by Lin Anderson
He pushed the sleeping baby towards the club, ignoring the drumming of his heart and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Two medics were emerging from the entrance. Between them Esther stumbled forward, her face confused and distraught. One of the medics was telling her to get in the back of the ambulance, everything would be alright, she mustn’t worry.
A howl of fear jammed itself in Spike’s throat and he stopped dead, even though the ambulance doors were swinging shut and Esther was disappearing inside.
A lorry thundered past, waking up the baby. It started yelling. Spike shushed it, his brain trying desperately to engage, to think of something that would stop the ambulance taking Esther away, knowing it was already too late. The van doors were shut by the time Spike’s voice escaped his clenched throat.
‘Esther!’
He started to run and the baby’s cries suddenly changed to glee, as the buggy jumped the cracks in the pavement, bouncing up and down. The ambulance was forcing its way into the line of traffic, light flashing.
Fuck!
The man coming out of the entrance jumped back to avoid the buggy, landing heavily on the toes of the policeman who was just behind him. Spike remembered this guy, smiling down at him from the stage, the cat that got the cream, introducing Esther like he was responsible for her great voice. Well, the bold Sean McGuire didn’t look so happy now.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ The policeman forgot his crushed toes and followed Sean’s intent stare.
Spike didn’t like the interest he was getting. He bent over the baby, who had returned to crying, pulled the sobbing bundle from the pram and held it close, shielding his face with the coloured hat. He desperately wanted to ask what had happened. Whatever it was, it looked like McGuire was getting the blame. Spike tried not to be too glad about that. With McGuire lifted, he had little chance of finding out where they’d taken Esther. He watched in silence as McGuire was directed into the back of the police car.
As luck would have it, the doorman came out as Spike was persuading the baby back into the buggy.
‘Heh!’
A good doorman never forgets a face, especially a troublemaker’s face. The doorman remembered Spike.
‘What do you want, son?’
‘Where have they taken Esther?’
The doorman looked at the baby. You could guess what he was thinking. The wean must be the lassie’s. The boy was its minder. She went singing to earn the money for dope.
‘Try the local psycho ward, son,’ he shrugged, ‘that’s where they all end up.’
Spike didn’t answer, knowing if Esther was headed for the mental hospital he would have to get her out fast, before they pumped her full of sedatives and sectioned her.
Chapter 12
‘Are you sure your stomach can stand it? I wouldn’t want you passing out again.’
‘I’m fine,’ Rhona said firmly. ‘Let’s take a look.’
‘What, now?’ Chrissy looked puzzled.
‘Why not?’
‘Well I thought…’
Chrissy short of words was a sight to behold.
‘You thought what?’ Rhona knew what she was going to say, but she would let her say it all the same.
Chrissy said: ‘I thought you would want to talk to Sean first.’
‘Sean can wait.’
Rhona didn’t want to think about Sean at this moment, or what had happened at the club. She would have to deal with that later.
After she’d recovered from her faint, Phillips had told her that the investigation surrounding the foot was being taken over by the MOD and she was not to discuss the matter any further. Rhona reminded him that this was Scotland and under Scots law, the Procurator Fiscal for the area decided whether a crime had been committed and instructed the police to investigate. Phillips quoted the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2005.
Rhona shut up at this point. Whoever the foot belonged to, it looked like a potential embarrassment to the MOD.
She arrived at the lab full of righteous indignation which Chrissy fuelled even further with the story of the removed foot and samples.
‘Bill says he can do nothing. Sissons won’t talk about it and I wasn’t allowed to process DNA samples from the possible relatives.’
‘The foot didn’t come from a fisherman.’
‘But I thought if the MOD was worried about a submarine …’
‘I suspect that’s not the issue any more. They’re worried about something else.’
‘Who do they think it is?’
Rhona shook her head. ‘Phillips started quoting the Antiterrorism Act.’
‘Bloody hell.’
They both considered the implication of that.
Chrissy’s face took on a wry look.
‘They don’t know we have the hand.’
The vision of Phillips’ face when he heard that she had the hand before he did almost made up for Rhona’s irritation. She reached for her lab coat and pulled it on over her travel suit and whisky-splashed legs.
‘You smell like a drunk,’ Chrissy told her.
‘Always the kind word.’
The two women looked at one another, silently acknowledging their pleasure at seeing each other.
‘Okay, you’d better show me where you hid it.’
Chrissy, Rhona had to admit, had been pretty devious. In fact Chrissy and Bill Wilson were looking like the perfect criminal team.
They always said when the good went bad, they were very good at it.
The hand was stashed in a back room behind the main lab. Chrissy had pinched (or borrowed) a wee fridge from somewhere and the hand was resting on the middle shelf. Rhona pulled on her gloves and took it out, trying not to think of disintegrating boiled chicken.
‘We can get it down to pathology as soon as we’ve sampled,’ Chrissy said with a worried face.
‘Of course.’
It was just as well she had known nothing of the hand when she was interviewed (or interrogated) by the smarmy Phillips. It was enough that she revealed she’d heard of Dr MacAulay. That in itself had taken some explaining.
Fainting and breaking his crystal glass had helped, although she wasn’t totally convinced Phillips hadn’t put some truth drug in her drink.
One thing was sure, Rhona hadn’t mentioned Andre’s name.
A body decomposes in air twice as quickly as it does in water. The left hand had been in water about the same length of time as the foot. The information from Bill was that the woman had thrown a stick for her dog and it had not returned with it. Instead it had stood among the rocks and barked until she came for a look. It could have been worse. The dog might have retrieved the hand, tossing the decomposing tissues in the air. This way it was still in one piece.
‘How long before the MOD finds out?’
‘Bill thinks you’ve got twenty-four hours. They established a crime scene. Appointed a crime scene manager. Went through the usual procedures. The hand wasn’t necessarily linked to the foot, but people on Skye are angry about the missing fishermen. They think bits of their bodies are floating about. The local constabulary contacted Bill directly.’
Twenty-four hours was long enough for her to process the hand. If it had grabbed at something before the body hit the water, there could be fragments below the nails. Rope, fibre, wood splinters, paint from the rails, polish from a deck; maybe hair or skin from an assailant.
During her time in California, Rhona had learned that the disappearance of Dr Fitzgerald MacAulay was a thorn in the side of both the American and British governments. Saying his name during her interview with Phillips had been foolish. But better to come out with the truth. Wasn’t that what Scots were good at. Saying it as it was and watching the fallout?
Phillips’ reaction had convinced her that she was right. They were looking for MacAulay. The foot might not be his. But they were going to make sure.
There was no way that Rhona would be able to prove the hand was MacAulay’s since she wo
uld not be allowed access to his DNA profile, even if the MOD had one.
Fingerprints might be the answer, although it would take time to remove the fragile flakes of skin from the tips of the digits and stabilise them sufficiently to allow prints to be taken. But what if there was a record somewhere on the hand’s owner?
It was worth a try.
Rigg beach was on the east coast of Skye, looking over Raasay Sound. It seemed likely the hand and foot belonged together.
Three hours later, Rhona had the nylon membrane with the invisible blotted DNA ready for incubation overnight.
The dissolving nails had revealed a hair, definitely human. It might belong to an assailant. She almost whooped for joy when she found both microscopic fragments of metal and some fibres.
The samples of metal fragments from the foot had been removed from the lab before they were properly examined. Her slides of the rope fibres found on it had also been removed. Even if she took a DNA sample from the hand, she couldn’t compare it to the foot. So whatever she did now wouldn’t confirm that they belonged to the same person. But at least she could try and find out how the hand had become separated from the body.
The fibres could be from a fisherman’s net. Then again, they could be from a rope used to tie a body to the sea bed. Trawl nets were mostly high density polyethylene.
Her examination revealed that the fibres from the wound weren’t from fishing net. They were manila, a natural fibre still used for mooring and anchor lines.
You had to whip or tape the ends to keep them from unravelling. Manila had a minimum of stretch and was very strong, but it also shrank when wet and rotted. As a tied body decomposed, could the action of the sea and a rope be enough to break it up? Rhona recorded her results then got cleaned up and headed for her laptop, trying to ignore her brain’s desire to shut down for a twelve-hour sleep.
The Caledonian MacBrayne website told her what she wanted to know. A ferry left Sconser on Skye for Raasay every hour Monday to Saturday. It took fifteen minutes to cross Raasay Sound.
If the body had worked its way free from a sunken boat, then the propeller of the ferry or a yacht could have mangled it and sent the bits on their separate ways.
Some research on a propeller company website gave her the information she needed. A propeller of a ferry or similar sized fishing boat would likely be a mix of bronze and nickel. Bronze was an alloy of copper and tin. It was strong, durable and easily workable, hot or cold.
If the tiny particles were of a similar mix, that would suggest a propeller had cut up the body, and not a machete or samurai sword. Chemical analysis would confirm the constituents of the metal, but it wouldn’t tell whether someone had been murdered. A propeller was a better weapon than a machete, with its knife-like blades rotating four thousand times per minute.
The fisherman trawled a foot instead of fish. The Rigg woman got a hand instead of her dog’s stick. According to Chrissy, the local police were on the lookout for a torso. The torso could provide a lot more information.
Spotting decomposing bodies washed up on idyllic beaches was not exactly what the Scottish Tourist Board had in mind for its visitors. The sooner the remainder of the body was retrieved, the better.
The call came through from Dr Sissons as Rhona was abandoning the lab for her beckoning bed.
On the way upstairs to his office, she made up her mind to say as little as possible. It didn’t matter now if the hand’s location was common knowledge.
But Dr Sissons didn’t want to talk about the hand. It took five minutes of prevarication; he was even forced to ask her about the LA conference; then he got round to it.
He gave her an envelope.
‘What’s this?’
He waited while she opened it and scanned the contents. Someone had informed the appropriate authorities that she was in a relationship with a suspected drug dealer. There had also been a complaint from the MOD regarding the mishandling of a specimen. She was required to take some leave until both matters have been resolved.
She should have known it. O’Brien had been oozing selfsatisfaction from the moment he’d spotted her at the door of the jazz club.
Her relationship with the jazz club had already been leaked to the press, Dr Sissons told her.
O’Brien had been quick off the mark. Revenge for her turning down his sexual advances.
‘I’m sure this will be cleared up quickly. I, for one, have the utmost faith in your professionalism, Dr MacLeod.’
It was unusual to have Sissons on her side.
‘Thanks. How long?’ Rhona asked, already knowing the answer.
‘As long as it takes.’
It was a revelation to see the usually unflappable Sissons looking both uncomfortable and embarrassed.
The kitchen was filled with the half light of a dwindling day. Some attempt had been made to clear up; the area round the sink was neatly stacked with unwashed dishes.
Rhona pulled open the fridge and took out the statutory bottle of white kept for emergencies.
There was a message flashing on the ansaphone. Sean’s voice was calm. He would be back by ten. They would talk then.
Rhona took the wine bottle and glass to the bedroom. The room was the same as she’d left it what seemed like a century before. The saxophone was in the corner on its stand. Rhona picked up a shirt and hung it over the back of the chair. Below it lay a piece of paper.
She unfolded it. It was a songsheet. The music had been scribbled by hand.
Below were words, scored out and rewritten many times.
There’s something inside me
A feeling so strong
No shadow can darken
It’s here I belong
Dark clouds may gather
Rain start to fall
But I’ll be here
When words try to hurt me
Lost dreams fill my mind
A vision of darkness I left far behind …
It was titled Esther’s Song.
Rhona took a mouthful of wine then stripped and slid between the sheets, trying not to think who might have been there during her absence.
But the bed smelt only of Sean. Rhona pulled the duvet close. Cocooned in its feathers, she drifted off and dreamed she was drowning in a shoal of rotting flesh.
Chapter 13
The hospital was a half dozen buildings spread out among the trees and busy car parks.
An old guy with slack lips shuffled across the road to meet Spike and stare into the buggy without speaking.
Spike had stopped at the chippie and bought the baby a sausage. It was holding on to it, gnawing the end intermittently with the concentration of the half-starved.
Spike pushed the pram past the guy and headed for the sign showing the various wards. The guard on the gate had told him ward sixteen was the most likely. Anyone brought in on an emergency would end up there until the doctor on duty had seen them.
‘She a relative of yours, son?’
Spike nodded. ‘My sister,’ he rehearsed, knowing a ward doctor would not be so easily fooled.
Ward sixteen was a four-storey affair with an automatic door. Just inside, a pretend conservatory contained three people smoking like it was their last fag; the floor at their feet was littered with dog-ends. Nobody looked up as Spike walked past.
He took the lift to the third floor. A charge nurse asked his name and tickled the child under the chin.
Spike took a chance that they had extracted Esther’s name from her and added his own to the front. The charge nurse smiled and took him down the corridor.
Esther was in a single room, lying staring up at the ceiling. Spike left the baby at the door and went in.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’ She lifted her head and swung her feet over the side of the bed.
Spike went over and put his arms about her, breathing in the softness of her hair.
‘You okay?’
She nodded. Her eyes were heavy, but they were focusing on
him and not on the voices.
‘We’ve got to get you out of here.’
The kid was gurgling from the corridor. Spike pulled the pram inside and Esther smiled at the mad hat and the half-eaten sausage.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘What for?’
Spike couldn’t look at her. Instead he pulled her jacket out of the cupboard and helped her put it on.
‘I’m going to tell them the baby’s yours. Okay?’
She looked puzzled.
‘We’re going to walk him round the grounds for ten minutes, then I’ve told them I’ll bring you back.’
She seemed scared, so he explained.
‘There’s a taxi rank on the main road. We’ll get one to the bus station. We’ll go away for a couple of days, until this blows over.’
‘What about the baby?’
‘He’s coming with us.’
She was frightened again.
‘Spike, we can’t take him,’ she whispered.
He told her what he’d found.
‘I’m not leaving him with those bastards.’
The charge nurse made him sign a form and put an address on it. The doctor would be round at six and he had to have Esther back by then. Spike agreed to everything.
They walked past the conservatory with no plants. The three residents were still at it, their pile of dog-ends the only thing growing in there.
Esther pushed the pram.
‘I’ve stashed some gear at the bus station in a locker,’ Spike said.
Esther nodded and bounced the buggy over a crack in the pavement. The pom-pom on his coloured hat bobbed wildly as the little boy gurgled with pleasure.
Spike stared out as Glasgow dropped behind them and the scrubby verges got greener. The bus was half-full. A woman across from him was talking quietly in Gaelic to her husband. Spike tried not to listen, but her words dropped into his ears like the soft rush of water on the shore.
A sudden pain gripped his chest. Christ, he must be mad heading north. What the hell was he thinking of? He looked round, sure that Esther would hear the pounding of his heart, but she was asleep and dreaming, her eyes moving behind the grey sockets. He took her hand and she gave a little sigh and dropped her head on his shoulder.