One blink.
‘Okay. I’ll run through some things and you can show me what it was. Was it me?’
Two blinks.
‘Was it someone from the hospital?
Two blinks.
‘Someone else.’
One blink.
‘Give me a second, Pauline – I just want to talk to the nurse.’
Johansson’s hand squeezed tighter this time and her eye widened. Macallan knew what she was seeing. It was fear. A ball of tension squeezed the muscles at the pit of her stomach. She slipped her hand away from Johansson, who moaned.
‘I promise it’s okay, Pauline – I’ll just be outside the room. Keep looking at the window and you’ll see me.’
She called to the nurses and asked if anyone else had stopped by besides her.
‘To be honest she doesn’t seem to have anyone close. It’s tragic for such a young woman. There’s certainly been no visitors since you were here the last time.’ The nurse looked like she cared.
When Macallan walked back into the room, she sat down and took Johansson’s hand in hers, felt the squeeze.
‘Has someone frightened you since I was here, Pauline?’
One blink.
‘Was it a dream?’
Two blinks.
Macallan didn’t want to ask the next question. ‘Was it a man?’
One blink.
She couldn’t delay it any longer. ‘Was it the man who attacked you?’
One blink.
‘Are you sure, Pauline?’
One blink.
‘I’m going to make a call and get someone to stay with you.’
Her hand was squeezed tightly this time.
Macallan called the uniform back, but it hadn’t been her guarding Johansson on the night shift, and when Macallan told her what had happened, the policewoman saw something in the chief inspector’s eyes that made her glad she wasn’t the unfortunate but stupid bastard who’d left his post during the night and allowed this fuck-up to occur.
When she was done with the uniform, Macallan called O’Connor and struggled to keep the emotion from her voice as she told him what had transpired.
‘How the fuck could this happen? How could we not cover this situation?’
‘Look, Grace, this girl is in a bad way. We need to find out if this actually happened. She’s on heavy-duty medication so this might be a hallucination. I’ll send a team round to make some enquires – check if anyone saw anything – and we can get the CCTV covered at the same time. In any case, we’ll get extra uniforms there 24/7 for as long as it takes. I can’t think why he would visit her and not harm her. It makes no sense.’
‘It makes sense to him, John, and we’d better hope that the press don’t get wind of it.’
She walked back into the room to find the doctor had been in and sedated Johansson. Macallan watched her and wondered. Would it be better for the girl to have died instead of being in this prison?
The additional uniforms arrived as Macallan spoke to the doctor, telling him part of what had happened and asking if it could have been a dream or imagination. The question annoyed the consultant, who was too busy as usual and hadn’t slept in a day.
‘The answer is obvious, Chief Inspector. Of course she could have imagined it, and of course she could have dreamt it. She’s suffering the effects of a terrible attack and she’s pumped full of drugs. In addition she’s an addict; don’t forget she’s in withdrawal at the moment, with all that entails. I’m sure I don’t need to go into detail. There’s terrible stress on her body and mind, and I’m not even sure she’ll survive all the complications. So yes to the question. On the other hand, someone could indeed have come into the room, but that’s your problem and not mine.’
There was no point in arguing, and he was right. The answer was obvious, but they would sure as fuck have to find out the truth.
One nurse thought she’d seen a doctor she didn’t recognise near the ICU but hadn’t thought anything of it. The description was worse than vague and the CCTV was inconclusive. It wasn’t that unusual to see staff who weren’t regulars – it was just part of normal hospital life.
Macallan had the room and Johansson checked in case there was DNA, though they couldn’t be sure that her attacker had even been there. Time and again investigators were left with questions from the fevered minds of victims whose memories had been infected by false memories as a result of trauma, and given the attack Johansson had suffered, it wouldn’t have been surprising if she had imagined it all.
When Johansson came out of her sedation Macallan was called and she decided to try questioning the girl again. There was a chance she could get some answers – it just depended what Johansson could remember. In Northern Ireland, she had seen so many cases of memory loss where the moment of trauma was concerned, but it was always worth a try in case they found one small lead that could take them to the killer’s door.
When she walked into the room she saw the corners of Johansson’s mouth turn up. ‘Hey, Pauline, that looks like a smile. It’s not often that people are pleased to see me.’
She clasped the girl’s hand and felt her squeeze it. ‘You’re getting stronger. Do you think I can ask you more questions?’
One blink.
Macallan took it slowly. It was clear Johansson had little recollection of the attack, and she took walked the night backwards to see where the edge of the girl’s memory lay.
‘Do you remember being on the street before you met this man, Pauline? Go back to leaving the house. Do you remember that?’
One blink.
‘Did you have any other punters before that?’
She ran through the possibilities and established there had only been one and that he was a regular. ‘Now how do we get his name, Pauline? I’m going to run through the alphabet and stop me when I get the first letter of his name.’
They got there eventually and Macallan was pleased. The punter wasn’t on their systems and might be useful once they’d dragged him into a station. She could see that Johansson was tiring and a nurse was starting to give her grief. ‘Last thing for tonight. Can you remember what car the man who attacked you was driving?’
Johansson stared back at her. Her thoughts had turned to glue and she wanted to sleep. She could picture the dark street and it was as if she was looking at herself in a film. The film had almost frozen.
Macallan brushed her cheek. ‘It’s okay, that’s enough for tonight. You sleep, and I’ll see you soon.’
She began to put her papers away then reminded the uniform that the girl could not be left unguarded, and she was to be called if there was any change.
Johansson felt her eyes dropping then the car drove into the picture in slow motion.
The nurse saw her rapid blinking. ‘Chief Inspector.’
‘What is it, Pauline? Have you remembered something?’
One blink.
It was the car and they did the alphabet again. It was a Merc in good condition, and Macallan realised that they’d just taken a step towards the bastard’s door. She called into the squad room to get them researching Mercs seen at other crimes or in the area and ordered them to revisit the street girls to see if they could add to the description.
Less than two hours later Pauline Johansson’s regular punter had his night and his marriage ruined when a pair of detectives arrived to take him away. It was a real problem for him because they couldn’t write him off as the attacker – his sole alibi was his wife, and she could only verify when he got home. He was fucked all ways, but he had seen a Merc in the area when he left, though he’d thought nothing of it at the time. He confirmed it was in good nick but there was nothing else he could add, and he forgot to ask how Pauline was, which hacked off the detectives no end. He expected sympathy for helping and having his life pissed on, but he was in the wrong place for that kind of support.
After the punter was released he walked into his nice suburban home and the first thing he saw was a cou
ple of bin bags filled with his clothes. He stared at them for a moment before his wife came out of the kitchen carrying a wine glass that seemed overfilled with red.
‘Have a drink before you leave, honey.’ She threw the contents of the glass in his face.
‘And leave the fucking keys on the way out.’
33
Jacquie Bell left the bar on the south side of Edinburgh and felt quite pleased with herself. She’d flirted with a cocaine supplier who’d given her a nice little story about a top-drawer city councillor who’d just got a bit too close to some equally top-drawer criminal clients trying to push through dodgy planning applications. In many ways it was an old story: he thought he could stick powder up his nose, launder money and remain invisible at the same time.
This was what Bell did; she was made for crime reporting. Her editor loved and hated her at the same time because she produced great stories but monumental problems to go with them. Half the time they were receiving threats from legal representatives or, even more worrying, pissed-off criminals. She loved it though, and when she spoke to the detectives she had in her pocket, she knew they were all working for the same buzz. It was that power thing – knowing what was going on under Joe Public’s nose while they wandered around unawares. She always got an extra kick when it was the great and good she was exposing, and in her view it was healthy to uncover hypocrisy among those who looked down on the masses.
She’d come up the hard way and hadn’t received any favours to get where she was now. She came from a skint but happy working-class background in the East End of Glasgow. Even as a child she’d wanted out but knew that her old man hadn’t the readies for a posh school, so she’d got her head down and worked her way to a decent education. She’d picked up an addiction for news even in her teens – which to most of her contemporaries made her a ‘fucking weirdo’ – but she was determined and got her first job on a small-time and very local paper, making tea and taking male abuse. She had been a star from the off, though it hadn’t made her popular in every quarter, and she’d made it worse by hunting stories when the rest were in drinking mode.
Crime was what she’d wanted – and she’d got it. She had looks and didn’t need to try; one of those fortunate creatures who just needed to smile to disable every man within twenty feet of her. Her hair was jet black and accompanied by pale skin that only drew attention to her huge dark eyes. She knew it, used it, and it worked a treat. Detectives, criminals, the big dogs in the city, it didn’t matter – they all thought they’d worked their magic on her and that they were special. There was nothing wrong with it; using charm was part of all business, but what mattered was that she also had good instincts and a forensic brain that could see stories forming where others completely missed the point.
They were wasting their time anyway because she was gay, but she kept her private life discreet so she could keep the boys dreaming.
She walked along Edinburgh’s George Street and hardly noticed the world around her. She was writing the story in her head, getting the headline right and wondering how the councillor would try to wriggle out of this one. He’d sailed too close too often and it was just his turn. She wanted to get it to bed ASAP and dig into the attacks on the prostitutes. It was becoming a story and she needed to get stuck into it before it left her behind.
The tremble of her mobile brought her back to reality and she scrambled through the debris in the pocket of her wax jacket to extract the phone. A missed call could be a missed story. The cop who called her wasn’t high up the food chain, but he worked in the Chief’s office and gave her a heads-up when anything a bit interesting was taking shape. He told her there’d been a bit of wailing then a frantic stampede to cover up the fact that a uniform might have allowed Pauline Johansson’s attacker into her hospital room.
‘You have got to be kidding me.’
The voice came back to her. ‘There was doubt that it happened, but it looks very possible now, and the story is that even though she can’t talk, she managed to give one of the senior detectives a lead. The point is that the uniform guarding her was chatting up the night shift when it did or didn’t happen.’
‘What senior detective?’
‘Grace Macallan. She’s the DCI who transferred from Northern Ireland – under a cloud or as a pillar of integrity, depending on how you look at it.’
‘Nice one – and I’ll buy you a beer as soon as.’
Bell ended the call, annoyed at herself. She’d been interested in the whole Macallan thing but hadn’t got round to it, and now here she was at the centre of the prostitute investigation.
It was time they got acquainted.
Macallan’s mobile rang in the middle of Harkins’ description of the various sleazeballs they’d pulled in so far.
‘I tell you, some of these guys embarrass me, and that’s saying something. We’ve got punters from all walks, and it looks like a few dog collars made good use of the services during the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland.’
‘Real life – it beats fiction every time.’
She picked up the phone and Jacquie Bell introduced herself. Macallan recognised the name; she’d heard the reporter described as the best in the business and a devious cow in equal proportions. She asked Harkins to give her a minute; he gave her a nod and headed for the coffee machine.
‘I’m sorry but you really need to go through the press office for this, and I think you know that.’
Bell expected this and knew she’d have to come at Macallan from a different angle. She’d done her homework.
‘It’s not about the attacks, although I’m interested. I spoke to the press office a while ago and wanted to talk to you about your story and how you ended up here. There’s a tremendous human-interest angle there, and it would be fascinating, particularly for women. I’ve just been too busy with other stories, but I have a bit of time now.’
Bell played it easy: don’t press too hard and make a little play to Macallan’s ego. The woman had been through a tough time and they all need a bit of flattery.
‘Look, I’ll leave it with you because I know you’re up to your eyes, but if you even want to discuss it without a commitment then we could have a drink and see where it goes?’
Coming from the Troubles had made Macallan cautious of strangers, but she realised that since moving from Northern Ireland, her life had been solely about the MCT. She hadn’t really thought about it till now, but it wasn’t healthy, and this was an opportunity to neck a drink with someone different. Okay she was a crime reporter, but what the hell? She took them both by surprise and agreed. ‘Okay, let’s do it. God knows I could do with a drink, but the ground rules are that I buy my round.’
Bell smiled down the line. ‘A detective buying a drink. What’s the world coming to?’
The both laughed and made the arrangements.
Once she’d hung up, Macallan stared out the window and wished again that someone would clean it. The station windows were always splattered with the sediment of the Edinburgh weather. She knew the dangers of meeting reporters, but if she was anything, she was streetwise, and she decided not to mention it to O’Connor for the time being. He had enough on his plate, and they were too tied up in the case to think of what might develop between them. He had been businesslike with her, and in their private moments they’d promised to get together without making a where and when. She knew they were both too busy to plan a romantic evening with candles. At the moment they were living off the nightmare of canteen sandwiches and all the hazards that accompanied them. As for sleep, that was flopping into bed and probably being woken after two hours because one of the teams had arrested a weirdo and wanted guidance. She wondered why it couldn’t be like it was on TV, where you just had to shout loudly at a suspect and it was all solved in one to three episodes. Unless you were Danish of course.
She headed home to get changed and decided she should make an effort. If Bell was going to do a story about her then she should really lo
ok the part. Since she’d started working with the MCT, she’d dressed in drab colours and had hardly applied a lick of make-up when she went to work. She wanted to feel like a woman again and make an impression rather than trying to act tougher around the boys.
As she dabbed on her seventy-quid perfume, she promised herself she’d get a life away from the squad. She spoke to her reflection in the mirror.
‘If JJ doesn’t realise what he’s missing, I’ll try online dating.’
She did the V sign in the mirror, stuck out her tongue and laughed. She put on the suit she kept for court or meetings with bosses and liked the look. A bit serious but not bad – not bad at all. She realised how excited she was about meeting someone new and shook her head. ‘You are one sad bastard, Grace Macallan.’
34
She walked into the smart George Street venue where the bar staff tried not to laugh as they charged their customers a mile over the odds. It was quiet enough and the after-office rush had started to drain away. She looked around for the black hair and fur-collared coat Bell had described as a way to ID her.
Finally Macallan spotted her at the bar and raised her hand. She was impressed. Bell looked more like a news presenter than a crime hack. Her hair was swept straight back off her face, and Macallan had to admit she was a stunner – and it was all natural. Bell could have turned up in dungarees and a top hat and still carried it off. She was nothing like most of the reporters Macallan had met in the past.
They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, realising that for both of them their first impressions had been right on the money, and to cap it all they both liked malt whisky. Bell insisted on getting the first round and looked at the price list with a frown.
‘Hope you’ve brought a big bag of money if we’re doing malt.’
‘To be honest, with the investigation and the last few months of my life, I’m not getting to spend what I earn, so in the words of the philosopher, “Fuck it”.’
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