by Lin Anderson
The victim’s mode of dress didn’t suggest a gang member or an urban explorer, but then appearances could be deceptive.
Rhona stepped away as a team of SOCOs began raising the tent. She was suddenly aware of the throb of the portable generator resounding off the tunnel walls, like an echo of itself, suggesting earplugs would be a good idea.
The dead always had something to say to her, but rarely out loud.
Detective Sergeant Michael McNab joined the other vehicles parked alongside the football stadium. Despite the circumstances, viewing the giant images of key figures in the history of Celtic football club displayed at the entrance, in particular the statue of the Big Man Jock Stein, always brought a smile to his face. McNab took a moment to salute the former manager’s genius before heading down the slope to the big metal gate, which stood open and guarded by a uniformed officer.
McNab flashed his badge. ‘Who’s scene of crime officer?’
‘DS McConnachie, sir.’
The gate, McNab noted in passing, had a combination padlock, the inner door a standard one.
‘Were these unlocked when we got here?’ he asked.
‘When I got here, yes.’
The rank smell of damp and disuse met McNab as he stepped through the open doorway. Glasgow had plenty of these subterranean tunnels, which had provided, in the past at least, a good place to hang out, get drunk and on the odd occasion shag. He’d frequented a few such locations in his own heady youth. This one, so close to Paradise Park, being a favourite. Back then, though, they hadn’t been gated and padlocked.
Kitted up now, he approached the tent, in which he knew he would encounter Dr MacLeod. Not something he was looking forward to for a variety of reasons, including what had taken place earlier that night.
McConnachie met him halfway, looking surprised to find him there at all.
‘Wasn’t expecting you, Sergeant?’ he shouted above the generator noise, his big jowled face puzzled.
‘I was about when the call came in and I know the area.’ McNab glanced around. ‘And this location in particular.’
McConnachie acknowledged his look. ‘Ah. A teenage haunt?’
‘I always got lucky when Celtic won at home,’ McNab told him with a smile.
Pleasantries over, he signed his name on the scene log and headed for the tent.
Rhona had her back to him and didn’t turn on his entry. McNab knew that would be for two reasons. She was likely wearing earplugs against the noise from the generator and, more importantly, she was fully focused on what she was doing. McNab stood quietly, waiting for her to sense his presence, aware that her reaction to his arrival wouldn’t be positive.
Eventually she turned and, registering him, stood up. Above the mask her eyes met his and McNab flinched under their penetrating gaze.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said in what he acknowledged was a far from welcoming tone.
And who could blame her?
McNab wasn’t as glib with the explanation for his visit a second time. In fact he found himself momentarily incapable of coming up with a suitable answer.
Rhona’s response to this was to release her gaze and move a little to one side, to allow him a view of the corpse.
Considering the area, McNab had been expecting one of three sights. A bloodied knife victim, common enough in Glasgow. Alternatively a shooting, which was increasing in popularity, especially among the drug barons. Or maybe just some poor homeless bastard who’d taken shelter here and hadn’t managed to find his way out.
None of these was what he was looking at now.
Coming from an Irish background, McNab had been to wakes where the coffin had been left open, so that the deceased, in all their Sunday best, might be viewed. As a child, he’d found the tradition unnerving. As an adult, he still felt the same, but at his age he could drink copious amounts of whisky before viewing Great Aunt Marie, or her male equivalent, lying like a waxwork doll, hands clasped together, make-up on. Some relatives, he recalled, had looked better in death than life.
The young male victim here might be missing a coffin, but the seemingly unmarked body was arranged as though he lay in one. With no obvious evidence of a violent death, McNab’s first thought was that the guy had committed suicide, although he didn’t voice it.
‘Any ID?’ he tried.
‘Nothing in his pockets to tell us who he is, no wallet, no mobile phone,’ Rhona said.
That was weird, McNab decided, although suicides often ditched their identities before carrying out the act, as though wiping out their past together with their future. And, if it turned out to be a homicide, then the perpetrator might not want the identity of their victim known.
‘Did he die here?’ McNab asked.
Rhona threw him a look that suggested he should know better than to imagine that she would give her opinion on that before studying the evidence.
McNab knew there were folk, guys for the most part, who liked to photograph hidden Glasgow. The victim, he supposed, might be one of those, although his mode of dress suggested something other than a stroll through a disused railway tunnel.
‘Take a look inside the car,’ Rhona suggested.
Crouching, McNab did so.
A white cloth the size of a large napkin had been spread out on the remains of the back seat. On it, surprisingly, was a half glass of what looked like red wine, and a chunk of bread, partially eaten.
‘His Last Supper?’ McNab quipped.
By Rhona’s expression his attempt at a joke either hadn’t registered or hadn’t been appreciated.
‘There are no visible signs of a struggle or a wound. And no blood. And the positioning of the body is very precise,’ she said.
McNab decided to try the suicide angle. ‘People can be quite ritualistic about taking their own life.’
Rhona acknowledged that with a nod. ‘But,’ she said, ‘someone may have been down here with him.’
‘And you know this how?’
She indicated the area alongside. ‘There’s an impression, a heavy boot by the pattern. It’s a smaller size and doesn’t match his footwear.’
Her explanation was interrupted by McNab’s mobile ringing. Surprised that he even had a signal, he checked the screen to find Ellie’s name.
‘I’d better take this,’ he said, but Rhona had already turned her attention back to the body.
Nevertheless, McNab chose to wait until he was well away from the tent before answering.
‘Where are you?’ Ellie’s voice sounded shrill, which immediately put him on his guard. That, and guilt about his movements earlier in the evening.
‘At work,’ he said, exasperation in his voice. When she didn’t respond, McNab added, ‘Is something wrong?’, hoping there wouldn’t be, because he didn’t want to deal with any more relationship shit tonight.
‘No, it’s fine,’ Ellie said, as though mustering herself. ‘Everything’s fine.’
As she fell silent again, McNab suddenly registered why she might be calling. In a post-coital moment of madness he’d agreed to accompany Ellie to the next speedway meeting, where Ellie and a group of fellow female enthusiasts were to lead the teams out on their Harleys.
When she’d invited him to tag along, McNab had been initially quite taken with the idea, but his enthusiasm had since waned, especially when he’d learned that Ellie’s father, an ex-speedway rider, would be there.
Already planning his excuses, McNab bit the bullet. ‘About the speedway tomorrow night—’ he began, before being interrupted by Ellie.
‘You don’t need to come,’ she said.
This surprising response flummoxed McNab, and he found himself swithering between relief that he didn’t have to turn up at Ashfield and meet her father and the sudden thought that he might get dumped if he didn’t.
A real boyfriend would keep his word, his conscience told him, but then again he was a shite boyfriend. ‘Can I call you about it tomorrow?’ he tried.
McNab deci
ded on his way back to his car that Ellie’s subsequent reply of ‘okay’ was definitely not okay. Something was obviously wrong. But what? There was no way Ellie could know he’d met with Rhona earlier, unless she was tailing him. Which she obviously wasn’t.
Things had been going well with Ellie, at least until recently, and better than any of his previous attempts at a relationship. Usually by now he’d fucked things up via too much work, too much drink or sheer bloody-mindedness.
They’d met in the tattoo parlour where she had her second job, her first being in the Harley-Davidson shop where she fitted up the bikes with extras. McNab, a former motorcycle cop, had been seriously impressed by both lines of work, especially the Harley connection.
Ellie had seemed to take the fact that he was a detective in her stride, and, he realized, until this moment she had never sounded fearful of anything. The opposite in fact. McNab, trying to imagine again what a real boyfriend would do, glanced at the mobile, wondering whether he should call her back, but knowing that wasn’t going to happen.
A car drew in as he approached his own, a quick glance in at the driver’s window alerting him to who had officially been sent to check out the scene. DS Clark’s expression when she spotted him was a picture.
He and Janice went way back. They were even friends, despite the fact he’d made more than one play for her, which she’d summarily rejected. As he’d been promoted to DI, she’d risen to DS, then he’d met her on his way back down, with his demotion after the Stonewarrior case.
The very case that had resulted in tonight’s issue with Rhona.
‘What are you doing here, McNab?’ Janice sounded exasperated as she shut the car door.
McNab gave his rehearsed speech of earlier.
‘I thought you were off tonight?’
‘I was. I heard it through the grapevine,’ he said, being suitably vague.
McNab could almost hear the silent words, like hell you did, being muttered as Janice studied him intently.
‘Is Dr MacLeod here?’ she finally said.
McNab mustered himself and said, ‘She is,’ before quickly changing the subject. ‘Any idea who placed the call?’
Janice shook her head. ‘Anonymous and muffled, the operator said.’
‘You need a key to get in the steel door and a combination for the padlock on the outer gate,’ McNab told her. ‘You should check with the council who has access.’
Janice threw him a withering look. ‘You trying to tell me how to do my job?’
‘Not brave enough for that,’ McNab admitted.
Watching Janice head for the tunnel, McNab spotted a message sprayed on the retainer wall behind the leafless bushes.
Mikey is a wanker.
4
Ellie flung the mobile on the bed.
Calling Michael had been a bad idea, especially when she’d had no idea what she was going to say to him. And he was immediately suspicious. She’d had some forlorn hope that hearing his voice would help her decide what to do. Then, when she’d realized he was out on a job, the full impact of him being a policeman had descended and she’d lost her nerve. Even more so when he’d started talking about coming to the speedway tomorrow night.
What if he linked the four of them riding round the track with the tyre impressions in the tunnel?
Ellie shuddered at the thought, however unlikely.
She and Izzy had come back to her flat, telling the other two girls to go home and keep quiet about what had happened.
‘But shouldn’t we call the police anonymously?’ Gemma had tried before she’d departed.
‘They can trace calls,’ Mo had reminded them, her face still fearful.
‘Reporting something doesn’t make you guilty,’ had been Izzy’s response.
When Mo and Gemma had finally gone, she and Izzy had discussed it further.
‘Maybe he’ll never be found?’ Izzy had tried.
The idea of waiting and watching the papers and news for such a thing had freaked Ellie.
Seeing her hesitation, Izzy reinforced her line of thought. ‘If the police do go down there, they’ll find the tyre tracks. They can do stuff with tyre impressions. Maybe even trace them back to us.’
‘Shut up!’ Ellie had fired back, even though she knew what Izzy had said was true.
Izzy had thrown her a belligerent look. ‘I don’t want to get involved,’ she’d said sharply.
‘Neither do I.’ Ellie had softened her tone in an attempt at reconciliation. Whatever they did must be agreed upon.
‘Dougie’ll shite himself about this,’ Izzy had said.
‘He doesn’t have to know.’
‘So he’s not going to think it weird we’re not using the place any more? And what about when he goes down himself?’
‘How often does that happen?’
‘I’ve no fucking idea, but he does have to check it out now and again. And he knows we were down there tonight. So if he finds the body, he’ll know that we did too, and didn’t report it.’
‘But he won’t tell the police that, because then he’d have to admit to giving us a key,’ Ellie had reminded her.
‘So do I keep having sex with him?’ Izzy had demanded.
‘Do you want to?’
‘He gets a hard-on just thinking about me riding my bike through his tunnel,’ Izzy had said. ‘When I wanted to keep the key that was fine. Now I’m not so sure.’
Ellie had realized at that moment that they hadn’t even told a lie yet, and a web of deceit was already being spun.
Izzy had come back in then. ‘The walls are running with water so, over time, the tyre tracks will fade, won’t they? There’ll be no connection with us and the bikes if we just wait. So,’ she had come to a decision, ‘I’ll break it off with Dougie and give him back the key.’
She’d stood up at that point, her mind made up. ‘That’s what we do. Agreed?’
Ellie had nodded, but alone now, she realized that she wasn’t convinced. The dead guy was bound to be reported as a missing person. She had barely looked at him, but even a swift glance had told her he wasn’t a poor soul living on the streets. He would have a family, a girlfriend or boyfriend, and workmates. They would need to know what had happened to him.
She hadn’t wanted to touch him, to check for life, yet knew the others expected her to. She’d had to force her finger to meet his neck, all the time telling herself he had to be dead. He had to be, but …
The horror of the scene replayed in her mind. He’d looked so peaceful lying there. Nothing had suggested he’d been attacked. Then there was the strange arrangement behind him in the car. Bread and wine? How bizarre was that? When she’d mentioned it to Izzy, she’d agreed with Mo that it had to be a weird suicide.
That thought brought a wave of emotion, because it hadn’t been the first time Ellie had viewed a suicide. She definitely didn’t want to relive those memories. But what if her wee brother Danny had just disappeared? Would we all have preferred that, rather than discovering that he’d killed himself?
Ellie knew the answer to that one, for her anyway. She could have survived for years in the hopeful belief that Danny had finally gone on that world trip he’d always talked about. Instead they’d had to face the fact that her little brother had been so sad and desperate that he’d taken his own life.
I should have told Michael what we were doing down there and what we found.
That thought was immediately accompanied by a flurry of others. If she had done, all four of them would be called for interview. They might even be suspects. The press would jump on the story of them racing in the tunnel. They’d be in the papers. Jeez. Dougie might even lose his job for giving them the key.
No, if she was to tell the police, it would have to be anonymously.
Ellie decided to wait at least until the morning. Maybe, by then, she would have decided.
5
Rhona checked her watch. It would soon be morning, although down here there was little chance of s
eeing daylight. Left alone in the tent, she’d worked throughout the night. They wouldn’t move the body to the mortuary until she indicated she was satisfied she’d collected as much evidence as possible from it in situ.
A thorough taping of the clothing and accessible body had resulted in a selection of fibres, including one from the victim’s nostrils. From the neck area she’d lifted a partial print. This, coupled with a heavily ridged footprint, smaller than the victim’s, and a tyre impression, painted a picture of someone on a motorcycle being in the vicinity of the dead man, either before or after his demise.
The decision on whether to remove the clothing at the locus was always a tricky one. In this case Rhona had worked the clothes here, rather than strip them off and bag them. They’d be removed at the autopsy and further examined in the lab, but she had wanted to be sure that nothing would be lost in transit. She’d bagged the head, feet and hands, after she’d taken samples from all three areas. The covered parts of the body would have to wait until the PM.
From what she’d observed, there were no outward signs that he’d been attacked, just as she’d told McNab. She’d detected no drug traces on the body or in the immediate vicinity, although that didn’t mean he hadn’t died of an overdose. Had he planned suicide, then he would have come here with the means to accomplish that. Since he hadn’t attempted to hang himself, the likelihood was he’d swallowed something or injected it, although she hadn’t located an injection point in the visible skin or a syringe in the area.
DS Clark had joined her just after McNab had departed. Rhona wondered if Janice was aware that McNab had been there. She didn’t have long to wait to find out.
‘I met McNab in the car park. He said he’d heard about this on the grapevine,’ Janice had said.
‘He heard it from me.’ Rhona had put Janice straight, without enlightening her as to the circumstances.
Janice’s ‘Oh’ in response had been, Rhona thought, a question in disguise. She was a detective after all. Plus DS Clark was well aware that there was history between McNab and Rhona. Sexual as well as professional. Janice had also been involved in the Stonewarrior case, so knew things had been bad between them after that.