She looked annoyed by the question. ‘I told the other police officers when they came round. We don’t keep in touch. I haven’t heard from Karen in years, and I don’t know where she lives now.’
‘So when was the last time you saw or heard from Karen?’
‘Mum’s funeral. She came to that,’ she said through pursed lips, as though it had been a crime.
They waited for her to continue. Eventually she did.
‘Look. Mary McIntyre’s disappearance destroyed every family on that street. It was like a poison, eating us all up. Everyone suspecting everyone else. It was evil. My father moved us away because my mum couldn’t cope with being there.’
Now McNab took over. Opening up his laptop, he said, ‘You spoke to DI McCreadie at the time it happened.’
‘I spoke to a detective, yes. I don’t remember his name.’
‘I have the notes here that Detective Inspector McCreadie took when he interviewed you.’
McNab began to read out the relevant passage.
‘“She” – that’s you – “said she was sorry but she didn’t like her” – her being Mary. “That she bossed Karen around and upset her wee sister by saying there wasn’t a seat in heaven for her because she was a Protestant. She thought Mary was just hiding somewhere, so that everyone would look for her. Mary likes to be the centre of attention. And she flirts. With Alec up the road, even Eric. She halts there as though she’s said too much. Who’s Eric, does he live nearby too, I ask? She shakes her head. Eric’s my boyfriend. And he knows Mary? He doesn’t know her, she says firmly. But when he comes to collect me, she talks to him.”’
There was a moment’s silence while her face moved from amazement to anger. ‘That’s wrong. He’s telling lies. I never said such a thing.’
‘What thing is wrong?’ McNab said. ‘That you didn’t like Mary? That she told tales about who was allowed in heaven? Or that Mary flirted with your boyfriend?’
She drew herself up. ‘I don’t remember saying any of those things. In fact I’m sure I didn’t. I certainly didn’t sign anything like that.’
‘Eric, your boyfriend at the time, he became your husband?’ Janice said.
She nodded. ‘Yes. And we’ve been married for forty-four years,’ she added proudly.
McNab thought at that moment that whoever Eric was, he deserved a medal.
‘We’d like to speak to your husband,’ Janice said.
‘Why?’ Mrs Jackson seemed surprised. ‘He didn’t even know Mary.’
‘But you said Mary spoke to him when he came to pick you up?’ McNab reminded her.
‘I don’t remember saying that.’
‘Was Eric ever interviewed by DI McCreadie?’ Janice said.
‘I don’t think so. We’d only just met when Mary disappeared. He didn’t know anyone in the street except me.’
‘Nevertheless, we will have to speak to Eric,’ Janice persisted. ‘To confirm or deny what you told DI McCreadie back then.’
Eleanor Jackson made a sound of annoyance, or perhaps resignation, McNab wasn’t sure which. Then she said, ‘Well, he’s not here. He’s in Europe somewhere with the lorry. He drives long distance.’
‘How long has he been doing that for?’ Janice said, with an interested smile.
‘A very long time.’ She sighed as though it wouldn’t have been her choice.
‘When do you expect him back?’
‘In a couple of weeks,’ she said dismissively. ‘So can I go now?’
‘Firstly, we’d like you to write down everything you remember about that day. And the names of anyone you suspected might have been involved in Mary’s disappearance.’
‘You want me to tell you who I think did it?’ She looked surprised and quite pleased about this.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you should start with that creepy guy McLaughlin who lived up the street. They jailed him, you know, for raping children.’
‘Just write down anything that’s relevant. Plus the contact details for your husband,’ McNab stressed.
The eager look disappeared and they were back with annoyance.
‘Can’t that wait until he gets back?’
‘We need to make arrangements for him to come in and give a DNA sample,’ McNab said.
Annoyance became anger.
‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘All men associated with the street at that time will be required to do the same,’ Janice said.
‘What about the dead ones?’ she said sarcastically. ‘There’ll be quite a few of them.’
‘We can always exhume them,’ McNab said to annoy her. ‘Just one more thing. We did locate your sister, Karen, in Stirling. However, she has since disappeared in suspicious circumstances.’ When he checked Eleanor’s face for her reaction to this, McNab found it, for once, completely blank. ‘We fear for Karen’s safety. Should she try and get in touch—’
‘She won’t,’ she said. ‘Karen won’t get in touch with me.’ As if dismissing both the suggestion and them, she picked up the pen and began to write.
44
Midway through the afternoon, the rush hour had already begun, although it seemed most of the vehicles were intent on leaving Glasgow, rather than heading there.
As she drove, Rhona went over what she’d discovered at the cottage, establishing in her mind the possible interpretations the context of the scene had appeared to offer.
In any investigation, there was always a danger of fitting evidence into your own theory of what may have happened. Of seeing patterns where none actually existed. It even had a name. Pareidolia. Rhona liked the word, but not what it inferred.
Having studied the context of what had happened at the cottage, she’d come to a possible theory, but not a conclusion. A careful study of the pattern of the blood splattering and spotting, at close quarters in the lab, might suggest something entirely different.
The bird footprints were certainly solid evidence of a crow having been in the house. When exactly it had been there, she couldn’t determine. However, the bird footprints could have been there for days.
Therefore, the theory that the crow had caused the accident was just that, a theory.
Plus, it didn’t shed light on why Karen had left the cottage, leaving her mobile behind. The reason for her speedy departure lay, Rhona thought, in her current state of mind, which didn’t bode well for Karen’s safety.
It was perfectly possible to imagine Karen in her traumatized state attempting to cut herself at the sink. Failing in this, she could have left, to find another way to more easily and speedily end her life. There were plenty of places to do that nearby.
The castle rock being one.
Off the motorway now, Rhona drew into a petrol station, filled up the tank and bought herself a coffee. Back in the car, she parked up and checked her phone to discover a couple of missed calls, one from McNab, the other from Chrissy.
Swithering which to answer first, she chose McNab, already feeling guilty at it not being Chrissy.
‘Where are you?’ he demanded on pick-up.
‘On my way back to the lab.’
‘Don’t go there. You’re needed at . . .’ The address he gave her was the street Mary McIntyre had disappeared from.
‘Why am I going there?’
‘It’s Alec McLaughlin. He’s been found dead in suspicious circumstances. Chrissy is on her way.’
Before he could ring off, Rhona told him about her find in the loft of Rowan Cottage.
‘I checked that box,’ he said. ‘In case the diary was in there. You think the jumper’s part of Mary’s missing clothes?’
‘We can test for her DNA, but it’s wool and blue and the right size,’ Rhona told him.
‘If it is Mary’s, then Karen Marshall’s had it since the day Mary disappeared.’
He didn’t say it, but Rhona could hear the words anyway. Karen Marshall had secrets to tell.
Rejoining the motorway, Rhona edged her way past G
lasgow city centre and headed south, using the satnav to direct her to the address McNab had supplied her with.
Eventually she found herself driving up a steep brae she recognized from an earlier Google image, passing a mix of local authority houses and those that looked as though they’d been purchased, probably during the Thatcher era.
To her right, the open ground sketched out in DI McCreadie’s notebook was no longer wild, but tamed with close-cut grass and budding yellow and purple spring crocuses. Some of the gardens opposite had become parking places for cars, including number ninety-five, Karen Marshall’s old home. Almost directly opposite the house was the drive that led into the Catholic school which her pal Mary had attended.
Rhona halted there for a moment, taking in the scene she’d so far only viewed as a police sketch made forty-five years ago, or as it was now via Google Earth.
On the far side of the school drive was a steep bank, topped by an area of waste ground, not yet cultivated by the council. North of this, on the crest of the hill, Rhona could make out the playground and buildings of the Protestant school. Finally, to the east, the dark shadow of the trees, where the girls had built their den.
Two doors up from Karen’s former home had been Mary McIntyre’s house, and was, according to McNab, where her older sister, Jean, and her husband, Samuel Barclay, now lived. Here the garden had been well maintained, and it too was bright with spring bulbs.
As she crested the hill, police vehicles appeared in a line in front of a house with a dilapidated air and boarded-up windows, the patch of garden in front home to a discarded mattress and other assorted junk.
According to McNab, McLaughlin’s body had been discovered in his teenage home, although he’d been residing in a Glasgow hostel for the homeless after his release from Barlinnie.
So what had brought him back here?
There was no doubt McLaughlin had been keen to inveigle his way into the investigation. Why else contact Magnus and offer himself to be interviewed by the police? Also according to McNab, McLaughlin had been touting himself around the various tabloids with stories of what had gone on in this street forty-five years ago, one of which had given him a front-page special, showing a recent photo of him taken here with STREET OF EVIL as the headline.
Which wouldn’t endear him to either the past or current residents.
There was none of the usual group of onlookers that a crime scene tended to attract, although Rhona got the strong impression she was being watched from neighbouring houses as she kitted up. Ducking under the crime scene tape, she was met by the CSM.
‘Duty pathologist’s been, Dr MacLeod. Your assistant’s in there now,’ he told her. ‘The body’s in the living room on the left. It’s a bit of a mess in there,’ he warned her.
The outer door led into a small porch, which in turn led into a rectangular hall. The glass door between looked as though it had been kicked in, with broken glass scattered over the linoleum flooring. To the right, three steps met a landing, before turning to continue upstairs. Ahead of Rhona, a short corridor gave access to a bathroom and at its end a kitchen.
Rhona entered the living room, although the word enter didn’t really describe it. Waded in would have been a better description, for the floor was ankle-deep in refuse, consisting of empty plastic and glass bottles plus fast-food containers. Whoever had been using the place to meet or doss in hadn’t been house proud, that was for certain.
Hearing her entry, Chrissy’s white-suited figure rose from the sea of debris.
‘And I thought my place was a pigsty,’ she declared, with her characteristic grin. ‘So what do we do about this little lot?’
‘We’ll have it bagged and taken to the lab,’ Rhona said. ‘Where’s the body?’
‘Back here,’ Chrissy told her.
Someone had already moved enough rubbish aside to accommodate the laying of metal treads. Rhona followed that route through, past an old battered settee and two armchairs.
She’d already been aware of the hum of flies, but as she neared, they rose from the body in a cloud, buzzing in anger at being disturbed.
McLaughlin lay naked and splayed out on his front, his head surrounded by a large pool of congealed blood. Ignoring the flies, Rhona crouched for a better view of the gash that had almost severed his head from his body.
Chrissy was swatting the flies from around her own head. ‘Time I netted a few of these and took a fly spray to the rest.’
Half an hour later, the room had been cleared of all garbage and the flies had been killed or captured for the purpose of helping establish time of death. Sadly, the removal of the rubbish and the flies hadn’t altered the stench in the room. That telltale scent of death mingled with rotting food and urine. But it had revealed some partial bloody footprints, which had produced an excited ‘Looky, looky’ from Chrissy as she’d filled the last black bag.
‘We’re going to stink to high heaven after this one,’ Chrissy announced, knotting the black refuse bag. ‘Plus it looks like I won’t make my date tonight.’ She pulled a face.
‘Who’s the date with?’ Rhona said as the arc lights snapped on and the locus became startlingly bright.
‘Danny, jazz guitarist, of course,’ Chrissy told her. ‘We were planning a pizza, then back to his place to watch a film.’
‘To watch a film?’ Rhona repeated in disbelief.
‘Whatever.’ Chrissy shook her head. ‘It won’t be happening now, anyway.’
Rhona couldn’t dispute that, since the probability was they’d be here well into the night. Twelve-hour stints with a dead body were standard. They certainly wouldn’t be leaving before they were sure they’d collected all the forensic evidence they could, before the body was moved to the mortuary for the autopsy.
Context was everything, and now the arc lights were on, the crime scene could be viewed in detail.
From the bedding on the nearby sofa, it looked like McLaughlin may have been dossing here. The accumulated rubbish obviously had a longer time frame. The smell, too, indicated an extended period of illicit habitation and wasn’t just occasioned by a dead body in the early stages of decomposition.
During life, the core temperature of humans was normally maintained at around 37 degrees. From the moment of death, the mechanisms that maintained that temperature ceased. How quickly the body cooled was dependent on many factors including the temperature of the environment in which it lay.
It might have been spring, but in this room it was still winter. Plus it appeared the victim had been naked when he died. Hypostasis, the discoloration caused as the blood, no longer pumped round by the heart, sank to its lowest level, was fully developed. In normal circumstances this would have taken three to four hours. From the dark-purple pattern, McLaughlin had lain in this position from the moment of his death.
The eyes were cloudy, as the crystalline structure of the cornea became dehydrated. Rigor mortis was in the early stages, having started in the face, neck and jaw muscles.
Chrissy was bagging the abandoned clothes, which had no sign of blood on them. Further evidence that the victim had been naked when he’d met his death. She eventually voiced the inevitable question, ‘Why the hell was he naked? You wouldn’t get naked to go to sleep in here. It’s baltic. Which suggests he was undressed for sexual shenanigans.’
Chrissy’s variety of expressions for sex was expansive, but this was a new one even for Rhona. And much less colourful than usual.
At this moment in time, Rhona was studying the back of McLaughlin’s head, in particular at the neckline.
‘Take a look at this,’ she said, handing Chrissy the magnifying glass.
Chrissy obliged.
‘Yeuch. That’s saliva. Someone dribbled on him.’
Rhona smiled. ‘They did indeed. Probably during sexual shenanigans or as they slit his throat.’
She sampled the material and secured it in a container, handing it to Chrissy to mark up and store. Now she hunkered down to examine the small
er second pool of blood near the thighs. Having by now taped the back of the body, she was keen to examine the front.
Beckoning Chrissy back over, they began together to ease the body up, exposing the reason for the lower blood loss.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Chrissy muttered from behind the mask. ‘They cut his prick.’
The assailant had at least attempted to sever the victim’s penis. However, judging by the clean and forceful slice to the throat, Rhona suspected the partial dismemberment of the penis had been intentional and possibly before McLaughlin’s throat was cut.
‘Looks like my theory of sexual shenanigans was right after all,’ Chrissy said.
Chrissy’s contribution over, Rhona sent her off to deliver the forensic evidence to the lab, and from there to her late night out with Danny. In truth, Rhona preferred this last stint with the body alone to write up her notes.
Earlier in the proceedings, McNab had popped his head in to establish what they’d learned about McLaughlin’s last hours on this earth. Respect for the dead, regardless of your personal feelings about them, was paramount at the crime scene. What the victim had done prior to this moment wasn’t the issue. Now he was the victim of a crime, and must be treated as such.
Despite his distaste for McLaughlin, McNab was well aware of Rhona’s feelings on this matter. He therefore showed neither relief nor pleasure that the world was rid of a man who’d raped children in his care for over a decade before being brought to justice. A man who, if given the opportunity, might well have done the same again.
‘How was he discovered?’ Rhona said.
‘An anonymous tip-off. Untraced.’
‘The killer?’
‘Or one of the dossers who’ve been using the place,’ McNab said. ‘Bit of a nasty find, when you’re looking for a place to lay your weary head for the night. McLaughlin must have known if he came back here and spouted the stuff he did in the tabloids that he was taking a chance,’ he went on. ‘Even in prison, isolated and guarded round the clock, he was attacked on a regular basis.’
He studied the mangled penis. ‘So is that because of what he’s been up to recently or what he did fifteen years ago . . .’
The Innocent Dead - Rhona MacLeod Series 15 (2020) Page 22
