by Lin Anderson
They couldn’t test indiscriminately. There had to be something that pointed them in the right direction, she explained, like in the recent case of the drug addict who’d committed suicide by injecting himself with ricin, a highly toxic, naturally occurring protein produced in the seeds of the castor oil plant. Not an everyday occurrence and only discovered when IT had indicated that the victim had been purchasing the seeds of Ricinus communis online.
‘So it’s still not clear if we’re dealing with a homicide or a suicide?’ Bill said.
‘Correct.’ Rhona brought up the scene photos. ‘Lividity suggested that he died at the scene or was moved there swiftly after death.’ She paused to let that sink in. ‘We’ve established that the victim’s stomach contents did not contain the bread or the wine found partially consumed in the car. A footprint near the body wasn’t that of the victim, plus I lifted a partial print from the victim’s neck which also wasn’t his.’
Rhona paused here. ‘Evidence also suggests that motorbikes have used the tunnel recently, although when exactly we can’t say. But perhaps the most significant evidence taken from the body was this.’
Up on the screen came the magnified image of the fibre taken from the victim’s nostril.
They’d moved to Bill’s office. Rhona accepted the coffee Janice was handing out, her head thumping again, the paracetamol she’d taken at breakfast having worn off. She was beginning to suspect she was coming down with something. Either that or a night in the London Street tunnel, plus last night’s poor sleep, was the reason for the splitting headache.
McNab’s countenance was still like thunder and, having accepted a coffee, he’d quickly drunk it and looked for a refill. Whatever was up with him also involved not meeting her eye. Rhona suspected he was annoyed she hadn’t told him about the PPE fibre before she revealed its existence to the assembled team.
Magnus had followed her performance with one of his own, which might in fact be the reason for McNab’s ugly mood. Now the entire team was aware of the possible sin-eater aspect to the tale of bread and wine. Rhona wondered just how long it would take for the press to find out about that. The tabloids in particular would have a field day.
‘So,’ Bill was saying to Magnus, ‘do we exploit the sin-eater story or suppress it?’
Magnus took time to think before answering. ‘If we assume this is a homicide, or at the very least an assisted suicide, then up to now the perpetrator has been doing the running. If we release this information then control of the situation moves back to us.’
Rhona glanced at McNab, but it was almost as though he wasn’t listening.
‘But,’ Magnus continued, ‘I don’t think we should make public our thoughts on the signature. I suspect that’s what the perpetrator wants us to do. After all, that’s the point of a signature, to claim ownership and its associated notoriety. If we don’t mention it, then it’s likely he or she will be driven to broadcast it themselves in some form, which might offer us a lead.’
Dismissed, they began to troop out. Rhona tried to catch McNab before he made what looked like a quick getaway, but was prevented from doing this when Bill called her back.
‘There’s a forensic team heading to the victim’s flat. I’d like you to check the place out. If he did orchestrate his own death, you’re the one most likely to spot evidence of it.’
24
Rhona’s mobile rang as she climbed into the car. Glancing at the screen, she found Sean’s name and immediately knew what he was calling about. So much so she almost didn’t answer.
‘Are you okay?’ were his opening words.
‘I’m fine,’ Rhona assured him.
‘I heard you this morning in the toilet.’
Bugger it. Sean never woke much before eleven when he’d had a late night at the club. And she had tried to keep her retching as quiet as possible. Her stomach had been really weird, and as for the headache … You would have thought I’d been downing Tequilas instead of a couple of glasses of wine with a meal.
‘It was the wine,’ she said. ‘Red sometimes disagrees with me.’
‘Any better now?’ He sounded concerned.
‘Yes,’ she lied, having taken a further two painkillers before leaving the police station.
‘When are you home?’ Sean asked.
‘No idea,’ Rhona said honestly.
‘I’ll put something in the slow cooker then, and see you when I get back from the club.’
This arrangement where Sean was sometimes at her flat, sometimes at his own, had been a feature since she’d returned from Norway. How long it would last was yet to be decided.
‘Maybe go back to your place tonight,’ Rhona said, with a sudden desire to have the flat to herself.
‘Okay,’ Sean agreed, a little too readily, which made Rhona wonder if that had been the plan in the first place.
Having rung off, Rhona sat for a moment, concentrating on the ache in her head and calculating how long she had until the painkillers kicked in. As for her stomach, the nausea had retreated a little, but not enough to consider food or coffee. She’d accepted a cup in Bill’s office for appearances’ sake but had swiftly abandoned it, even the smell causing her problems. It’s just as well, she thought, that I’m not about to sample the smell of death again.
The SOCO team were already at the victim’s flat, as evidenced by their van parked outside. Rhona brass-necked it on a yellow line with the pool car she’d signed out, and asked the officer stationed at the front door to assure any patrolling parking attendant she was there on police business.
The stairwell she entered was clean and recently washed, given the faint smell of antiseptic still in the air. A scent Rhona’s queasy stomach thankfully didn’t react to. Andrew Jackson’s flat was on the fourth floor of the upmarket tenement. On each level, ornate stained-glass windows complemented the colourful tiling of the stairwell.
It was a classy address.
Situated just off the top of Sauchiehall Street, the building looked north across the green stretch of Kelvingrove Park to the university beyond. Had she been at home right now, Rhona realized that she could probably have picked out this building from her own front window.
Andrew Jackson had been a Westender, like herself, so how did he end up in a disused tunnel in the East End of the city?
Kitted out now, Rhona made herself known to Joyce, the SOCO team leader.
‘DI Wilson said you were coming. Not sure why?’ Joyce looked perturbed, as though she hadn’t been seen to be doing her job properly.
Rhona reminded her about the guy who’d killed himself using ricin from his own carefully tended castor oil plant.
Joyce nodded. ‘No plants here of any description. But if he was sourcing something online, it would be easier if we had his electronic devices.’
‘So no mobile here?’ Rhona said.
‘No laptop either,’ Joyce confirmed. ‘I take it IT are looking for an online presence?’
Rhona had already had a quick look herself. It wasn’t difficult to find a male model once you had a name. It seemed Jackson had had a flourishing career via the Alpha bureau – hipster gear and branded underwear a speciality. She told Joyce so.
‘They’re following up the male model link, according to McNab, but nothing there explains why he was in the tunnel.’
Rhona checked with Joyce what she’d found up to now in the flat.
‘It’s been thoroughly cleaned and recently. The guy liked doing housework or he had professional help. No dirty stuff in the washer. The bed sheets were fresh on. Dishes all washed. Fridge empty, apart from some low-fat milk still in date. New liner in the bin, no carry-out cartons anywhere.’ She took a breather here. ‘I’m assuming he ate out most of the time. He has a decent stock of wine, mostly red, in a rack in the kitchen. Sounds like the life I would like,’ she added wistfully.
‘Did he live alone?’
‘Looks like it. All the clothes and shoes are the same size and for a male. No evidence an
ywhere of a female.’
They’d stepped out onto the landing so that they might talk with ease. Now, pulling up the hoods and masks, they went back inside where Rhona, despite having had the lowdown from Joyce, set about her own examination.
The apartment, although obviously refurbished, had retained many of its original features, including the stripped and varnished floorboards and the original black cast-iron fireplaces. The sitting room was tastefully furnished with an L-shaped couch facing a large TV screen mounted on one wall. Below the screen were shelves housing a selection of computer games.
Rhona took a moment to imagine the man whose body she’d examined under London Road living in this place. Without talking to those he knew or worked with, she had only the forensic facts of his life and death to try and understand Andrew Jackson by.
And that isn’t enough.
She had the distinct feeling that, despite her careful analysis, she was missing something. Something important.
Toxicology reports had indicated that both the wine and the portion of bread left at the scene were safe for human consumption. However, neither the cup of wine nor the bread had provided a DNA profile of whoever might have sampled them, despite the fact that Chrissy had identified indentations on the bread in the shape of teeth marks.
She and Chrissy had spent some time trying to work out how this had been achieved, her assistant finally settling on a straw being used for the wine and a covering of cling film for the food. Both explanations plausible, and a further reinforcement, if needed, that the perpetrator had forensic knowledge and was putting it into practice.
Rhona, now on her knees at the cupboard under the kitchen sink, backed away with a groan, the smell of cleaning products having upset the delicate balance of her stomach. Sitting down, her back against the kitchen unit, she brought a plastic evidence bag to hand just in case and waited for the feeling to subside.
The flat was too warm, aided by the weather outside, but the bigger problem was the PPE suit she was wearing. Feeling sweat trickling down inside her clothes, Rhona decided she would take another break out on the landing to get some cooler air.
The kitchen, like every other room in the flat, was spotless. Either Jackson had never used it or someone had been busy cleaning up in here too. Discarding the evidence bag, she put a hand down to help her rise, and felt something gritty against her gloved palm.
Rhona slowly raised her hand and turned it over.
Three green pine-like needles were stuck to the surface of her latex glove. She contemplated them for a moment, then reaching for the evidence bag, she brushed the needles inside. Rhona checked the floor again. The original floorboards had been resealed, but there was still a gap between them.
Rhona crouched, angling her torch.
There were at least two more needles visible. Using tweezers, she extracted and bagged them with the others. Rising from the floor, she now took a closer look at the kitchen surfaces. A mortar and pestle stood next to a wooden chopping board. Rhona bagged both items.
‘You found something interesting?’ Joyce appeared, her voice muffled by the mask, her cheeks reddened by heat.
Rhona shrugged. ‘Possibly.’
‘Good, because we definitely haven’t.’
The outside air was clammy as though a thunderstorm was on its way. Rhona, free now of the suit, breathed in deeply, thankful that her headache had eased and her stomach had stopped churning. In fact she was beginning to feel hungry.
Finding her vehicle unticketed, she thanked the officer responsible.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘You finished up in there?’
‘For the moment.’
As she headed back to the lab, the dark clouds amassing overhead thundered into action, a jagged line of light cutting through them. Then the rain began to fall in grey sheets, so forcefully that Rhona decided to pull in to the side of the road, aware that her wipers weren’t up to the onslaught.
While she waited for the downfall to ease, she did a Google search on her phone.
The image wasn’t perfect but probably sufficient to confirm the identity of the needles she’d found in the kitchen, especially when she was already fairly sure which tree they’d come from.
Taxus baccata, more commonly known as the English Yew.
25
‘You don’t look so good.’ Chrissy gave Rhona the onceover. ‘Big night, last night?’ she added, in an envious tone. Chrissy didn’t like to miss a party.
Rhona glanced in the nearest mirror, only to confirm that Chrissy was right. She looked like shit. Pale as a corpse, with eyes like a panda.
‘I only drank half a bottle of red wine,’ she told Chrissy.
‘Wow. Was it laced with something?’
‘It was vintage, according to Sean.’
‘And he would know.’
Rhona was aware that her assistant harboured a not-so secret admiration for Sean Maguire, their mutual Irish Catholic background being a factor in that.
‘I have rolls …’ Chrissy offered.
‘Dry bread only,’ Rhona said firmly. ‘Nothing fried on it.’
Chrissy pulled a face. ‘God, it’s that bad?’
Rhona’s expression conveyed that it was.
After a tentative bite of the roll and a couple of mouthfuls of coffee, Rhona kitted herself up, this time choosing a cooler theatre suit and headgear rather than a forensic suit, then questioned Chrissy on any results that had come in.
‘Still waiting for the response on the DNA sample from the fibre. Luckier with the footwear database,’ Chrissy told her. ‘The pattern next to the body was made by a size six, Men’s Harley-Davidson Biker Boot called “Clint”. Harley boots have distinctive orange sole patterns and the HD symbol embossed on them.’
‘And the tread impressions?’ Rhona tried.
‘The movement patterns suggest up to four bikes, all with individual tread designs,’ Chrissy said. ‘I’m checking them out. The bikes definitely couldn’t have accessed the tunnel via the air vent I told you about, nor been lowered over the wall at Bridgeton station.’
Exactly what Rhona had been thinking. ‘One set of tracks ended just past the wrecked car. They must have entered via the slipway.’
‘Which means they knew the code on the main gate and had a key to the padlock on the door.’
It would have been easy for a motorbike to deposit the body in the tunnel. Especially if the driver had had help.
Rhona recalled McNab’s expression in the meeting and his quick getaway afterwards. There were plenty of motorbike enthusiasts in Glasgow, but, she suspected, his mind would have been on the one he knew. Maybe the Harley community would know who’d been using the tunnel as a race track.
‘How’s things with Ellie and McNab?’ Rhona asked.
Chrissy pulled a face. ‘Not good, I fear. I asked, when he came by with the shirt. Normally he acts like a guy who’s getting it. Not this time.’
The mention of the shirt reminded Rhona to ask if Chrissy had had any luck with the items she’d brought from the funeral parlour.
‘Unfortunately, as you said, Claire had tried to wash the wine stain out. I did extract crumbs from the Hoover and the brush.’ Chrissy paused. ‘The fragments are from the same type of artisan bread as you found in the tunnel, but I have nothing on where it was purchased.’
Rhona shook out the needles she’d found in the flat.
‘Okay …’ Chrissy looked quizzically at her. ‘You’re still finding needles from last year’s Christmas tree?’
‘These aren’t pine. They’re yew needles. I found them tucked between the floorboards in Andrew Jackson’s kitchen.’
‘The graveyard tree?’
‘Aptly named, considering all of it is poisonous, the needles most of all.’
Rhona extracted the wooden board from its bag and handed Chrissy a magnifying glass. ‘It looks like someone was chopping them up on this.’
Chrissy took a closer look. ‘Jesus. You think he poisoned
himself?’ she said. ‘Like the castor-oil-plant guy?’
‘It’s got to be a possibility.’
26
McNab had had a suffocating need to get out of the boss’s office after the strategy meeting. He’d been aware Rhona was keen to have a word as he left, but he had no desire to talk to her.
At least, not yet.
He headed for the Tech department, keen to offload the laptop he’d taken from the Robertson house. He didn’t expect anything on it to link the old dead guy to the sin-eater, but the boss had given him that job, and he was doing his best to stick to orders.
On the surface anyway.
He couldn’t get out of his head how shitty Rhona had looked in this morning’s meeting. She’d given her piece about the autopsy okay, but he’d watched the colour drain out of her face in the office afterwards. She either had a hangover or something else was making her nauseated.
Rhona wasn’t in the habit of getting wasted, not like him, so he was inclined to dismiss the hangover theory, which meant she was ill or …
A brief but searingly awful thought entered his head. She and Sean were back together. The Irishman had been staying at her flat, just like old times. Maybe they were planning to be a permanent feature after all? Settle down and all that went with it? McNab cut that thought off right there, not wanting to progress it any further.
Cosy domestic bliss didn’t fit his image of Dr MacLeod. Nor did he want it to.
Reaching his destination, McNab looked for Ollie in his usual spot in the far corner. The room hummed with digital sound, just like the main operations room. McNab didn’t like being in either of those spaces. Blue screens and digital noise made his brain hurt.
Ollie looked up as he approached. ‘Hey, Sergeant. You okay?’
McNab wondered what was wrong with his face that would prompt such a look on Ollie’s.
‘Great,’ he emphasized, handing him Stanley’s laptop. ‘Belonged to one of the old dead guys from the funeral home.’