by Lin Anderson
Josh had, of course, no memory of his beginnings, but of what played out afterwards he was very clear. His father never hit him, but continued to torture his mother. Josh observed and absorbed this, even learned from it. By five, he was trying out some of his father’s actions on children smaller than himself. He pinched them, bit them, poked them with sharp objects, but made himself scarce when someone came to answer their cries for help.
Josh was never referred to a social worker. He was fed and housed and his mother gave him love, which seemed strangely at odds with his perception of human relationships. His mother acted as though the way they lived was the norm, but she didn’t invite friends or other children to the house, except his uncle Angus.
Angus was always old. Old and cunning. He brought the boy presents. Toys, DVDs. He took the ten-year-old shopping and showed him how to acquire similar items, warning him never to tell his mother.
Angus liked the ladies. He invited Josh to observe what fun the boy could have when older. Josh was hidden in a cupboard when one was due to arrive at Angus’s place, the door left open for him to watch.
It was nothing like what went on in his own house.
There was no screaming or crying during these encounters, but subservience was required, and paid for. The females were invariably young. Josh liked watching them undress and seeing them naked, although he felt sickened by Angus’s wrinkled rump bumping up and down against their smooth young skin. Or when he thrust himself into their painted mouths. Josh took to working himself while he watched and even now a memory of those childhood scenes could bring him to climax.
As he grew older, he learned to be out of the house whenever his father was at home. Then he didn’t have to see or hear what played out between his parents. His father had invited him to watch once, excited by drink and the possibility of an audience. Josh, who had gone along with so much, found himself appalled by such an offer, and left the house, the image of his mother’s expression of fearful compliance a permanent fixture in his memory.
At fourteen, he’d acquired a girlfriend who permitted him easy access, which strangely Josh found he did not want, so he dumped her. At this time, his father had begun to find himself unsatisfied by the sexual torture of Josh’s mother. The rules by which he had fulfilled his desires seemed too restrictive. The need to hide evidence of it, no longer important.
Josh knew his father was continually testing his mother’s limits of endurance, her continuing submission fuelling an even greater need for control.
Then one night in the same kitchen it had all come to an end.
Derek had her pinned face down on a kitchen unit, a knife nestled to her throat, when Josh walked in. Derek had ignored his son’s arrival and continued his relentless violent thrusts. Blood trickled down his mother’s neck.
Josh stood silent as his father finished, wiped himself on his mother’s skirt, then offered his son the option of going next.
Had his mother screamed at him not to, had she cried, maybe things would have played out differently. But she didn’t. She stayed where she was, her face pleading with Josh not to make his father angry.
Josh had approached as though willing, and his father, pleased, had slapped him on the back.
‘Your turn,’ had been his words.
Josh had taken the knife from his father’s hand and shoved it in his father’s belly. His face had been a picture.
Josh gripped the wheel a little tighter as a scrapbook of images presented themselves. Like any good story, the end had reflected the beginning. He had come into this world, a product of his father, exactly where his father’s life had been ended, by him.
Although, he reminded himself, it didn’t really end there, because she, as always, had taken the blame. A martyr to the end, his mother had removed the knife from his hand, wiped it, then proceeded to stab his father relentlessly. She hadn’t done it from anger, but from love, something Josh would never understand.
Even as he thought this, a hand moved to the driving wheel to touch his own.
‘Where are we going?’ she said.
‘You’ll see. Soon.’
She looked pretty, the warm glow of the evening sky painting her cheeks pink. He pulled out his mobile and took a photograph.
50
It was a matter of opinion whether Angus Patterson was alive or not. A heart still beat in his chest, although feebly. His body was present in this world, emaciated and grey, despite their efforts to get him to eat. His mind, however, was frequently absent.
A project to help dementia patients to remember, which consisted of presenting them with photographs and music from World War Two, would send him into a paroxysm of rage. Whereas page three of the Scottish Sun brought a leery smile to his countenance.
He was infamous in the nursing home for trying to squeeze female buttocks whenever he had the chance, going even further if a skirt was worn. At times, nurses would spot a small limp white sausage exposed in his lap. They would promptly shove it back in and zip him up, which was what he’d wanted them to do all along.
When he was aware of his surroundings, he conceded that life had dealt him a reasonable end. Surrounded by women, most of them young, many of them pretty, wasn’t a bad way to end your days. They washed and fed him. All of which meant he had their hands engage with his body. And he didn’t have to pay for it either.
At this moment, he was seated in the day room, sun streaming through the glass, a pretty woman by his side. She was plump, which he liked, her breasts straining the shirt she wore. Although his wits and memory deserted him at times, his sense of smell never had. And he could smell skirt. Young skirt.
‘Mr Patterson. I wanted to ask you about your family,’ the pretty mouth was saying.
Angus licked his lips.
‘Have you any family? Nieces or nephews? Grandchildren?’ She smiled her encouragement.
Angus thought about other painted lips. Of all the colours worn, he’d always like red the best.
‘Have you any family, Mr Patterson?’ she said again.
‘Give us a fuck.’
She sat back, surprise on her face.
‘I’ll pay,’ he promised, his hand reaching for his zip.
She stood up and retreated.
Anger swept over him. What was wrong with the bitch? He’d offered to pay, hadn’t he?
A couple of figures rushed in. One came towards him and told him to stop swearing like that. The other swept the skirt away. Fury exploded in Angus’s brain and everything turned red. He was frightened by the red mist. It made him think of hell.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ the attendant said when they reached the hall.
Janice waved her concerns away. ‘In my line of work, you hear much worse than that,’ she said.
‘You were asking about his family?’
‘Yes.’
‘He has a photograph in his room in a drawer. Of a woman and small boy. He told me once it was his sister.’
‘May I see it?’
The woman led her along a corridor lined with doors. Noises drifted out. Weeping, muttering, odd-sounding laughter. It reminded Janice of prison. Only in here the inmates were imprisoned by their minds and not by bars.
They had reached a door with ANGUS PATTERSON, 117 on it. The attendant slipped a key in the lock and turned it.
‘If we don’t lock the rooms, people get muddled and go in the wrong one. It causes problems.’
She stood aside to let Janice enter.
Angus’s room was simply furnished. In a corner was a pile of Sun newspapers, some yellow with age. The woman opened a drawer and brought out a photograph.
Isabel Kearney wore a frightened look, as though something evil lurked just beyond the camera. She was with a dark-haired boy, with large empty eyes. He was almost as tall as his mother, gangly, big-footed, with the promise of more growth to come. Janice guessed he was about ten. Was he the possible link they were looking for?
‘Angus has moments of lucidity.
We know about his criminal background and all about his sex life.’ The attendant pulled a face. ‘This is the only relative he’s ever mentioned.’
‘Does anyone visit him?’
‘Not as far as I know, but I can check our records and get back to you.’ She paused. ‘Is this in connection with an old crime?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say, although I do need to take this and get a copy made. I can get it back to you by tomorrow,’ Janice said to allay the woman’s obvious concern.
Janice tried McNab’s mobile again before she started up the car.
She didn’t expect him to answer and he didn’t. McNab was renowned for going it alone, so this wasn’t that unusual, but he was a DI now. Something he should remember.
The mobile rang as she engaged gear. She went back to neutral and answered.
‘Janice? It’s Patrick Menzies here. Any chance we could talk? It’s urgent.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Another victim.’
51
Enlisting the help of everyone who was there, Chrissy had collected eighteen mobile photographs taken during McNab’s party. Iona featured in quite a few, especially when she’d hooked up with the newly promoted DI. There was a wistful one taken as McNab watched Rhona leave and one where they stood laughing together. Not for the first time did Chrissy wish Rhona had taken him home with her.
No one she’d spoken to had admitted to knowing Iona. Most thought she’d simply been in the pub and had joined in the fun. Initially Chrissy had thought the same. Not any more.
One photograph had caught her eye in particular. In it, Iona was deep in conversation with a bloke and they looked very friendly. Yet, shortly afterwards, Iona had abandoned the boyfriend and made a play for McNab. Chrissy could understand why women fancied McNab, even though she didn’t herself. He’d been in good form that night, telling stories, making people laugh. He was the man. Definitely. So Iona had switched allegiances.
Chrissy didn’t buy that version of the story. The more she thought about it, the more it looked like a set-up. And one that involved the boyfriend. Talking to the bar staff confirmed her suspicions. Apparently Iona had told one of them she was there for the police party, despite no one knowing who she was.
So confirming why she was there had been easy. Finding her had proved more problematic, until Chrissy had shown the photograph in a pub further down the road. It seemed Iona had worked there for a couple of months, so they had her contact details, including her address. They hadn’t been keen on giving them out, until Chrissy explained who she was, laying the emphasis on the word ‘police’ rather than ‘forensic’.
So here she was, gazing up at a set of flats, one of which was Iona’s.
Chrissy tried not to imagine what might be going on behind the closed curtains. If McNab was in there, he would be less than happy to discover her on the doorstep.
Chrissy pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. Neither did anyone pull back the curtain to check who wanted entry. She pressed again, holding it on this time. Still nothing.
Just then the door sprang open for someone to exit. A bloke, wearing earphones, tried to pass, but Chrissy brought him to a halt. She flashed her ID, and articulated the word ‘police’, then showed him the photograph and asked if Iona lived there.
He looked relieved to find it had nothing to do with him then shouted above his music, ‘Second floor, middle door. I think she’s away, though. Haven’t seen her recently.’
‘Does she live alone?’
He shrugged. ‘As far as I know.’ Satisfied he’d done his bit, he replaced the sound system and headed off.
Chrissy, her toe in the door, let him leave before she went into the close. The middle door on level two was badly in need of a paint job. Chrissy stood for a moment listening, but like the neighbour said, it didn’t sound as though there was anyone inside. She checked out the locks. An upper mortice and a lower Yale. If the mortice wasn’t on, entry would be easy. She put her eye to the crack to find that the Yale was the only thing keeping her outside. Seconds later she was in, courtesy of her specially designed lock breaker, fashioned from a plastic milk carton.
The narrow hallway had three doors leading off. The first led to a small toilet and shower, the second to a combined kitchen and sitting room. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that filtered through the closed curtains. On her entry a couple of flies rose from the remnants of a meal on the coffee table, then resettled to continue gorging and laying their eggs. An empty vodka bottle lay on the floor next to the table. The room smelt stale, even unpleasant. Chrissy traced the worst of the smell to an open carton of milk on the kitchen surface. The milk was going off, but hadn’t yet reached the stage where it smelt like a decomposing body, although in this heat it wouldn’t be long before it did.
She went to take a quick look in the bedroom. There was always a chance that Iona would return, so she didn’t want to hang around too long. Chrissy wrinkled her nose. The putrid smell was in here too, maybe even stronger. By the time anyone came back, this place would be as stinking as McNab’s flat.
She glanced around the shadowy room, making out a double bed, a wardrobe and what looked like a dressing table. The curtains were thicker than in the sitting room and blocked out all light.
Chrissy reached for the switch, just as her eye caught sight of what looked like a foot sticking out from under the duvet. Shock rooted her to the spot.
Jesus. Iona was here.
She took a step backwards, as quietly as possible, then halted.
Something wasn’t right. The foot was pale, but filtered light from the hallway suggested a mottled pattern on the underside. Chrissy switched on the light.
The heaped duvet on the bed didn’t move. She caught the corner and slowly raised it. The second foot appeared, followed by the legs and buttocks, all bearing the early signs of decomposition. Chrissy let the duvet fall back down, then walked round to the head of the bed and lifted the duvet again.
And there she was. Naked and dead, an empty syringe clasped in her right hand.
Chrissy let the cover fall back down as the scent of death brought the resident flies through from the sitting room.
Once in the hall, she gathered herself together. There was no way to keep this under wraps, not like the trashed flat. McNab was in the shit, whatever she did.
Chrissy pulled out her mobile and made a call.
52
‘Her name was Iona Stewart. She was nineteen, according to her ID card.’ Chrissy flourished it in Rhona’s direction. ‘Well, at least she wasn’t under age.’ Her tone was a mixture of sarcasm and relief. McNab was in enough trouble as it was.
Chrissy’s call had brought Rhona here from Bill’s house. His decision to accompany her had been made in an instant. Rhona had watched as he’d explained to Margaret. Margaret’s reaction had been one of concern but she didn’t seem remotely put out by her husband’s departure.
As she’d wished Rhona goodbye, she’d quietly thanked her. ‘He’s had enough of killing greenfly. You’re doing me a favour,’ she’d added.
In the drive over, Rhona had filled in the details she’d missed in her earlier explanation. Bill had listened in grim silence, the full enormity of McNab’s situation becoming apparent.
‘How long has he been off the radar?’
‘I saw him in the early hours of Saturday morning, when he turned up at the flat. The last time I saw Iona was at his place late Friday evening. She arrived as I left. I received a text from him the next morning, ordering me round to his flat with my forensic bag.’ Rhona had described the scene she found there.
‘So he tried to clean up, then thought the better of it?’ Bill had said.
‘It looked like that.’
‘McNab wouldn’t stay out of contact this long.’
‘I agree.’
‘So we start looking for him.’
It was a decision she couldn’t make, but Bill certainly could. She listened as he put a c
all in to the station.
‘Sergeant Clark is out interviewing Angus Patterson,’ Bill told her when he’d hung up. ‘And we’re trying to trace McNab’s mobile.’
It was a start.
The last time she had seen Iona she had been very much alive. Alive and angry. Rhona had been angry too. And the cause of both their anger had been McNab. The body that lay on the bed was identifiable as Iona, but it wasn’t the young girl who had marched past her, her eyes flashing her annoyance.
The eyes staring blindly at her now were opaque, a clouded mirror of what they had been. The lithe body that had flounced up the stairs had become stiff through the natural process of rigor mortis and was now dissipating into flaccidness once more.
During life, her body’s core temperature had been 37 degrees. Death stopped the core mechanisms that regulated that temperature, and the body moved towards the temperature of its environment. With the warm weather, the temperature under the duvet had been warm and constant, but the state of the body and the eyes were not enough to determine the time of death accurately.
Chrissy was reading Rhona’s thoughts.
‘Did she die before, or after, McNab disappeared?’
‘She died sometime between Friday at ten when I saw her and today when you found her,’ Rhona said firmly.
‘Which puts McNab in the timeframe,’ Chrissy said.
‘We can’t avoid that.’
Chrissy looked worried.
Rhona tried to reassure her. ‘Bill’s back. He’ll sort this mess out.’
‘If Sutherland lets him,’ Chrissy said ominously.
The syringe held the remnants of a speedball cocktail. If Iona wasn’t a heroin user, the quantity of heroin alone might have killed her. When Rhona examined the body she could find no evidence that Iona had been injecting. Not in obvious places like the forearms or hidden spots between the fingers and toes. Her neck showed finger bruising, suggesting she had been forcibly gripped there, perhaps to administer the drug. If that was the case, then she hadn’t been a willing supplicant like the others who had died in a similar manner.