorry for himself, since his victims were unlikely ever to be free of the past he’d inflicted upon them.
When he returned with the coffee mugs in hand, he found McLaughlin’s piercing eyes studying him.
‘You think I have no right to feel sorry for myself,’ he suggested, as though he’d been reading Magnus’s thoughts.
Magnus, unsure how to answer, decided not to.
McLaughlin smiled. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that I did well in my finals and am soon to graduate with a first-class honours in Forensic Psychology. Not bad for a boy who left school at fifteen.’
‘I thought the school leaving age was raised to sixteen in 1973?’
A dark look crossed McLaughlin’s face, but it passed so swiftly Magnus might almost have imagined it.
‘I see you’ve been doing your homework on me, Professor. As for the leaving age, it mattered little to me as I spent more time out of school than in.’
‘All the more reason then to congratulate you on your degree success,’ Magnus said, somewhat belatedly.
McLaughlin smiled. ‘Thank you, Professor Pirie. Coming from such a distinguished criminal profiler, that’s high praise indeed.’ He paused, then setting down his coffee, said, ‘Now we’ve got the niceties over, shall we discuss the real reason why I’m here?’
Magnus nodded. ‘I understand it relates to the body recently discovered on the moors?’
‘Found buried on the moors,’ McLaughlin corrected him. ‘I lived two doors up from wee Mary McIntyre, Professor. And for a while I was a suspect in her abduction. I wasn’t the culprit, but the detective at the time, McCreadie was his name, had it in for me. Gave me a hard time. In fact, nowadays I could have him up for sexual assault.’ He continued, his eyes fixed on Magnus, ‘McCreadie was determined to pin it on someone and I fitted the bill.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘So I expect, if they do identify the body as Mary, someone will be back knocking on my door again.’
The Innocent Dead - Rhona MacLeod Series 15 (2020) Page 7
