Sins of the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  The floor next to the table sparkled under Chrissy’s torch, bloodstains among the scattered shards of the wine bottle, the thickened base of which had come to rest under the table.

  Footsteps marked the treated wooden floor, aided by the spilt wine. Stepping onto the metal protective treads laid by the scene of crime officer, Chrissy crossed to the table for a closer look.

  She imagined Rhona cutting herself a slice of gammon and bringing it to the table with the bread and wine.

  The bare surface, she noted, was streaked with spilt liquid that had stained the wood. A ring where the bottle must have stood. The now-empty plate with knife and fork laid on top. Alongside it, the uneaten bread.

  One setting only. A single wine glass, the dregs of wine remaining.

  Her last supper, Chrissy thought, her own heart frozen in fear.

  She turned as his tall figure entered the kitchen. Above the mask, McNab’s blue eyes acknowledged her own, then slowly swept the room. She could read his stance clearly, the tenseness, the anger, the horror at what he was looking at.

  He looks, she thought, exactly the way I feel.

  He followed the treads to the window and from there to the table and its surrounds. McNab was reading the runes, just as she had. Asking the questions they raised.

  He took his time and Chrissy could almost hear his brain working. McNab had been a scene of crime officer in the past, and a good one. What he was asking himself was as important as anything she had.

  He came to stand beside her and put his gloved hand lightly on her arm in support. It was a gesture that almost floored her. Chrissy took refuge in anger.

  ‘You were right,’ she muttered. ‘The bastard’s been stalking her, waiting his chance. My best bet is he went onto the roof and got into the flat via the open window. When exactly isn’t clear. Rhona went back to the lab last night after hours, so maybe then. She sent samples off to Toxicology asking them to check for taxine.’ Chrissy looked at McNab. ‘The samples came from a dead seagull I found in the lab fridge. Someone,’ she continued, ‘tried to poison Tom. And maybe her.’

  McNab gave an almost imperceptible nod in acknowledgement of her interpretation, his eyes still moving about the room.

  ‘Reading the pattern,’ Chrissy continued, ‘I think something caused Rhona to rise suddenly from the table, knocking the wine bottle over. It rolled off and shattered and Rhona stood barefoot on the broken glass.’

  McNab winced as though experiencing it for himself.

  ‘That’s when he appeared?’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘Or –’ Chrissy paused – ‘when Rhona realized something was wrong with the wine or the food.’

  McNab approached the slow cooker. ‘Sean brought in the ham while I was here. He would have put it on to cook before he left.’ He crossed now to the fridge. ‘The white wine was in the door. I saw it when Rhona went in for something. Maybe half a bottle.’ McNab looked to Chrissy.

  ‘We have samples to test,’ she said.

  ‘If it was taxine …’ McNab halted.

  Then Rhona may already be dead.

  His unsaid words hanging in the air between them, McNab crouched next to the broken glass as Chrissy gathered herself and continued her interpretation of events.

  ‘From the bloodstain pattern, Rhona either collapsed at that point or was pushed to her hands and knees by her attacker, who … has left us a partial footprint.’

  McNab met her eye, and Chrissy read in his look a reflection of her own doubt.

  ‘From the pattern on the sole I think it’s a Harley-Davidson boot, but bigger than the one in the tunnel.’

  78

  All was silent apart from a steady drip of water from above. Her gravedigger had gone.

  Turning from the earthen wall, Rhona shook her hair and spat out the soil that had forced its way past her pursed lips.

  If the bastard was planning to bury her, he would have to try harder than that.

  Rhona anticipated his actions had succeeded in raising the floor level by a few inches and disrupting the underground stream, although its rise in power and volume would soon clear a path through the added soil.

  Moving as far out of the water as she could, Rhona set about freeing her hands. Working the tag round to between her wrists, she bent over. The tie tags had loosened a bit and might not have sufficient tension to break. To get enough force, she would have to raise her arms as high as possible, despite the pain in her shoulders.

  Bracing her head against the wall, Rhona brought her wrists down hard on her buttocks, the resultant thump knocking the air from her lungs.

  The snap signalled the release of her wrists, although her shoulders screamed their discomfort at having been twisted for so long behind her back.

  Rhona took a series of quick breaths and swung her arms until they felt truly back in their sockets.

  As she now set about loosening the zip tag on her ankles, she wondered why her abductor hadn’t used a better method of securing her, like a decent set of handcuffs at least. He must have been aware that once the grogginess wore off she would have the wit to get free.

  He came back to check, but I’d solved his problem by falling in here. Or that’s where he’d intended to put me anyway. Why else bring a shovel?

  Still in darkness, but with her mind clearer now, Rhona paced out her cell. Her estimate had been close to correct, although she now located the exit and entrance of the stream more accurately. Both appeared and disappeared below a restricting block of solid rock, which meant that should the water level continue to rise, her cell would fill up fairly rapidly.

  Reaching up, Rhona tried to judge the distance to the top of the wall, knowing instinctively that it was a good six feet above her head.

  There was no easy way out of here and any attempt to climb the walls, she suspected, would result in them crumbling down on her.

  Weakened by her efforts and lack of food, Rhona sank to the floor again and, scooping up handfuls of water, tried to satisfy her empty stomach. She could last for some time on water alone, but she would get weaker and definitely less able to figure a way out of here.

  The darkness moved in on her again, blinding her mind to hope. Surely they would be looking for her by now? But how would they trace her to her burial here?

  Buried and hidden bodies, ironically her speciality.

  Maybe McNab had been right to study the dissertation titles. If so, her initial suspicions over Conor would be unfounded.

  Another face now came to mind. A face that had been at the busy autopsy for Andrew Jackson. There were a number of APTs on her course. And an APT would be in a prime position to collect her DNA, and be aware of all the processes involved in her dealing with a body at a locus.

  She shook her head. The truth was they had no real lead on the perpetrator. As well he knows.

  Rhona moved her hand to cover her belly. In the dark silence surrounding her, she imagined for a moment that she could feel a flicker of life. Not scientifically possible, she reminded herself. And yet …

  She recalled another video clip that had come up in her internet search about early pregnancy. It had featured the bright flash of light emitted at the precise moment a sperm met an egg. She’d watched the sequences in wonder at such a scientific development, while also thinking, Does the light signify the moment life begins?

  She shifted in discomfort at the memory. Surrounded by a deep darkness, the moving water caressing her body, the beat of her heart in her ears, her prison cell resembled a womb.

  But how long would her captor choose to keep her, and the tiny light she carried, alive?

  79

  McNab stood in his kitchen, the bottle of whisky he’d almost consumed before visiting Mary, a lifetime ago, still standing on the table.

  There was nothing else he could do tonight, he reasoned. And sometimes whisky gave him insights he didn’t have when sober.

  Ignoring the voice that asked Who are you trying to kid?, McNab broke the
seal on the bottle and poured a measure. His stomach was empty and he should order pizza before he indulged, but then again, food would lessen the impact of the single malt.

  McNab took in the aroma, reminding himself that he’d survived Mary’s attempts at getting him drunk and, he suspected, into bed. Which suggested he could control what he drank tonight.

  But not if I allow myself to think.

  An image of Rhona’s kitchen rose to confront him again. Dr Mackie had arrived swiftly after Chrissy’s call, brushing aside her apologies at the lateness of the hour.

  She’d gone immediately to the footprint. ‘Is this the only one you’ve found?’

  ‘The only distinct one, yes,’ Chrissy had confirmed.

  Jen’s eyes had moved about the room, just as his own had done. ‘And you think he entered via the window?’ She took herself over there and looked back towards them. ‘The spilt wine could have precipitated the partial print, but there will be other deposits of similar soil wherever he’s been in the flat.’ She drew their gaze back to the window. ‘Plus whatever fell from his clothing – pollen, vegetable debris – if he entered through here.’

  Having said her piece, Jen suggested he and Chrissy both leave. ‘I have my usual police minders.’ She indicated the two officers who’d been assigned to her.

  Chrissy’s eyes had been red with fatigue and worry, so McNab had added his voice to the suggestion that she go home.

  ‘You too, Detective Sergeant,’ Jen had ordered.

  ‘We let Rhona down,’ Chrissy had said as they’d exited the building together.

  McNab had wanted to state how he’d tried to warn Rhona of the danger. Voice his attempts to make Sean stay there with her. But what was the point of repeating something Chrissy already knew?

  He stood waiting while Chrissy got into her car and drove away before he approached the bike. Below, the park was painted black, with only a hint of the movement of trees in the darkness.

  The search team would be out at first light and the park would be their first port of call. But if her abductor had succeeded in getting Rhona out of the flat unmarked, as it appeared he had, then the likelihood was he would transport her, either dead or alive, as far away from here as possible.

  The rain pattering his helmet as he’d roared off, McNab’s thoughts had returned to Drumochter and his hurried flight south. There had been no word from Fran since his departure, so he had to assume they’d hadn’t yet located Ellie.

  Having made Rhona his choice, it appeared he’d lost them both.

  McNab moved a chair to face the window. The chances of him sleeping tonight were, he thought, zero. So why waste good drinking time trying?

  From here he could see the Street Glide, parked under a lamp, the splendour of its form hidden below its raincoat. It made him think of Ellie arriving at Davey’s dinner party dressed in leathers, only to reappear in all her inked glory.

  God, she’d looked beautiful that night.

  He was sliding into moroseness, McNab knew that, but didn’t care. Any thought that the whisky would provide him with insight had been replaced by the stark reality of his failures. McNab stopped fighting and let it happen.

  The sound of someone demanding entry broke into McNab’s nightmare. He’d been reliving the scene in the wood, Claire’s empty eyes, the fury of feasting flies becoming the buzz of the intercom.

  He eventually roused himself, swearing about late-fucking-nighters and their pizza deliveries. Dragging his brain back into gear, he knew he had no choice but to respond, because whoever had their finger on the button wasn’t about to give up.

  He pressed to release the front door and took himself back through to his chair. The whisky bottle stood alongside, half consumed. He’d been right about no food, he thought. And I need less to achieve the desired effect. Settling himself back into the chair, he was surprised to register a knock on his own front door.

  Fuck it. What now?

  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been asked to help gain entry to a flat from a keyless bloody student. McNab’s first instinct was to ignore it, but …

  His angry response at the ready, he threw open the door. Her back was turned to him as though she was about to give up and he knew instantly by the jacket markings who it was. She turned, her helmet still in place as though shielding her identity, but he could see her eyes and that was all that mattered.

  McNab drew her inside, enveloping her in his arms, praying she wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

  Neither of them spoke, in words at least. McNab felt the tenseness flow out of her body, as it did from his. Gently, he undid her helmet and lifted it free, drawing her into the flat, banging the door shut behind her.

  Ellie was here and she was safe.

  80

  In her dream Rhona was watching the excavation of her own grave.

  Arc lights blazing down, the camera recording every few seconds, Chrissy was following the grid laid out on the tunnel floor, cutting small sections or spits and bagging the soil until the body, her body, would be fully exposed.

  From her vantage point, Rhona watched as Chrissy followed the procedures she’d been taught.

  I trained her well.

  Then her nightmarish world flipped over.

  Now she wasn’t above, watching Chrissy at work, but below in the grave, eyes open, looking up through the earth at Chrissy’s face.

  Rhona, seized by terror, ordered her hands to dig herself free. Begged her mouth to shout out, tell Chrissy it was she, Rhona, who was buried there. But no sound emerged, her hands refusing the order to dig.

  Then she saw why.

  The pressure on her chest wasn’t the suffocating weight of earth, but the demon from the corner of her kitchen, the red eyes of the mask leering down at her.

  The paralysis suddenly lost its hold and her body jerked into movement. The pressure on her arm was released and replaced by a pricking sensation. The demon face wavered above her then rose as though floating upwards to escape her cell.

  She heard the rattle of metal steps, as the accompanying headlamp that had briefly illuminated the mask moved upwards. Then Rhona was plunged into darkness again.

  But she wasn’t dead or buried yet, she reminded herself.

  As her head began to swim in response to whatever he’d pumped into her arm, she realized that this was to be his means of restraining her.

  The administered opioid was already doing its work, the mu receptor softening the aches in her arms and legs and especially the pain in her head, accompanied by a breaking wave of pleasure and well-being.

  Rhona allowed her eyes to drift closed, and enjoyed the welcome but brief sensation of fearlessness, interrupted almost immediately by a shower of dirt and stones hitting her head and chest.

  Turning her face to the wall, she listened for the scrape of the shovel, but heard pounding instead, while above her the head torch did a frenzied dance as her abductor broke loose the soil from the upper walls of her cell to rain down on her.

  Rhona, of all people, knew how easy it was to collapse the walls of a grave.

  81

  McNab’s eyes jerked open.

  The dream had been so real that he could still taste the terror that had accompanied it.

  But it was just a dream.

  Ellie was there beside him, her hair spread across the pillow, her face peaceful, although behind her lids, her pupils moved as though she too was dreaming.

  Raising himself on his pillow, McNab watched her in silence, a smile finding his lips. He still couldn’t believe it. Opening the door to give grief to whoever was knocking in the early hours of the morning, he’d found Ellie there instead.

  After pulling her inside and wrapping her in his arms, praying that she was real and not a figment of his imagination and a half bottle of whisky, they’d adjourned to the bedroom, the few words spoken only concerned with what they both felt at seeing one another again.

  Explanations could be left until the morning.


  Registering the time, McNab rose and went through to the kitchen. He didn’t need a nightmare to remind him that the search for Rhona would begin again with daylight and that his presence in the operations room would be required.

  But before that, he needed to question Ellie.

  Carrying the coffee through, he set it down, then gently roused her with a kiss. Immediately her eyes flew open and for a moment McNab glimpsed fear there too, before she registered it was him, and relaxed.

  ‘We need to talk,’ McNab said gently.

  He’d brought Ellie with him to the station, as much for his own peace of mind as for her to be interviewed. He had, McNab believed, already heard the whole story from the moment the four girls had entered the tunnel to when Ellie had turned up in the middle of the night on his doorstep.

  And I believe every word she said.

  McNab wasn’t used to hearing what he believed to be true and the relief that had brought him had been like salve on an open wound.

  But that didn’t mean there wasn’t something she’d missed. Something Ellie hadn’t deemed significant enough to mention.

  His talk with her hadn’t been an interrogation, rather a chance for Ellie to unburden her soul. McNab had found it difficult to listen to in part, especially when Ellie had spoken of her young brother and her failure to ‘save’ him.

  She’d broken down at that point. ‘I should never have left that man in the tunnel.’

  Knowing the story of her brother, McNab’s heart went out to Ellie. ‘You couldn’t have saved him whatever you did,’ he told her honestly. ‘Andrew Jackson was dead from the moment he ingested the taxine. There is no antidote. And,’ he added, ‘everything might have been different, if I’d just listened when you called me.’

  Ellie had been grateful for that, her half-smile acknowledging that she wasn’t the only one with regret about that night.

  McNab now stood behind the two-way mirror, observing as DS Clark and DC Fleming entered the interview room. It had been at his suggestion that the DC had been included. He’d been impressed by her approach to the professor, and her determination to offer more to the investigation than the routine tasks she’d been assigned.