Sins of the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  But only McNab and I know the full story.

  Rhona hadn’t needed to change the subject at that point, because by then Janice was more interested in taking a closer look at the crime scene, after which she’d quizzed Rhona about her take on it. Rhona repeated her earlier interchange with McNab.

  ‘And this has all been recorded?’

  ‘The full works,’ Rhona said. ‘Three-hundred-and-sixty-degree video recording and my own photographs.’

  ‘If his death wasn’t self-inflicted,’ Janice indicated the contents of the car, ‘could this be a signature?’

  An organized killer had a modus operandi, the manner in which they chose to end the life of a victim. In a case of strangulation, the ligature chosen and how it was used was regarded as the killer’s signature. There was no evidence yet that the body here was a murder victim. Should that turn out to be the case, the strange arrangement of food and drink alongside the body might well prove to be a signature. Rhona said so.

  ‘Should we bring in Professor Pirie?’ Janice asked.

  That thought had crossed Rhona’s mind. The last case the Professor of Forensic Psychology had worked on with her had been in Orkney, where Magnus was originally from. He’d been invaluable then, bringing both local knowledge and a psychological understanding of the perpetrator.

  ‘I could make these images available to him?’ Rhona suggested.

  ‘How much longer are you going to be with the body?’

  ‘Another hour should do it.’

  ‘I’ll give Magnus a call,’ Janice said, ‘ask if he’s free to come down and take a look before we move it.’

  When DS Clark left the tent to check on the SOCOs working the perimeter, Rhona settled down next to the body to write up her notes, a habit she’d acquired early in her career for two reasons. No one else wanted to be in there, so she had peace to concentrate, and more importantly, it was her way of paying her respects to the dead.

  Magnus reached out, hoping to find the other side of the bed still warm. Pulling himself upright, he realized with regret that any hope of warmth was as unlikely as the coupling he’d just imagined in his sleep. The woman of his dreams wasn’t here and, he acknowledged, unlikely ever to be.

  Rising, he padded to the French windows to drink in the dawn sky and the wide expanse of the River Clyde. He never tired of this view of his adopted city, but often imagined it as it had once been. The distant shore alive with the clang of metal, the shouts of the men who’d built the great ships. There was still evidence of this in the shining beacon of the last giant crane just downriver from him, the regeneration of the city personified by the nearby needle-like structure of the Science Centre, a favourite with Glaswegians of all ages.

  This morning the sky was so clear Magnus could make out the distant rise of Glennifer Braes to the west and Cathkins Braes to the east. Not quite in the same league as his view across Scapa Flow to the island of Hoy from his Orphir home, but at least he was as close to the water here in Glasgow as he was to Houton Bay in Orkney.

  After setting up the coffee maker and popping a bagel in the toaster, he checked his phone to find a voicemail had arrived while he’d still been asleep and fantasizing. Recognizing the name and number, Magnus immediately called them back.

  ‘DS Clark,’ he said, tempering the excitement in his voice.

  The truth was he hadn’t been called upon by Police Scotland since the Sanday murder, and he was missing the challenge of a real live case.

  The unearthing of a grave in one of the most northerly islands in the Orkney archipelago had brought both Rhona and DS McNab north. DS McNab, Magnus remembered with a smile, had been more than a little uncomfortable in such a location.

  ‘Sorry to be in touch so early …’ she began.

  ‘No problem,’ Magnus quickly assured her. ‘How can I help?’

  Minutes later, he was dressed and ready to go. Carrying his coffee and bagel down to the low-level car park, Magnus reminded himself that relishing the prospect of a case wasn’t the same as wanting someone to die in suspicious circumstances so that he might be called upon to offer his advice.

  Exiting the building, he took the riverside route. He was already familiar with the East End of Glasgow and some of the tunnels that lay beneath that part of the city. The first case he’d been invited by DI Wilson to participate in had centred on the Molendinar Burn, which ran in a beautiful brick-built culvert close to where he was now headed.

  The memory of his contribution to that case brought with it a swift rush of embarrassment.

  I really screwed that one up, he thought. It’s a wonder I was ever invited back. DI Wilson had a forgiving nature, Magnus acknowledged, although his team not so much.

  Drawing his mind away from such painful thoughts, he contemplated what DS Clark had told him, which wasn’t much. An anonymous call from a muffled voice, indistinguishable as male or female, had led them to a disused railway tunnel near Parkhead, where a body was discovered in suspicious circumstances. Then the really good news. Dr Rhona MacLeod was already on the scene and would like Magnus to take a look in person, before she authorized the transport of the remains to the mortuary.

  Rhona had been involved in the Molendinar case too. In fact, that was where they’d first met. Magnus grimaced at the thought of how badly that had gone for her, mainly because of his own actions.

  But she forgave me too.

  At this time of the morning the traffic was light, and he was soon drawing into the car park next to the football stadium. Parking his car next to the line of police vehicles, Magnus made his way under the outer cordon and down the concrete ramp that led to the bricked-up entrance. He took a moment or two to observe the area around the tunnel entrance, registering the gang slogan and photographing it. From his experience, many of the gangs now had a presence online, often through their graffiti. It wouldn’t hurt to check out this one.

  The scene of crime officer, whom he didn’t know, had obviously been warned of his visit because he swiftly waved Magnus in, kitted him up and sent him along the designated path in double-quick time. On entry, Magnus’s highly developed sense of smell had alerted him to petrol and, as he strode across the metal treads, he noted that two SOCOs were busy taking casts of what looked like tyre impressions.

  Further in and nearer the tent, the scent changed to diesel, obviously caused by the portable generators which supplied the lights. Around the tent, concentric circles had been marked out and the team of SOCOs had reached the outer ring on their dedicated search.

  Magnus halted at the entrance to the tent, glancing down into the further darkness of the passageway, wondering where else someone might gain entry, if not by the way he had used. By the quality of the air minus the diesel, he concluded that there had to be air vents further along the tunnel, if not an open exit.

  He found Rhona inside the tent, seated by the body, busy writing up her notes. Her smile when she spied him was welcoming, although he could tell this only by the way it shone in her eyes, above the mask.

  ‘I’m pleased you got here in time. We’ve taken video and stills but …’

  ‘There’s nothing like seeing the real thing,’ he finished for her.

  As they both lapsed into silence, Magnus moved closer to the remains. First impressions were often the truest. The immediate presence of death, its scent, its appearance, imprinted on the brain emotionally as well as physically.

  Magnus took in the image and processed it. The clasped hands, the partial rigor mortis, the apparent absence of violence. He dropped to his knees for a closer look and saw the strange arrangement on the back seat of the car, whereupon a similar image immediately sprang to mind. An uncomfortable image, which provoked a sudden but fleeting memory.

  ‘What is it?’ Rhona said, registering his alarm.

  Magnus shook his head. ‘Not sure, but the Last Supper connotation certainly suggests something.’

  ‘McNab made a similar comment,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Th
e sergeant’s here?’ Magnus looked around in surprise as though expecting the tall, auburn-haired detective to stride in.

  ‘Not officially,’ Rhona said. ‘But you know McNab. He doesn’t like anything going past him and this is his neck of the woods.’

  Magnus found himself rather sorry that DS McNab wasn’t on the scene. They’d had their differences, mainly around the fact that McNab thought Magnus a charlatan due to his profession and wasn’t afraid to say so.

  Forensic Psychology wasn’t rated highly amongst the police rank and file, who preferred to rely on years of experience coupled with gut feeling. Magnus was inclined to agree with them, although he thought of their intuition as real psychology in action.

  Something Magnus wasn’t inclined to voice to McNab.

  ‘The picnic appears highly symbolic,’ Magnus said. ‘Is it wine in the glass?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rhona told him.

  ‘If it is a homicide,’ Magnus offered, ‘the bread and wine would be significant. But then again it could be important in a suicide too.’ He paused. ‘I wonder who ate the bread.’

  ‘Whoever it was will have left their DNA on it,’ Rhona told him.

  Magnus suddenly recalled what the image of the body, the bread and the wine had reminded him of.

  ‘What?’ Rhona said, catching his look.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a sin-eater?’

  6

  After departing the crime scene, McNab had made for home, planning a few hours’ sleep before he was back at work. As he’d undressed for bed, he’d contemplated calling Ellie. Now he was far enough away from Rhona, common sense was beginning to rear its head again.

  He had no wish to break up with Ellie or to have her break up with him. As far as he was aware, their relationship had been exclusive up to now, and on both sides. Contemplating the late and peculiar call from her, plus her hesitancy, had made him think she was about to finish with him. And the closer to home he’d got, the more he began to believe this.

  Better not to give her a chance, had been his final decision as he’d rolled into bed. Unfortunately his brain had got hold of the idea and had replayed such a scenario numerous times during his troubled sleep, so that by the time he surfaced at seven, he even believed it to be true.

  Now, under the shower, McNab mulled it over again. It would be best to meet Ellie face to face. She’d been direct with him up to now, so this was an aberration. If he saw her in person he would know for sure. And that could happen tonight at the speedway meeting. McNab decided to ignore his concerns about her father being there. It wasn’t as though he was going to be a future son-in-law.

  Arriving at the station, he was greeted by the desk sergeant who blithely reminded him that he was due at the funeral parlour ten minutes ago. Sergeant Drew McIvor was a character suited to his post on the front line, and well known for his unique sense of humour.

  McNab gazed back at him, awaiting the punchline, which would probably have something to do with the way he looked from lack of sleep. Now that he was on the wagon, the remark couldn’t refer to a hangover.

  When nothing was forthcoming, except a steady grin, McNab eventually said, ‘What are you on about, Sergeant?’

  ‘Bodily interference with a cadaver.’

  McNab was none the wiser. When that became obvious, the sergeant filled him in.

  ‘Marshall’s, the funeral directors? They’ve reported that someone’s been messing with their bodies.’

  ‘What the fuck … that’s hardly my department.’

  ‘The boss said you were to go along and get the story.’

  McNab had been about to declare that this was a job for a uniform, but once DI Wilson’s name was mentioned, he shut up. The repercussions from the last major investigation had seen him, if not grounded, then shackled, which was probably why DS Clark had got the heads-up on the tunnel body.

  McNab turned on his heel without a response. Best way to play this was to do as told, in the hope he would be back in business sooner.

  7

  The funeral parlour wasn’t open for business yet. Claire liked this time of day as much as the evening after she’d locked up, when she was alone with her charges. People thought working in a funeral parlour was a weird job, but she loved it. When she’d applied for the post, it had been out of necessity. Three weeks late with her rent and with most of her savings gone, she’d had to accept the first job on offer, even if it was with the dead.

  She hadn’t done that well in the interview and had no experience of the work, but Mr Marshall had given her a chance – he told her later it was because he thought she seemed kind and that’s what people needed when they came into the shop. Claire’s mantra from then on had become just that.

  Be kind. It could be you walking through that door.

  She’d thought the work would be sombre, but instead she’d found it joyful. There was much laughter among her fellow workers and Mr Marshall himself had a wonderful sense of humour.

  Strangest of all, she found she liked being with the dead. She’d thought she would be afraid of them but she wasn’t. She greeted them when she came in and talked to them as she worked. It was surprising that without life they still had characters.

  And she had her favourites.

  Like Mr Munro who’d wanted to be buried with a photograph of his dog, Bella, who’d gone before him. Claire had really missed Mr Munro when he went. Some made her sad, like Chloe, the young girl who’d hanged herself. Claire had talked to her a lot, and to her family. She’d done her make-up and Chloe’s mum had asked her to paint her daughter’s nails. Even brought in the polish, a lovely purple colour.

  Claire had discovered it wasn’t easy painting the nails of someone lying in a coffin. She’d been worried she would drip the polish as she leaned over the side, but had finally solved the problem by asking Chloe if she would hold the bottle. Sensing she was happy to, Claire had propped the bottle in her clasped hands and completed the task. She’d even told Chloe’s mum how she’d done it, and the poor woman had smiled, a little light coming into her troubled eyes.

  ‘Chloe would have liked you,’ she’d said.

  ‘I think she does,’ had been Claire’s own genuine reply.

  Some bodies were cantankerous even in death. Where Chloe had been sweet, Mr Martin had been an awkward cadaver. Claire wondered if he had been the same in life, but when no one came to view him, except one man who, having looked at the body, declared Mr Martin wasn’t who he thought he was and had promptly left, Claire wondered if it hadn’t been loneliness that had made Mr Martin the way he was. After that she was more patient with him.

  Claire cherished her charges, which made what had been happening to them personal as well as terrible. At first Mr Marshall had been sceptical, but she’d at last convinced him with the before and after images, even though she wasn’t supposed to take photos of the deceased.

  It was the crumbs she’d spotted at first. Mr Martin’s red waistcoat had been sprinkled with them. Initially she’d suspected a mouse. Now that had scared her. She didn’t fear the dead but was less sanguine about live rodents. Then she found red wine splashed on a white shirt worn by Mr Robertson, a lovely old man whose daughter was quite distraught at losing him.

  ‘He was a real stickler with his shirts,’ she’d told Claire. ‘Used to iron them himself.’

  So there was no way Mr Robertson would have a blood-red wine stain, dead or not.

  It was at this point Claire had spoken to Mr Marshall, convinced now that it wasn’t forgetfulness or carelessness on her own part. He had drawn his bushy eyebrows together and declared he had never met anything quite like this in his thirty years in the job.

  ‘Are kids sneaking in?’ he’d said.

  Claire wondered why everyone, including nice Mr Marshall, always blamed the young for the bad things that happened in life.

  ‘Could whoever it is be getting in during the night?’ she’d suggested.

  That had been the trigger for the phone
call to the police station, which had resulted in Claire ready and waiting for a policeman, who was already late, to arrive.

  8

  McNab pulled up on a yellow line in front of the funeral parlour and stuck an ID on the window, indicating he was on duty. The shop front was glossy and black with gold lettering spelling out the name MARSHALL’S FUNERAL HOME.

  McNab had never set foot in such a place before. When his mother died, the priest had handled everything and McNab had paid for it along with a generous donation to the church. His mother had appeared in her casket, chosen by Father Donovan, in the chapel as required. Father Donovan had said the mass, then she’d been taken to the graveyard and buried. McNab had no memory of which funeral director had made this all possible.

  He hesitated now at the entrance, feeling by entering he was courting death. It was, he accepted, a stupid thing to think, but it didn’t make any difference. Stepping over the threshold felt like entering the underworld. He was therefore surprised at who awaited him there.

  Being met by a young female, not dressed in sombre black, but in a summery dress and with a welcoming smile on her face, had McNab nonplussed, so much so that she spoke first.

  ‘Are you the police?’

  Her voice, McNab noted, was warm and welcoming, and he suddenly realized that she might be employed to make it easy for people to come in here.

  He showed her his ID. ‘Detective Sergeant McNab, miss.’

  ‘Claire Masters.’ She offered him her hand to shake and McNab did so. ‘You’re a detective,’ she said, looking impressed. ‘I assume you’ve come about the interference with the deceased?’ she checked.

  Her description of the crime worried McNab as it brought to mind a sudden image of some bastard sexually molesting a cadaver. Something that did happen. If that were the case, he would have preferred talking to Mr Marshall about it rather than the girl.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, stalling for time. ‘Is Mr Marshall here?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s out with the hearse. Anyway, it happened on my watch,’ she told him determinedly. ‘And I have photographs to prove it.’