by Lin Anderson
In contrast, Rhona remembered her own reaction when she’d seen McNab’s auburn head appear on the stairs. How irritated she’d been at his sudden arrival, and the fear that he’d caught her at a particularly bad moment.
Up to that point she’d managed to put on a suitable front with Conor until she could bid him goodbye. McNab, she’d known immediately, wouldn’t be so easily fooled.
And he hadn’t been.
McNab read her better than anyone, even Chrissy, and definitely Sean. Something she resented, yet at times welcomed, because with McNab she didn’t have to pretend.
And in the kitchen, knowing how distressed she’d been, he’d made himself scarce to give her time to recover. If he hadn’t done that, gone to the bathroom, then he would never have discovered the tester, buried in the waste bin.
Rhona read again Chrissy’s glowing report of exactly what McNab had said on her behalf.
DCI Sutherland was in the room, but it didn’t stop McNab. I think Bill was pleased, although he obviously couldn’t show it. With what McNab said, they’ll have to let you come back and soon.
She’d been giving McNab constant grief since the Stonewarrior incident, yet here he was championing her, even if it meant he might be disciplined himself.
Rhona moved to the next message whose attachment was a report from Jen Mackie on the soil found on Jackson’s shoes. There appeared little doubt from her analysis that it matched the samples taken from the tunnel and the likelihood was that he had probably entered via the former Bridgeton station, Jen having also identified tiny fragments of the old mosaic flooring from there stuck to his shoes.
So Jackson had walked in, possibly to check out the car, but had someone accompanied him or been waiting there for him?
On her return from the meeting, Chrissy – following Rhona’s instructions – had taken a closer look at the ligature. Rhona brought up the images she’d taken herself at the locus and compared them now to the ones Chrissy had sent through, with her resultant conclusion.
Claire Masters had definitely been right-handed, according to her partner, Taylor, yet the scene, the way the ligature had been placed, the knot used to tie it, had suggested otherwise.
The placing of the bread and wine in both the tunnel and park loci matched, with the wine glass on the left and the bread on the right, indicating a left-handed setting, yet Andrew Jackson, Rhona knew, had also been right-handed.
Rhona thought back to the first time her son, Liam, had eaten with her here at the flat. A fraught situation only rendered a success by Sean’s good humour. It was only then she’d learned that her son was left-handed, as he’d covertly shifted his meal setting to suit.
If Andrew Jackson had been responsible for his last supper, why would he have done otherwise?
Rhona moved on now to an email from Magnus to McNab with herself copied in, entitled ‘Dissertation Topics’.
Rhona read through the names, trying to conjure up a face to match each of them, without much success. The most vocal of the participants had tended to be the serving officers. They hadn’t given her a particularly difficult time. Forensics was well established now, although it had taken years to convince some of the diehards of its growing importance in investigations. Those in the room hadn’t been as accepting of the opportunities of forensic psychology, however, and she knew Magnus had been the recipient of a decided antipathy.
Checking the essay titles against his lecture topics, she immediately spotted DC Fleming’s submission. So DC Fleming had decided to go for the jugular. Magnus, Rhona knew, wouldn’t take offence at that. In fact he would likely welcome her submission.
It appeared from the timeline that Magnus’s email had been in direct response to one from McNab asking him to look specifically at proposed titles relating to her own lectures.
He definitely believes someone’s fixated on me.
Rhona ran her eye down the subjects chosen, the majority of which were standard topics lifted from each of her lectures. The investigation of the scene of crime had proved to be the most popular, the more heavily scientific topics such as analysis of fibres, DNA and toxicology less so.
Nothing in that list suggested any link with the two most recent crimes. Nothing about poison, natural or otherwise, or distinguishing suicide from homicide. Only one of Magnus’s group had chosen a topic which echoed an aspect of the current investigation and that was the signature and modus operandi of a killer, a standard topic.
Her own lectures had covered, albeit broadly, the subject of buried or hidden bodies and three people had submitted a title that might be in that area, but without reading the completed work, it was hard to single any of them out.
The only submission that clearly challenged the content of the course was DC Fleming’s on criminal profiling.
Yet McNab’s gut instinct shouldn’t be discarded. He had a habit of being right. Not always, but often enough to pay attention to. Bill thought so too, if he’d given McNab a chance to speak out at the meeting.
The forensic material collected at the second crime scene had yet to be fully examined, but if her own DNA turned up there despite her not having processed the body, it would offer some proof that McNab had a point.
During their kitchen discussion, he’d asked her outright if anything else suspicious had happened to her. Rhona had said no, despite Tom’s sickness being caused by poisoning. Her own nausea had turned out to be a symptom of pregnancy, so no poisoning there. Besides, she’d only eaten and drunk what Sean had provided for her. Except for the red wine mysteriously delivered to her front door.
Rhona recalled the nightmarish sleep that had followed. Had the red wine been drugged in some way? But she thought Sean had tasted the red wine too, or maybe used it in the casserole.
Rhona considered whether Conor had been responsible for the wine. Surely he would have mentioned it? Or maybe the new guy, Craig, she’d met on the stairs a couple of times, who seemed pretty friendly and had asked her name.
But I have no proof there was anything wrong with the wine, Rhona reminded herself. Apart from the troubled sleep and hellish nightmare that had followed.
The only thing she couldn’t explain was the possible yew berry in the dead seagull, and why the carcass had been fastened by a wire to the balustrade above her flat.
And that, she could do something about, if she went back to work.
As she made her decision to do just that, the report from Toxicology appeared in her in-box.
Rhona clicked it open and began to read.
59
I have a decision to make.
I could, of course, break the pattern of three, but am not inclined to do so. I’ve foreshadowed my actions up to now and will do so again.
It’s just the way in which I choose to do this that’s important and significant.
I’ve also submitted my dissertation title.
The detective who takes such a personal interest in Dr MacLeod might pick up on that, if he reads the submissions. Surely, by now, someone in the investigation team will have had the wit to pick up on my clues?
I hadn’t anticipated the arrival of the female bikers in the tunnel, although it has in many ways added to the enjoyment.
Hence, my indecision.
The girl who checked the body and is apparently having sex with the detective sergeant went AWOL after my phone call. I suspect I know exactly where she’s gone.
60
The three girls had come in together, the sound of their bikes roaring up apparently reminding Sergeant McIvor of his long-lost youth.
‘Girls didn’t ride back then, except on pillion,’ he informed McNab, a little regretfully.
‘Where are they?’ McNab interrupted his reminiscing.
‘Together in room three.’
McNab had every intention of separating them, but he was interested in observing how they operated as a group first.
‘Does DS Clark know they’re here?’ he said, wondering how long he might have bef
ore Janice arrived.
‘I’m trying to locate her, sir.’
McNab stopped at the coffee machine on his way and had a couple of caffeine shots. He’d already informed Janice of the previous conversations he’d had with Izzy, by phone, at the speedway and the most recent at the Rock Cafe. McNab ran these over again in his mind as he approached the interview room.
Having been told that they’d arrived by bike, McNab wasn’t sure why he was surprised by the leathers. All three outfits were distinctively different. Izzy’s had a blood-red splash. As for the other two, one sported a white skull which reminded him of his own inked back, the other a pink stripe.
All three stood up on his entrance, the chairs scraping back on the tiled floor. McNab silently studied the faces before introducing himself, thanking them for coming in and suggesting they sit back down.
As they did so, the other two shot a quick glance at Izzy, perhaps looking for guidance.
The paper Sergeant McIvor had given him had their three names and addresses on it. McNab studied it now and tried to match the other two to their names. Mona Ritchie he thought might be the pink stripe, with Gemma Johnstone the skull, but that proved to be wrong.
‘That’s Mo,’ Izzy told him, pointing to the skull, when McNab tried out his theory. The contrast between the frightened face and the defiant skull couldn’t have been greater. Pretty in pink turned out to be Gemma, who, McNab decided, almost matched Izzy in her defiant attitude.
Recalling the scene with Ellie and Izzy at the speedway, McNab figured Ellie as the leader with Izzy close behind and Mo never likely to be.
‘Why are we here?’ Izzy asked.
‘Because you were in the tunnel the night Andrew Jackson was murdered.’
‘He was murdered?’ Mo’s eyes grew wide with fear.
At that, the door opened and Janice appeared. She darted McNab a swift glance, which he interpreted as I hope you haven’t started without me. In response McNab handed her the paper and told her that Sergeant McIvor had shown the girls in here to await her arrival.
Janice swiftly introduced herself and explained that they would be interviewed in turn by herself and DS McNab, with respect to the Andrew Jackson case, whereupon Mo was asked to stay where she was and the others were shown out.
Janice’s choice of Mo to start the proceedings was, in McNab’s view, an astute one. By far the most intimidated by the surroundings, she also looked keen to get everything off her chest.
McNab left Janice to do the questioning while he observed and listened. Mo’s delivery was a little breathless, but it sounded truthful. And it matched what Izzy had told him earlier. Although it did omit the fact that Izzy had persuaded Ellie not to call the police. According to Mo, they had left that decision to Ellie and Izzy.
Seemingly satisfied, Janice halted the recording and indicated Mo should leave the room, but not the station. Once she’d gone, Janice turned to McNab.
‘Well?’
‘It matches what Ellie told me, and Izzy, when I spoke to her at the Rock Cafe,’ McNab confirmed.
‘Let’s have Izzy in next then and see if her story’s changed in any way,’ Janice said.
Izzy reminds me of Ellie, McNab thought as the girl strode in, head held high. Even when she’s obviously frightened.
‘I’ve told Michael everything I know,’ Izzy said, when asked by Janice to review that fateful night in the tunnel.
At Izzy’s usage of his first name he saw Janice start, and he fervently hoped she wouldn’t pull Izzy up on it. She didn’t.
Instead she said, ‘I’d like to hear everything you told my colleague, Detective Sergeant McNab.’
Izzy nodded and did as requested. To McNab’s mind, it was all there, every conversation they’d had. He nodded to Janice, who then indicated he should take over.
It was time to put Izzy on the spot.
‘Did Ellie say at any time that she might have detected a pulse in Andrew Jackson’s neck?’
‘A pulse?’ Izzy looked horrified. ‘You think the guy was alive when we left him?’
‘What did Ellie say exactly, when she felt his neck?’
‘I told you, she only touched him for a second, then she said he was dead.’ Izzy glared at McNab. ‘Did she tell you something different?’
‘In the one call I got from Ellie since her disappearance, she said, “He wasn’t dead”.’
A torrent of emotions crossed Izzy’s face at this. ‘Jesus, there was a chance he was alive and we left him there?’
‘We can’t know for certain he was,’ McNab said, ‘just that he may have been.’
‘Ellie thought, we all thought, the guy had committed suicide. The weird way he was lying next to the car. No blood, no weapon, and the creepy wine and bread thing. Jesus, why didn’t Ellie tell us if she felt a pulse?’ Izzy halted suddenly, staring into some memory. ‘Oh, fuck!’
‘What?’ McNab prompted, sensing an explanation of Ellie’s reaction might be forthcoming.
Izzy stared at McNab, her eyes bright with tears.
‘Danny, Ellie’s wee brother, committed suicide three years ago. It was Ellie who found him.’
Janice, hearing McNab’s intake of breath, turned, her look questioning. McNab gave a brief shake of his head indicating he hadn’t known anything about that.
Jesus, no wonder Ellie had freaked.
‘She still blames herself. Thinks she should have spotted something sooner.’
McNab recognized the classic response of every family member and friend who had found themselves in that position.
‘How did her brother die?’ Janice said.
‘An overdose,’ Izzy said.
McNab knew the figures. Male suicides numbering more than twice the number of females and growing. Most of them aged under thirty-five.
No wonder Ellie had called him that night, McNab thought. And he’d let her down.
McNab took himself outside. He needed some air and he needed to be alone to process everything that had happened in that interview room.
After Izzy’s revelation about Ellie’s brother being the possible reason for her reaction to finding the body, they had brought in Gemma, whose recall of that night had matched the others. Her response to the possibility that Jackson might have been alive was one of dismay that they hadn’t called for help immediately.
‘We were scared of getting into trouble.’ She’d shaken her head at that. ‘We should have been braver.’
The sessions complete, they now had the number for Dougie, the supplier of the entry keys and password. All three interviews had rung true to both himself and Janice, whose main concern had shifted to Ellie’s state of mind and the necessity to know her whereabouts.
‘Keep trying her,’ she’d told him, ‘and check with IT. Maybe they’ve picked up her mobile signal by now.’
McNab listened as his call rang out. If he could only tell Ellie that everything was out in the open and that there was no reason for her to hide any more. When it disappointingly switched to voicemail again, McNab said exactly that, ending with a plea for Ellie to return and a heartfelt apology for screwing things up between them.
After which he contacted Ollie, who answered immediately.
‘I’ve been trying you for the past half-hour.’ He sounded peevish.
‘And now you’ve got me,’ McNab said.
‘Your girlfriend’s just used her mobile. She called the Glasgow Harley shop. She’s in or near Aviemore.’
‘Thank you,’ McNab said.
61
The grassed area to the east of the sprawl of Aviemore Centre buildings had been designated a campsite. Ellie, with no idea where she would end up when she’d hit the road, had come prepared. Her solo tent was now safely sandwiched between two large motorhomes with friendly occupants.
It had been the right decision to come north, she decided, although she’d taken a circular route to get here, having initially headed west along the Clyde, catching the ferry to Bute.
That’s when she’d met Garthe.
Ellie had found herself a seat in the main cabin, next to the window, and plumped her saddlebags down beside her. The ferry had quickly filled up, most folk trundling suitcases, either headed to the island on holiday or returning home from vacation elsewhere.
She’d spotted a small posse of motorbikers as she’d boarded, recognizing their voices as being from the north of England. Just before the door had closed, another biker had come aboard, not, she suspected, with the bigger party, but solo like herself.
Luckily none of her fellow riders had chosen this part of the lounge to pass the forty-minute journey, which Ellie had been glad about. Bikers were known to be a garrulous bunch and she hadn’t fancied being questioned, however friendly the enquiry.
She’d already decided that answering the call from Michael had been a mistake. As soon as she’d ended the conversation, she’d switched off her mobile, hoping to prevent Michael from tracing her movements and, even more importantly, preventing the creep who’d seen her in the tunnel from calling her again.
That’s when a voice had interrupted her thoughts with a ‘Is this seat taken?’
Ellie had looked up to find the single biker, helmet in hand, wearing a wide smile and awaiting permission to sit alongside her.
Her first thought had been to lie and say yes, since there were plenty of other empty seats available. But something had stopped her. His accent for one, which she recognized as coming from way further north than this, and certainly not from Glasgow.
‘Go ahead,’ she’d offered, moving her saddlebags onto the floor.
‘Nice bike you’re riding,’ he’d said as he’d settled himself down.
‘I like it,’ Ellie had said.
‘Harley dominates the female market share,’ he’d smiled at that. ‘And women are the fastest-growing segment of new riders.’
‘I take it you work for Harley-Davidson?’ Ellie had responded with a laugh.
‘Nope, I just write stuff for a motorbike lovers’ website in my spare time.’ He’d held out his hand at this point. ‘Garthe Tulloch, from Shetland originally, currently based in Newcastle.’
‘Ellie Macmillan, from around here,’ Ellie had said cautiously.