by Marion Todd
‘How’s Zoe doing?’ Clare asked, as she shrugged off her coat, shaking it to dislodge a few snowflakes.
‘Pretty good, from what I can see,’ Jim said. ‘She’s already input the reports that came in over the holiday weekend and she’s going through the lost property lists now. She seems to know what she’s about.’
‘Keep an eye, all the same,’ Clare said. ‘She wouldn’t be the first to be overburdened with confidence.’
‘Call for you, boss,’ Sara said. ‘Neil Grant.’
The pathologist. ‘That was quick,’ Clare said. ‘Put it through to my office, would you Sara?’
Clare flicked the light on in her office, glad to feel the warmth from the radiator, and she shook the mouse to bring her computer to life. She pulled the blinds back from the window for a few seconds and watched the progress of the snow. It was lying all right. The street lights had come on, even though it was still morning. There was going to be precious little daylight today. She just hoped she’d get home to Daisy Cottage okay. She turned back to her desk and sat down, clicking the phone to speaker.
‘Neil,’ she said. ‘Happy new year to you.’
‘And to you too, Clare. Good time over Christmas?’
‘Yes, thanks. It’s a distant memory now, though. So I presume this is Alison Reid? Our body from yesterday.’
‘God, no, Clare. I’ve not even looked at her yet. Still wading through the holiday backlog.’
‘Oh.’ Clare couldn’t keep the disappointment from her tone. She had hoped to tie up Alison’s death quickly. ‘So, if it’s not Alison…’
‘It’s one that came in just before the new year. A woman in her early thirties.’
‘Sorry Neil – I was off for the whole two weeks and I’ve not caught up yet. Can you fill me in?’
‘Sure. A woman found face down in the Kinness Burn. Early hours of the twenty-ninth.’
‘Name?’
‘Ingrid McKinnie. I think it was the Dundee Inspector who dealt with it.’
Clare pulled the keyboard towards her and typed Ingrid’s name into the search box. Within a few seconds the report appeared. ‘Says here it was a suspected drowning with alcohol as a possible contributing factor. Does the PM confirm that?’
‘It can be hard to tell, sometimes. As to whether she’d been drinking, there was food and alcohol in her stomach.’
‘But she did drown?’
Neil hesitated. ‘I can’t be absolutely sure. Drowning – well it can leave certain clues: bloody froth in the airways, for example. But not always. Sometimes, Clare, it’s a diagnosis by default – when nothing else makes sense.’
‘Why do I sense a but…’
‘Because I don’t think she did drown. I think she was dead by the time she hit the water.’
Clare waited.
‘She had Rohypnol in her system.’
‘So she was drugged.’
‘She was.’
‘Any evidence of sexual assault?’
‘Not that we can tell. I mean, she had been in the water a few hours but not fully submerged. I can’t be certain but I’d say she probably wasn’t assaulted. The semen tests came back negative.’
Clare thought for a moment, then she said, ‘I can’t see why someone would drug a woman and not assault her.’ She scrolled through the incident report as she was speaking. ‘It looks like her handbag was found by the body – money in the purse. It doesn’t make sense, Neil.’
‘I agree. It’s an odd one. There are some marks on the neck but…’
‘Eh?’ Clare was suddenly alert. This was sounding familiar. ‘What kind of marks?’
‘Some slight bruising round the neck.’
‘Consistent with strangulation?’
Neil hesitated then said, ‘Possibly. But it’s not heavy bruising. Certainly no evidence of a struggle.’
‘Which would make sense if she was drugged.’
‘True. But, even then, I’d expect to see a bit more bruising, and petechial haemorrhages – you know, those little pinpoint bruises around the face and eyes.’
‘So what’s your thinking?’
‘I’m going to check a couple of things and come back to you, Clare. I just wanted to give you the heads-up that it probably wasn’t a drowning.’
‘Neil…’ she broke off, trying to order her thoughts.
‘Yeah?’
‘I don’t suppose you could put yesterday’s death to the head of the queue? Raymond mentioned she had some bruising to her neck too.’
‘Will do. Just remind me of her name again?’
‘Alison Reid.’
‘Okay, Clare. Back as soon as I can.’
‘Thanks, Neil.’
She sat for a few minutes, thinking about Ingrid McKinnie and Alison Reid. Could their deaths be connected? It didn’t sound likely. Ingrid had died possibly on her way home from a night out, whereas Alison seemed to live a quiet life. Ingrid was found outdoors, fully clothed, partly submerged in the Kinness Burn, the narrow stream that flows through St Andrews down to the harbour. Alison was found at home, naked, in her own bath. It didn’t make sense to connect the two deaths.
Looking again at the incident report she saw that Ingrid’s home was in Lamond Drive. Not too far from the burn. If she’d been out partying she was probably on her way home from one of the bars in South Street. Maybe some bloke chatted her up in the pub then slipped the Rohypnol into her glass. He could have walked her as far as the burn then realised she was nearly unconscious and left her to die. Could she have died of exposure? Neil would surely have said. But maybe he couldn’t be sure. Alcohol was a factor in fatal hypothermia. She knew that much. It lowered the body temperature without the victim realising. Was that what had happened here?
Suddenly Clare thought she would very much like to talk this over with DCI Alastair Gibson. She hadn’t seen so much of him lately, not since their burgeoning relationship had fizzled out, with Geoffrey’s sudden return from Boston. They hadn’t really spoken of it since, and now Clare thought these two sudden deaths would be a good excuse to give him a call. She reached for the phone and dialled his work number. And then she listened to the message saying he was on annual leave until Wednesday, with the usual option to leave a message. She ended the call and sat for a few minutes, turning it over in her head. She looked at her phone contacts. She had his home number but somehow she didn’t feel comfortable using it. She clicked to dial his work number again and waited for the message prompt.
‘Oh, hi, Al. Hope you’re having a lovely break. I just wondered… if you’re not too busy when you come back… I’ve a bit of an odd case I’d like to talk over. Only if you’re not busy… erm, hope you’re well. And happy new year.’
She put down the phone, thinking how stupid her message would sound when he heard it. He might even have been listening – screening his work calls from home so he’d know what was waiting for him in the morning. Maybe he would call her back. She stared at the phone for a few minutes then turned and looked out of the window. The snow was lying thickly now and she let out a sigh. January was such a long month.
Chapter 11
‘She’s doing great,’ Jim said, nodding towards Zoe. ‘I’ve checked what she’s done this morning and it’s all fine. What’s more she’s zipping through it. You want to hang on to this one, Clare.’
‘I will, don’t you worry. I’ll have a chat to her in a bit. Just to let her know we appreciate her work.’
The station door opened and a snow-clad Sara entered, stamping snow off her shoes.
‘My feet are wringing,’ she said. ‘Just as well I have a change in my locker.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been out on patrol in this weather?’ Clare said.
Sara took off her outdoor coat and gave it a shake. ‘Nope. Shoplifters again.’
‘Really? I’d have thought Christmas would have seen an end to it.’
Clare followed Sara to the staff room where she took a change of shoes and socks from her locker. ‘Where was it
this time?’
‘Pizzazz. Little boutique on South Street. Nice clothes. Manager reckons at least two dresses and a cashmere cardigan. Getting on for a hundred and fifty pounds’ worth, she thought.’
‘Any CCTV?’
Sara pulled off her wet socks and put them on the radiator to dry. ‘Yes, I’ve copied it. Give me a few minutes to sort my feet out and I’ll let you see it.’
‘Get yourself a hot drink first,’ Clare said, and she went off to chat to Zoe.
* * *
‘See here,’ Sara said, pointing at a grainy image of a woman in a long padded coat and a Baker Boy hat, pulled down over her eyes. She had a scarf wrapped round her neck making it impossible to see her hair.
‘She seems to know where the cameras are,’ Clare said. ‘See how she looks down when she passes them.’
‘Yep and she’s carrying that big bag.’
‘Probably a Faraday cage.’ Seeing Sara’s expression, she explained. ‘Shoplifters use them to avoid setting off security alarms. They line the inside of the bag with foil – bit of parcel tape to hold it in place. The foil stops the security tag triggering the sensors at the door.’
‘One of the other shops mentioned a woman with a big bag,’ Sara said.
‘The bigger stores are wise to it. When they spot customers carrying a bulky bag they usually keep an eye on them. Sometimes, just having a member of staff hovering is enough to put them off. Send them elsewhere. But the smaller shops don’t generally have the staff for that which is why they’re targeted. How many reports is that now?’
Sara thought for a moment. ‘I’ll have to check but I think it’s six or seven.’
Clare frowned. ‘We’ll have to do something about it; or word will get out the town’s an easy target.’ She wandered over to the window and opened the blinds to peer out at the snow. ‘I reckon some of the shops might close early today – if the snow doesn’t stop. But tomorrow I’d like a few bodies out round the town, being visible. Call into the high-end shops, let them know we’re here. And get as much CCTV footage as you can. There might be something to help identify the culprit.’
* * *
By mid-afternoon the snow was lying several inches deep. Clare checked the forecast and saw it was due to keep snowing for the rest of the day. She went to find Zoe.
‘I know your flat’s in the town, Zoe, but I think you should pack up now and head home. The snow’s on for the next few hours and you’ve done a power of work already.’
‘I don’t mind staying,’ Zoe said.
Clare smiled. ‘Thanks, but I’ll be happier if you go now. There’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Zoe said, shutting down her computer. ‘See you in the morning.’
By four o’clock Clare was starting to worry that she might not get back to Daisy Cottage. ‘Jim, I’m going to head off home. And I want any officers from out of town to get away too. The local lads can turn out if anything happens. But I reckon most folk will be staying indoors so hopefully it’ll be a quiet evening.’
She went out to the car park to find Robbie shovelling snow away from the entrance. She waved a thank-you to him, put her bag in the car and took a collapsible spade from the boot. She spent a few minutes clearing the snow from around the tyres then she scraped the windows clear and jumped into the car. Her hair was white with large snowflakes and she was longing to be home. It was almost dark now and she switched on the car headlights. As she backed carefully out of her space she felt the tyres slip a little, but she made it out of the car park and was soon driving slowly along a snow-clad Largo Road. Her wipers squeaked rhythmically as they cleared the windscreen and she was struck by how silent the world became when traffic noise was muffled by snow. A lone figure – a man, possibly – was walking along the pavement, hood up and head down. His long coat was flecked with white, hands driven deep into his pockets and Clare hoped he didn’t have much further to go.
As she neared the roundabout at the top of the road, she was relieved to see there were no other cars. She knew if she was forced to stop that she’d end up having to dig around the tyres to get going again. She turned the car gently, feeling the back wheels slip and she eased off the accelerator then touched it lightly, gaining traction.
The roads in the Bogward housing estate were little better but her heart rose when she saw a snow plough heading towards her, spraying snow left and right. She slowed to allow it to pass then steered her car across to the path it had cleared.
There were few other cars on the road and her progress was steady, if slow. After what seemed like an eternity, she reached her drive heaving a sigh of relief. Daisy Cottage was like a Christmas card, its red-brick walls dusted with snow, the roof clad with a thick layer of white. As she approached the wooden portico that sheltered the front door, she heard Benjy’s welcoming bark and she put her key in the door, thankful to be home for the night.
She had left the heating on low for Benjy but now she went round the cottage, turning up radiators. Then she moved through to the kitchen and opened the back door. The garden was a picture, hedges and bushes plump with snow. It was impossible to tell where the path ended and the borders began and she picked her way carefully to the shed where the logs were stashed. She filled a stout bag with a mixture of logs and kindling and carried them back to the house, stamping her feet once more to avoid carrying snow into the kitchen. She whistled to Benjy who was cocking his leg, leaving a faint yellow trail in the snow and he came scampering back to the house. She soon had the fire going and she sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, warming her hands with Benjy at her feet. Once she was confident the fire had caught she added another log then switched on the sitting room lamps. Outside the sky was inky black and she drew the curtains across. The Christmas tree sat in the corner, reminding her for a moment of Alison Reid’s house and she turned on the multicoloured lights, giving the room a festive glow. She had thought about taking the tree down that night but she decided she would enjoy it for one more evening.
She wondered if Neil had examined Alison’s body or if he too had gone home early for fear of being snowed in at the mortuary. A glance at her phone told her there were no missed calls or messages. Tomorrow, then.
Clare ate another of her mother’s frozen meals at the dining table, browsing through web pages on her laptop. Then she logged on to Facebook. She hadn’t meant to look at DCI Gibson’s page but somehow she found herself checking his timeline. She could see he was online and had just uploaded an album of photos which he’d called Innsbruck Ski Trip. So that was where he’d spent the Christmas break. She scrolled through the photos. They were like an advert for ski holidays. A group of them – six, she thought – three men and three women. All clad in brightly coloured ski jackets, goggles and, in some photos, helmets. They were tanned and attractive, full of happiness. There were photos of them standing on their skis, ready to go, others with skis propped up against their shoulders outside a wooden chalet. Some were taken in a bar with shots lined up on the table. There were no action photos but Clare had the impression the DCI was a confident skier. Something about the way he stood on the skis, as if impatient to be off. Not like her, with her one trip to Glenshee a few years ago, most of which she’d spent on her backside.
She flicked through the photos again, studying the group. Were they all friends? Or were these people he’d met out there? Or… had he gone out there with someone? As part of a couple – eating fondue and sipping glühwein in the evenings round a cosy fire? Clare put down her fork, her appetite gone. She rose from the table and went upstairs to her spare bedroom to fetch the Christmas decorations box. It was time to take the tree down.
Wednesday, 6th January
Chapter 12
The snow had stopped during the night but it was still dark when Clare forced herself out of bed. She pulled back her bedroom curtain but it was hard to see how thickly it had fallen. Downstairs, she opened the kitchen door to let Benjy out for a pee
. The snow had blown against it and there was a cornice six inches high on the threshold. Benjy ran through it, scattering snow on the kitchen floor and launched himself at the garden, delighting in this new white world, almost disappearing up to his middle. He bounded along until he found his feet then cocked his leg.
In the kitchen Clare threw down a towel to mop up the melting snow and began making herself coffee and toast. Benjy reappeared, bringing more snow in with him and she stooped to wipe his paws with the towel. He began sniffing at the cupboard where his food was kept and Clare took the hint.
As she munched on toast she considered the day ahead, wondering if the DCI would return her call. There was something about the deaths of the two women that bothered her. Hopefully Neil would phone with the results of Alison’s post-mortem and she’d have a better idea if there was a link. She had to hope not.
Her thoughts turned to Miles and Cheryl Sharp. Had they known Ingrid too? It seemed unlikely but she couldn’t shake the feeling they were both hiding something.
The Rohypnol was another worrying factor. If there was someone in the town using the so-called date rape drug, she had to find the culprit before any more women were attacked. As she drained her coffee mug it occurred to her there could have been other victims, perhaps too confused or ashamed to come forward. Maybe they should put out a message via social media. She tapped a note on her phone to speak to the press officer about that. They might have something ready-made they could share on Facebook and the like.
Thinking of Facebook reminded her of the DCI’s skiing photos and, suddenly, she felt very lonely. She had ended things with Geoffrey. That had to be done, either way. But now it looked as if the DCI might have found himself a new partner.
And it was only January.
* * *
It took Clare a good ten minutes to clear the snow from around her car. As she worked, she heard the sound of a tractor approaching. She lifted her head as it passed her drive and was delighted to see the farmer had fixed a snow plough to the front of a red Massey Ferguson. A spray of dirty snow was thrown into her garden, but she didn’t mind about that.