by Lin Anderson
Ollie’s face lit up the way it did when McNab brought him bacon rolls. ‘I saw it on the news. Weird, that. Messing with dead bodies. Are you going to exhume them?’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘You only have the girl at the undertaker’s word that the bread and wine was all that happened to the bodies. Maybe the perp’s DNA is on them.’
McNab didn’t like Claire’s word being questioned, but bit off his angry retort because what Ollie said was true.
‘One was cremated, so that DNA went up in smoke. The laptop belongs to the buried one, Stanley Robertson.’
‘So he could be resurrected, if I find anything useful?’
‘We would have to have something really concrete to get permission for that to happen,’ McNab reminded him.
Ollie nodded. ‘Did you check the stuff I sent you on the Orkney guy?’
‘I did, thank you. I’ve decided to leave well alone.
Ollie appeared a little put out by the lukewarm response. ‘I had to look through a hell of a lot of footage to find what I did.’
McNab clapped Ollie on the back. ‘I’ll buy you a pint sometime.’
Ollie looked disappointed. ‘I’m not much of a drinker.’
McNab realized he hadn’t seen Ollie hanging out with them in a pub after hours. Somehow, he never imagined Ollie anywhere else but here. True, he had spent a night in Ollie’s flat on a couch in a room that closely resembled this one, as Ollie had searched for information for him.
Recalling that he might have need of Ollie again in such circumstances, McNab tried to respond accordingly. ‘Then I’ll treat you to a pizza instead.’
That offer seemed to suffice.
‘I’ll get back to you about the laptop,’ Ollie said, returning to his screen.
And with that McNab was summarily dismissed.
He needed to talk to DS Clark, but he wanted to think through what to do about Ellie beforehand. He hadn’t fully registered the bike aspect of the investigation until Rhona had outlined it in more detail at the strategy meeting. McNab wasn’t surprised that motorbikes had been using the tunnel, probably to race – something he would have liked to do himself.
The question was, had Ellie known about it? Was that why she’d been so freaked out?
McNab recalled her weird phone call the night they’d found the body, and Ellie’s reaction to him since then. She’d announced when they’d first met that she didn’t mind that he was a police officer because she had nothing to hide. At the time he’d found her declaration of innocence a definite turn-on. Mainly because there was no one, even among police officers, who didn’t have something to hide, himself included.
Then again, maybe she was acting weird because she’d simply gone off him. Something that had happened often enough with women before now. She’d certainly attempted the brush-off at the stadium. If the other girl, Izzy, hadn’t come into the shop, McNab suspected it would have definitely happened. Yet the pal had seemed relaxed, even pleased to see him, before Ellie had rushed her away.
Weighing up both scenarios, McNab’s gut feeling told him that Ellie did know something about the bikes in the tunnel. Although that didn’t mean she wasn’t also planning to break up with him.
And there was one way to find out if he was right.
McNab pulled up her number before he could change his mind. As he heard it ring out, he rehearsed asking Ellie out tonight for a pizza at Marco’s. Now that would be commitment. Once there, he would await a suitable opening for the tunnel question.
‘Hi. This is Ellie. Please leave a message.’
McNab could picture Ellie as he listened to her recorded voice. The smiling, funny, fearless Ellie he’d sat behind on the Harley. Not the one he’d met last night at the speedway track.
McNab cut the call, not wanting to leave a message. If Janice hadn’t already sent someone down to the Harley shop, something she was bound to do, then he would volunteer to go. Today was one of the days that Ellie should be there.
27
‘Phone call for you.’ Chrissy motioned to Rhona through the intervening glass.
When Rhona mouthed back who?, Chrissy shrugged her shoulders and just waved her into the office to answer it.
On entering, Rhona registered that Chrissy had set up the coffee machine and acquired a box of iced doughnuts. Thankful that the sight and smell of food no longer repelled her, Rhona smiled her thanks as she picked up the phone.
‘Hello, Dr MacLeod here.’
‘It’s Dr Conor Williams from the sleep lab. We met in the park, when I almost knocked you over.’
‘Oh, yes. I remember,’ Rhona said.
‘I apologize for the call, Dr MacLeod, it’s just that one of the volunteers on the research project is taking the forensic diploma course and mentioned your lectures. I put two and two together and found your lab number listed in the internal directory.’ He paused for a moment as though his planned speech had come to an end and he wasn’t sure now how to proceed.
Rhona helped him out. ‘You should have been a detective.’
‘It may be a police matter I’m calling about. I was about to contact the number given on the news regarding the body found in the London Road tunnel. Then the same volunteer said that you were working on that case, so I thought I’d run it past you first.’
‘Okay?’ Rhona said, intrigued now.
‘The victim, Andrew Jackson, contacted the sleep clinic some months ago. He was suffering from sleep paralysis and was pretty desperate about it,’ Conor said. ‘I wondered if his condition might have contributed to his death.’
The quadrangle was bathed in sunshine, the tall tree that stood in the middle of the well-tended lawn casting a waving shadow. A few folk sat on the neighbouring benches, enjoying the sunshine. Resits would be due to start at the end of the month. Then the faces surrounding the courtyard weren’t likely to be so cheerful.
Following the directions given by Dr Williams, Rhona headed out of the main gate, taking the route along University Gardens. It was a path she used often, usually when heading to the jazz club for a drink after work.
Following the phone call, she and Chrissy had discussed her plan of action over the doughnuts and coffee.
‘So,’ Rhona had said, licking raspberry icing from her lips, ‘what do you think?’
‘About the handsome Dr Williams?’ Chrissy had given a nod to the photograph of the doctor she’d found on the internal staff system. ‘Or his theory about the dead guy?’
‘Both,’ Rhona had admitted.
‘Well, I’d accept an invite to visit his lab any time,’ Chrissy had told her. ‘As to his theory, if Jackson was as desperate as the doc said, then maybe he did kill himself.’
Dr Williams had indicated that he was on duty in the sleep lab, so couldn’t leave his patients unattended. He’d asked Rhona to advise on whether he should go ahead and phone the police with his concerns or else talk them through with her first.
‘You’re going?’ Chrissy had apparently read her expression with ease.
‘I am,’ Rhona had declared. In truth, she’d been intrigued by Dr Williams’s call and was keen to find out more, particularly since they’d discovered chopped-up yew needles in the victim’s kitchen.
‘So, I’ll catch you later at the club for an update?’ Chrissy had said.
‘You will,’ Rhona had promised.
The sleep lab was tucked in behind the School of Computing Science, near the Centre for Cognitive Neuroimaging. A list of buttons at the entrance indicated it was on the top floor. Rhona pressed the buzzer and a woman’s voice answered and asked her business. When Rhona told her, she was let in.
She met no one on the way up the stairs, although she did hear the lift ascend or descend as she climbed. Emerging on the top-floor landing, she discovered Dr Williams awaiting the arrival of the lift and, Rhona assumed, herself.
‘Dr Williams.’
He turned on his name with a surprised look. ‘Few of my visitor
s climb five flights of stairs,’ he said, impressed. ‘And please call me Conor.’
‘Okay, Conor, and you may call me Rhona.’ She studied him for a moment. ‘You look different minus the bike.’
‘Better dressed and without the daft helmet?’ he smiled.
‘That could be it,’ Rhona admitted.
He gestured her to a nearby open door, beyond which was a carpeted corridor with glass sleeping cubicles along one side. Rhona’s first impression on stepping into the area was one of a deep silence.
‘I take it none of your participants snore?’ she said.
‘Oh, they do, mostly because they’re required to be in a supine position for us to observe their REM sleep.’ Seeing her expression, Conor explained in more detail. ‘The unique phase of sleep that features random movement of the eyes, low muscle tone and propensity to dream.’ He paused. ‘Like when you see your dog’s eyes twitch behind closed lids.’
‘I have a cat, but I know what you mean,’ Rhona said.
‘REM sleep is essential for our well-being and our imaginative ability,’ he went on. ‘It’s reported that Albert Einstein discovered relativity in his sleep and Paul McCartney composed entire songs while sleeping.’
‘Really?’ Rhona could certainly relate to forensic problem-solving during sleep and told him so. ‘Though it would be a miracle if I wrote a song.’
They’d reached the end cubicle, wherein a man lay asleep, his head festooned with wires attached to a variety of machines.
‘Leo’s the reason I have to stick around here this evening,’ Conor explained. ‘And why I couldn’t go into the police station and give a statement.’ He smiled. ‘So I’m grateful you agreed to come here instead.’
He steered her towards a small office and offered her a seat. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please. Black, no milk or sugar,’ she added.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then you can appreciate the real taste.’
As he poured two small cups from the jug, Rhona took a quick glance around the room, noting the numerous shelves laden with books and the absence of any personal photographs, family or otherwise.
Seemingly interpreting her thoughts, Conor said, ‘I’m married to my work, I’m afraid. What about you?’
‘It feels that way at times,’ Rhona answered honestly.
Accepting the proffered cup, she sniffed at the fragrant aroma.
‘A French Arabic blend,’ he told her. ‘A favourite of mine.’
Rhona took a mouthful of coffee, which was hot and strong.
‘Okay?’ he asked, almost anxiously.
‘It’s delicious,’ Rhona assured him. Now the niceties were over, she asked him about Jackson.
Taking a seat alongside her on the leather sofa, Conor placed his cup on the low table and began.
‘As I mentioned on the phone, Andrew contacted us because he was suffering badly from sleep paralysis, where your mind is aware, but you’re unable to move.’ He looked to Rhona as though to assure himself she knew what he was talking about.
When she nodded, he continued, ‘Some people describe it as a living death. Andrew’s attacks were accompanied by vivid and terrifying hallucinations.’ He paused, and Rhona registered his concern. ‘So severe that Andrew had taken to avoiding sleep at all costs, which in turn led to higher anxiety and more extreme hallucinations, such as seeing shadow men.’
‘Shadow men?’
‘Black amorphous shadows that the victim interprets as a living humanoid figure, come to attack them.’
28
Conor rose and, pulling up a second chair behind his desk, he now beckoned Rhona over.
Moving to sit next to him, Rhona caught the rapid beat of his neck pulse and knew that whatever Conor was about to show her was the reason for his call. Around them the room had dropped into shadow and her imagination was already playing with the shapes that made.
‘Andrew suffered from a feeling of intense pressure on his chest, which prevented him from breathing,’ Conor told her. ‘And that pressure manifested itself in what he called his demon.’
Conor sat back to allow Rhona a clear view of the screen.
The painting was of a pale and beautiful young woman lying supine on a curtained bed, her eyes closed. Clad in a white gauze robe, her naked body was clearly outlined below. On her breast squatted a black goblin-like creature staring malevolently out at them, as though daring them to interfere with its intentions.
‘Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare,’ Conor said quietly, ‘painted in 1781 and inspired, it’s thought, by just such a sensation during sleep paralysis.’
Rhona felt a wave of disgust wash over her and for a moment the nausea returned and with it the acrid taste of strong coffee. She sat back from the screen, keen to distance herself from the image and its connotations.
‘It’s horrible.’
‘I agree,’ Conor said. ‘There’s evidence that a strong belief in not being able to breathe in such circumstances can trigger cardiac arrest in severe cases. Literally frightening people to death.’
Rhona recalled her own experience of the previous night. The terrible sense of suffocation. Of being buried alive.
It must have shown on her face, because Conor immediately said, ‘You’ve experienced sleep paralysis yourself?’
‘I would have called it a nightmare,’ Rhona said, ‘but I definitely couldn’t move during it.’
‘If it’s any consolation, up to fifty per cent of people are reported to have experienced night paralysis at some time in their life,’ Conor told her with a sympathetic look.
‘Do we know why it happens?’
‘Well, traditionally it was linked with a subconscious guilt or supposed sin on the part of the sufferer, hence the religious symbolism in the images associated with it.’
Rhona had assumed her own experience had been linked to working round the clock with the addition of the red wine, but then a memory of McNab dragging up their shared guilty past presented itself …
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Conor asked if she was all right.
‘The image just reminded me of that feeling of being unable to move,’ she told him, not untruthfully.
‘It’s a memory that’s hard to forget,’ Conor agreed.
Rhona changed the subject. ‘Did Andrew ever mention the tunnel?’ she asked, thinking if he’d planned his suicide down there, the location must have meant something to him.
‘I wondered that myself. We did talk a fair bit, but he never mentioned the tunnel or gave an indication that he might choose to take his own life.’
Rhona shot Conor a look. She had given no indication that suicide, assisted or otherwise, was being considered.
‘I’m sorry,’ Conor said. ‘The news report didn’t indicate how he’d died, but in view of the circumstances and his condition, I did wonder …’
It was a fair response.
‘I haven’t been much help, I’m afraid,’ Conor said as he walked her to the door.
‘On the contrary, building up a picture of the victim is always a help,’ Rhona told him.
He nodded, looking relieved.
‘Shall I summon the lift?’ he offered.
‘I’ll take the stairs. They’re even easier on the way down.’
As she took her leave, Conor hesitated, as though there was something further he wanted to say.
Rhona helped him out by offering her card. ‘If you think of anything else, feel free to call me. And do go and give a statement as soon as you can.’
He smiled and nodded. ‘Will do,’ he promised.
29
‘Looking for a particular model?’ a voice enquired.
The guy with the shaved head and silver earrings was eyeing him as a potential customer. At that moment McNab definitely was one. Jeez, he would love to own any of the bikes on show before him, although where the money to buy a new Harley might come from, he couldn’t imagine.
‘Any recommendations?’ he said.
> ‘We all have our favourites. Mine’s a Sportstar Custom. Gemma over there,’ he indicated a girl behind the counter, ‘she’s a Fat Bob lover.’ Gemma gave him the thumbs-up to indicate what he said was true. The guy looked McNab up and down. ‘You’ve ridden a Harley before?’
McNab had been on the back of Ellie’s but didn’t know its name. Maybe he should have asked. Momentarily stuck for an answer, he spotted a poster which offered a solution to his problem.
‘A Street Glide,’ he offered.
The guy gave him a knowing smile. ‘Excellent choice.’
McNab decided it was time for honesty. ‘I’m a friend of Ellie’s. I really came here to see her.’
The guy’s face clouded over, indicating he wasn’t comfortable with that admission. He shot a quick glance towards a door in the back wall, before muttering, ‘I’ll check if she’s in yet.’
He disappeared into the back, leaving McNab to contemplate the change in his demeanour, plus the uneasy look Gemma was now giving him.
Had Ellie contemplated his visit and warned the staff? Fuck’s sake, were things that bad between them?
Moments later, another man emerged and came towards him. For a moment McNab couldn’t place the figure or the face, then he remembered. It was the guy from the speedway, only this time he was the belligerent one, not McNab.
‘What d’you want with Ellie?’ he said, a scowl on his face.
‘I’d prefer to tell Ellie that,’ McNab responded sharply.
‘She doesn’t want to see you.’
The smug look on the guy’s face suggested he saw himself as McNab’s replacement.
McNab made to sidestep him, only to discover how fleet of foot the guy was.
‘The back shop is out of bounds to anyone but staff, sir,’ he added sarcastically.
McNab gritted his teeth, knowing what he was about to do was a mistake. Nevertheless …
He brought out his warrant card. ‘What about the police?’
Now the guy was the one wrong-footed, suggesting Ellie hadn’t told him that part of the equation. He floundered, his mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish. He didn’t look nearly so confident or cool, which pleased McNab no end.
‘She’s not here,’ he finally admitted. ‘She called in sick.’