by Alex Gray
‘Can’t you see she’s scared of you? It’s taken me days to build up her confidence and I’m not having you pair of idiots ruin it!’ Shereen had scolded them. She’d been aware of Asa listening to the heated exchange, their raised voices only making the girl shrink further into the corner of her seat. But the older woman had chivvied them into seeing things her way, and now she and Asa were together, her hand around the girl’s waist as she steered her into the shop.
‘Dress,’ she said, pulling at a rack of summer clothes and then indicating her own cotton frock.
Asa looked at Shereen intently. ‘Dress,’ she parroted.
‘Good girl, Asa.’ Shereen smiled broadly and patted the girl’s arm to show that she was pleased with her. ‘Now let’s find you some suitable things to wear.’
Asa’s head was spinning after the walk through the marble-floored hall. Never in her young life had she seen so many white people together. There were, admittedly, a few Asian faces amongst them, and once, an African couple who had glanced her way before Shereen had tugged on her arm, making her walk faster. But it all looked so terribly strange, so foreign, that Asa’s longing for home was stronger than ever. Now here she was in this enormous shop full of different sorts of clothing, some of it piled into towering stacks, and faceless white mannequins that made her shudder despite the clothes fitted on to their skinny frames.
Shereen’s voice chattered on as the girl wandered further and further into this place full of colour and finery. Once, she had turned timidly to the older woman, hands outstretched as if to ask permission to feel the cloth of a particular blue dress, and Shereen had grinned widely, nodding her head. The girl’s mouth was open in wonder as she touched the acrylic material, its soft folds slipping like water under her hands. After a quick rummage along the rail Shereen selected a small size and gave a grunt of satisfaction.
Quickly a pattern began to emerge. No sooner would Asa’s fingers touch the silky fabric of one garment than Shereen had it whisked off the hanger and added to the growing pile over her arm.
‘Come over here, time to try these on, Asa,’ she said at last, pushing the girl towards the entrance of the changing rooms.
The girl drew back a little as she was faced with a row of white canvas curtains. What lay behind them? her frightened expression seemed to ask.
But just as she was resisting the pressure on her thin arm, a girl of about her own age emerged from one of the fitting rooms and twirled around. Asa gave a gasp and covered her mouth with her hand as she saw the same blue dress being shown off to a couple of other girls who were waiting outside.
The next half-hour passed in a dream, Asa trying on one dress after another, Shereen always there with an encouraging nod or a shake of her dark curly head if she didn’t think the garment quite right for the girl.
Asa was in a daze as they left the fitting room behind. Shereen had selected four dresses, the blue and three others that Asa had chosen. Now the woman was heading towards a different area, where the girl saw baskets full of underwear and rows of matching panties and brassieres stretched over clear plastic hangers. Atop a high shelf a black figure reclined, another mannequin, clad only in the skimpiest pale pink bra and bikini pants. Asa’s lips parted, the desire to ask questions burning inside her. Were these things for everyone, then?
Without a glance towards her companion, Shereen shoved several gossamer-thin sets of underwear, bright pink, turquoise and lime green, into the round shopping basket.
‘Shoes,’ she said, stopping suddenly. ‘What size will you be, d’you think?’
Asa stared blankly, unable to understand what was being said.
‘Shoes,’ Shereen repeated, bending down and tapping her own footwear. ‘Come on, we need to get you something you can walk in.’
And so it was that Asa found herself seated on a low stool, several pairs of brightly coloured high heels scattered around the carpet as she tried on one pair after another, her slender feet slipping inside most of them. At last two pairs were deemed to be satisfactory and Shereen added leopardskin stilettos and navy blue slingbacks to the pile in her basket.
As Shereen led the way back through the mall towards the bank of elevators leading to the car park, Asa’s grin faded along with the good feeling she had enjoyed in the huge shop. There were so many questions she longed to ask. Why had she been taken from her home? Why transported in that freezing truck then kept a virtual prisoner in the grey room? And why, oh why, was she now being given all these beautiful things, as though she were some sort of princess?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘It’s time,’ the man told her. ‘You know what has to be done, right?’
Shereen swallowed back a pert retort, her eyes cast downwards. The last few days the woman had tried to forget that this day would come. The young girl, Asa, was different from the rest – more vulnerable, more childlike than the others had been – and knowing what lay ahead made the older woman fear for her.
Asa’s head swam as she sat between the two men in the back of the car. There was a sickness in her stomach and she wanted to close her eyes and sleep, but the big man on her right kept nudging her awake, his elbow jabbing the soft flesh on her arm. Shereen had given her some pills with her breakfast and Asa had taken them, trusting the smile and the outstretched hand. Now the drugs had done their work and she was being taken somewhere, powerless to resist, only wanting this nausea to stop.
As if her unspoken wish had been heard, the car drew up against a pavement and Asa was helped out of the car. The relief of breathing in the fresh air was all too short as the men escorted her through a door and into a room with chairs around its white walls.
As she sat quietly, Asa looked at the place, wondering what it was. Two girls were standing beside a display of what seemed to be a bundle of shiny pictures attached to the wall, turning them over one after the other. Asa blinked, curiosity heightening her vision. Her brow puckered as she saw that they were examining sheet after sheet of black designs on white paper, their voices low and companionable. At last they seemed to come to an agreement and left the room, entering another door and closing it behind them.
There were windows to the front of the shop and Asa watched as people passed by, her drugged stupor making everything appear strange. They seemed so silent, these grey people, bowed down against the world, sometimes moving jerkily like puppets, and Asa began to wonder who they were and what their lives were like as she sat patiently between her captors.
Asa looked up as the man they called Okonjo nudged her side. Had she been sleeping? Okonjo was an African who reminded her of one of their neighbours back home. Although she had never heard him speak a single word of Yoruba – he always chose to converse in English – she suspected that he was Nigerian, like her. And now something was happening; the other one was on his feet, shaking hands with a white stranger, a grey-haired bearded man who stood there talking to her companion, the tone of his voice questioning, his glance shifting towards her face.
Asa looked up, surprised. Where had he come from and why was he staring at her? His high domed forehead gave him an intelligent appearance and those twinkling eyes seemed to be smiling right into her soul. Asa smiled back and he nodded.
‘Nineteen? Okay. Hard to tell. Your girls always look so much younger,’ the man said. ‘Come on in.’
Asa felt her arm being taken firmly as she was led into the next room and seated in a black leather chair.
‘Okay, you’ve decided that this is the design you would like?’
‘She doesn’t speak any English,’ the big man said gruffly. ‘Just get on with it, all right?’
Asa’s eyes widened as the grey-haired man lifted her right leg gently and laid it across his lap. She held on to the edges of the chair, terrified, as he lifted her skirt and wiped her inner thigh with a swab. Once, long ago, Asa had visited a white doctor miles from home and she still remembered the line of weeping girls and the jab of a needle as they were vaccinated against that
terrible disease. Was this a clinic, then? And was she being given something to protect her against some awful illness?
The man’s fingers were soft, clad in pale protective gloves, as they touched her skin. He took the sterile needle carefully from its paper pack and placed it into a small metal machine. His voice spoke soothing words, making her body relax as a low buzzing noise began like some large insect hovering close by.
There was no white coat like that other doctor had worn, though, and Asa decided to close her eyes against whatever would happen next.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was a perfect morning, Samantha decided, as she entered the leafy wood. The sound of Badger’s hooves was muffled by the carpet of soft pine needles and she fancied from the prick of his ears that the big cob enjoyed walking along this dusty brown path, a change from their usual route from the stables. Overhead patches of blue showed through a tracery of larch twigs, opening up to reveal a swathe of flawless skies, and as the horse stepped out from the trees, Samantha guided him towards what appeared to be a sheep track bordering the edge of the wood. Catching sight of a line of barbed wire that fenced off the land beyond the wood, she reined him in for a moment, trying to decide which way to proceed. Straight ahead the ground rose in a narrow series of hillocks that disappeared once more into the dark trees, but if she were to turn downhill then she might find a path that went around the marsh and back via the farm road.
Pulling the horse’s head around, Samantha leaned back slightly to compensate for the gradient as Badger picked his way down, following the edge of the wood on one side, the wire fence on the other. The spring grass was lush here, fresh green and tempting to a big horse like Badger, but the animal kept plodding onwards, not once trying to snatch the reins from her hand and grab a quick mouthful as another less placid mount might have done. He was a big softie, Samantha thought to herself, relaxing into the horse’s shambling gait as he stepped down her preferred path. Soon the hill gave way to a flatter area and Samantha caught sight of something glittering in the distance. That was surely the pond down by the marshes? She had been right to choose this way, hadn’t she?
Suddenly the horse shied, moving sideways as a small bird flew out of a clump of reeds, and Samantha’s grip was momentarily lost, jolting her in the saddle so that she had to grab a handful of mane to steady herself.
‘Shh, boy, it’s okay, just a stupid bird,’ the girl soothed him, patting his neck and urging him forwards once more. The pond was a bright arc of shimmering light now, the path bordered by a low wooden fence instead of the barbed wire. Just below her eye level Samantha noticed a dragonfly hovering delicately before zooming off towards the water. She watched its translucent wings for a moment, then turned her attention to the path ahead.
It was just a glimpse, no more, but Samantha saw a familiar shape that made her rein the horse to a standstill.
The girl blinked, refusing to believe at first what it was that she was seeing.
It was right down there, at the very edge of the marshes, unseen perhaps by anyone on foot, the clumps of reeds thick against the path, but easily spotted from her vantage point on Badger’s back.
Heart thumping, Samantha Lockhart closed her eyes as if somehow that would make this awful thing disappear. But when she opened them again there was still the unmistakable shape of a body lying face down, half hidden in the tall grasses fringing the pond.
‘Black, late teens, has probably been here a good few days by the look of her,’ the pathologist sighed. The ground around the marshy pond was teeming with human activity now; to one side was a police Range Rover, its doors open as yet another figure sat pulling on the regulation white forensic suit, several officers having already cordoned off the entire area. Detective Superintendent Lorimer sat back on his heels as the pathologist continued her examination of the body. Eyebrows might be raised at an officer of his rank appearing at the crime scene, but this was so close to the Cathkin Braes, one of the venues for the forthcoming Commonwealth Games, that he had made the decision to be there with the scene-of-crime officers and the pathologist.
It was Dr Rosie Fergusson, his friend and colleague, who was bent over the girl’s body, examining her with a tenderness that never failed to move the senior officer. Each of them had been exposed to many horrors at scenes of crime, but on this lovely spring morning, with collared doves cooing innocently from a tree nearby, there was something especially horrific about this corpse.
There was no need to ask about the cause of death. Twin strands of stiff wire stood out from the back of her neck where someone had twisted them together, biting into the dark flesh. Lorimer had glimpsed her face then looked away, seeing the damage that many small creatures had already inflicted. A lesser stomach might have heaved at the sight, but Rosie kept on going, her voice quiet and firm as she described the wounds and a possible time of death.
‘Several days ago,’ she repeated, turning to catch Lorimer’s eye. ‘We can be more precise once she’s in the mortuary.’ She stood up, drawing closer so that only he could hear her. ‘What’s brought you here anyway?’ she asked, brushing a gloved hand over her face as a small cloud of mayflies swooped and hovered.
‘It’s fairly close to the mountain biking route,’ Lorimer explained. ‘For the Games,’ he added.
‘Ah.’ Rosie nodded, understanding. ‘You think she’s got something to do with that?’
‘I hope not,’ he said, blowing out a sigh. ‘And I don’t want the press knowing about this. We’re all trying to keep Glasgow 2014 a trouble-free zone.’
‘Young, slender, African ethnic origin…’ Rosie’s eyebrows curved sardonically under the hooded suit. ‘You don’t think there’s a connection?’
Lorimer sighed again. ‘Oh God, I hope not. The murder of a foreign national involved in the Games is not what we need at this stage.’ He stopped, biting his lip. Since the bomb explosion outside Drymen last summer there had been several alerts passing through his division, all of them continuing into the misty regions of Special Branch never to be heard of again. But a young dead woman, a young dead black woman, was most definitely going to be kept within Detective Superintendent Lorimer’s own jurisdiction.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rosie Fergusson often thought that Glasgow City Mortuary sat at the juxtaposition of life, death, the universe and everything. The High Court was only a few paces from their back door, very useful whenever she had to hurry out after a PM to attend a case as an expert witness. And stretching out beyond a busy road that led into the heart of the city lay Glasgow Green, its swathes of grass a welcome respite from the bustle of city life. Often at twilight the pathologist had seen a fox trotting along the pavement then heading home across the parkland, unconcerned by the traffic rushing past.
The girl’s corpse was still in its refrigerated cabinet but soon it would be time for the post-mortem to begin and the tray where she lay would be thrust into the room and placed on one of the surgical steel tables. It had been an odd thing to see the naked body out there in the open, and so many questions had coursed through the pathologist’s mind even as she had examined the girl. Perhaps when the Fiscal arrived with Lorimer, the post-mortem would answer at least some of them.
Iain MacIntosh was a man with a reputation for fair-handedness, yet, as Fiscal, his were often hard decisions to make when dealing with matters of life and death. And much as Lorimer wished to talk to him about the fate of Charles Gilmartin, he knew that this was secondary to the reason they were standing together at the viewing window in Glasgow City Mortuary.
The girl’s naked body was being examined closely by the pathologist, the scars and activities from small pond animals pointed out one by one under her careful scrutiny.
‘Something that looks like a partial tattoo,’ she had said, glancing up towards the viewing platform. ‘Skin’s been nibbled away from most of it. Fish predations,’ she added. ‘See these small oval and circular bite marks?’
The two men peered clos
er, trying to follow where the pathologist’s scalpel was pointing.
‘And here. You can see the traces of ink. And there is a raised piece of skin suggesting that an infection had set in. African skin is more prone to a keloid scar. A scar that continues to grow,’ she explained, looking at the mark more closely. The blunt edge of a scalpel blade traced the mark, a small curve that had been tattooed on to her inner right thigh.
Lorimer strained his eyes but it was impossible to see more than a suggestion of a mark. Photographs would have to be taken then enhanced before they would know what they were looking at.
‘She’d been there for more than three days,’ Rosie told them. ‘We will give you a more exact time once the insect infestation has been examined, but I think you can say that this girl was killed some time during last Friday night or the early hours of Saturday morning.’
Lorimer swallowed, a sudden bad taste in his mouth that was nothing to do with watching the post-mortem. On Friday night Charles Gilmartin had died. By his own hand? a little voice asked. Or that of another? And he himself had been laughing and joking with people he hadn’t seen in over twenty years, making small talk for the most part. The sudden memory of sitting next to Foxy out in the playground rushed back vividly and he shivered. The wire around the unknown black girl’s throat might have been twisted cruelly even as he had been enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.
‘Any missing persons fitting her description?’ MacIntosh asked.
Lorimer shook his head, eyes still on Rosie bent over the cadaver on the steel table. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘But that tattoo might help to identify her,’ he added.
‘And there was nothing in the vicinity of the pond to give any clues as to who she was or where she came from. Stark naked and dumped,’ MacIntosh added in a tone of disgust. ‘As if she was a bit of rubbish to be fly-tipped.’