Final Cut

by Lin Anderson

  She nodded and he fetched fresh glasses from the cupboard. He numbed his sore mouth with whisky then set about the pepperoni pizza. A lifetime had passed since he’d eaten roasted piglet at the Russian Restaurant. In retrospect he wished Grogorovitch had poisoned him instead of putting him in the hands of Solonik.

  They ate in companionable silence, taking slices from alternate boxes. When McNab had taken the edge off his hunger, he gave Rhona a run-through of the events in the restaurant and afterwards. He avoided telling her about Solonik’s party pieces, although he suspected she could read between the lines. Repeating even a sanitised version of the story made him nauseous.

  ‘There was another guy in the room with Solonik but I never saw his face, just heard his voice. He didn’t sound Russian; his voice was neutral, well educated, without an accent. I don’t think he was in the car when Solonik picked me up. They put something over my head so I don’t know where they took me.’ McNab knew he should be asking himself the usual questions. How long did they drive for? Were there any sounds that could help pinpoint the location? But when he tried to think back, his mind shut down.

  ‘Have you reported this?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’d rather Solonik and his boss considered me dead for the moment.’ He could hear his heart pounding so loudly it sounded as though the organ had taken up residence in his ears. He felt again the excruciating pressure of Solonik’s nails on his eyeballs. McNab raised the glass to his lips and forced the whisky down his tightened throat.

  ‘I shopped Brogan to save myself. Only that didn’t save me. The illegals did.’

  ‘Brogan should never have got involved with the Russians,’ said Rhona.

  ‘Maybe he had no choice.’

  ‘There’s always a choice.’

  McNab was well aware of that. He’d chosen to point the finger at Brogan in an effort to save himself.

  Rhona was observing him with concern. ‘You think it was Misha that told them you were at the restaurant?’

  He didn’t like her use of Grigorovitch’s first name. His response was sharp.

  ‘Who the fuck else would it be except Misha?’

  His tone had stung her. McNab wanted to apologise but couldn’t bring himself to. He tried to take another slug of the whisky but could barely raise his arm from the table. His body was seizing up. He would have to move now or he was finished.

  He dragged himself to his feet.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘McCarthy mentioned a boy. He said, I didn’t kill the boy.’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘Exactly. I tried to get more out of him but he clammed up. Said he wanted to talk to his prison visitor.’

  ‘Emma said there was another body.’

  ‘And nobody believed her, least of all me.’

  McNab was thinking about Emma. Those big trusting eyes.

  ‘What if we’re wrong, and Emma’s disappearance does have something to do with finding the remains?’ Rhona said.

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

  43

  Daniel had been surprised when he asked him to leave as soon as the meal was over, but there had been little choice, not after the phone call. It would not be appropriate for Daniel to be seen here. As a prison visitor he was well regarded. Entertaining young prison officers in his home might be hard to explain.

  He recorked the unfinished second bottle of wine. Disappointment at the shortening of Daniel’s visit had been replaced by excitement. He feared nothing from the police visit. He had no reason to. They were coming to see him either because of his voluntary connection with McCarthy or concerning yesterday’s letter to the governor.

  He’d told DS McNab to come at around six. That gave him plenty of time to clear up after the meal and remove the item from the workshop.

  As he washed the dishes, he mulled over what this meeting might bring. He’d always known that his proximity to McCarthy, the endless hours listening to the moron’s attempts at conversation, would pay off eventually.

  If DS McNab had done his homework he would be aware just how reliable he was. Prison visitor, Justice of the Peace, member of the Children’s Panel. All the people he had helped, especially the children. And he’d done his best to help McCarthy. Much more than others in his position would have done.

  He rinsed the wineglasses and put them to one side. The truth was he welcomed this visit and was prepared for it. And now that any possibility of being recognised had been circumvented, he felt quite calm about it. No, not calm, more quietly exhilarated.

  Daniel had complained a little. Said he’d had too much wine to drive home. But he’d remained adamant. When the young guard looked like arguing, he’d revealed the source of the phone call. He had been taken aback by that. Apparently DS McNab had visited McCarthy only that morning and Daniel had been his point of contact. The policeman had looked a mess, according to Daniel, as though he’d been in a fight.

  They had said their goodbyes at the door. Daniel had hung back, obviously keen that they should make further arrangements before his departure. He had not obliged. They had had lunch together. Daniel was interested in his work and he had been kind enough to show him it. That was all.

  Now he looked out on the darkness of the garden, imagining the distant trees. It would have been better if the funeral had already taken place, but there would be time enough when the snow melted.

  He dried his hands and put on a jacket against the cold, before he opened the back door and stepped out into the starry stillness.

  The temperature in the workshop was well below freezing. Moisture had leaked from the plastic wrapping and frozen hard on the surface of the workbench and the floor below. He contemplated bringing out a kettle of boiling water and rinsing it clean, then decided not to. The boiling water would only freeze and make the floor slippery.

  The bundle was light in his arms. He went through the little room at the back where he stored his forensic materials, and opened the door to the cellar.

  44

  ‘If there was a guy on the road, why didn’t he call an ambulance or the police?’

  McNab was right. Any decent person would at least call for help, unless he was somewhere he shouldn’t be.

  ‘And when the remains were discovered …’ said Rhona.

  ‘He could be placed by Claire at the scene.’

  They’d been going round and round like this for what seemed like hours. None of it made any sense. Not if McCarthy was guilty of the crime he was locked up for.

  They’d already been through the Mollie Curtis file. Slater, a DS at the time, had been the one to nail Colin McCarthy for the murder. The evidence he’d compiled on the case was comprehensive, so it was no wonder he was convicted, even without a body. The only anomaly was his lack of prior convictions. A female neighbour of his had complained that McCarthy had exposed himself to her, but the accusation was made only after Mollie’s disappearance.

  McCarthy had been ideal suspect fodder. A loner, regarded as odd, even a bit simple. No doubt the local kids made fun of him. He was ‘of low IQ and easily led’, according to the psychologist who’d interviewed him, but she had offered no reason as to why this should make him a killer. It appeared that McCarthy had moved from a single incident of exposure (assuming the woman’s accusation was true) to killing a child in a matter of weeks. Not impossible, but certainly unusual. Child killers usually turned out to have a long list of prior convictions, often for sexual offences. His confession had been the clincher, even though he’d tried to retract it later. And Mollie’s blood had been on his clothes.

  There had been nothing in the file about a missing boy.

  McNab checked his watch and logged out, drawing himself painfully to his feet.

  ‘Let’s see what this prison visitor, Hugh Swanson, has to say.’

  McNab sat stiffly in the passenger seat. At first he’d wanted to drive but had eventually conceded defeat and let Rhona take the wheel. His attempts to get in the car
would have been comic had they not looked so agonising. Every turn in the road made him grit his teeth.

  Mr Swanson had readily agreed to their visit despite it being Christmas. Apparently he’d even sounded keen. ‘Another sad bastard with nothing better to do than work on Christmas Day,’ was McNab’s take on it.

  The dual carriageway was relatively quiet. The remains of the snow had turned to a thin film of slush that splattered their windscreen with each passing car. Twenty minutes later they were free of the city and passing through open farmland.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ McNab told Rhona as they drew up at the front door.

  She was tempted to tell him that his face was more likely to scare Swanson than she was, but let it go.

  He knocked a couple of times, then they heard the sound of carpeted footsteps in the hallway before the front door was opened.

  Rhona noticed that Swanson coped well with McNab’s battered face. He was obviously a polite man, someone who didn’t gawp at the afflicted. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, sturdily built, his hair going thin on top. He regarded them with a pleasant smile.

  ‘Mr Swanson? I’m DS McNab, and this is Dr Rhona MacLeod from Forensic Services.’

  Swanson gave Rhona an appraising look and held out his hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, Dr MacLeod. I take a keen interest in your area of work. Fascinating, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, I know the television programmes exaggerate things somewhat, but I enjoy them nonetheless.’

  He ushered them through the hall and into a fair-sized sitting room, comfortably furnished and very tidy. Rhona thought briefly of her own flat. Minimalist as she was, she had never achieved this degree of neatness. Swanson indicated they should take a seat. He offered them coffee or tea, but McNab declined.

  ‘I’m sorry to take up your time on Christmas Day, but I wanted to ask you a few questions about Colin McCarthy.’

  ‘Ah, Colin.’ Their host looked suitably concerned.

  ‘I believe you’re a regular visitor of his?’

  ‘I’ve been a prison visitor for about ten years. Colin is one of my clients.’

  ‘Has he ever spoken to you about his crime?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘What has he said?’

  ‘That he’s sorry.’

  ‘Sorry he did it?’

  Swanson nodded. ‘It troubles him a great deal.’

  ‘Really. When I interviewed McCarthy today he insisted he did not murder Mollie Curtis.’

  ‘Colin wishes he hadn’t killed Mollie. Sometimes he even convinces himself that’s true.’

  He clasped his hands together, drawing Rhona’s attention to them. They were small and chubby. Both index fingers sported a waterproof plaster.

  ‘McCarthy has confessed all this to you?’ McNab asked him.

  He nodded. ‘Many times.’ Then he looked puzzled. ‘But you must be aware of his original confession, Sergeant?’

  ‘Which he subsequently retracted.’

  ‘I’m afraid there is no doubt that Colin murdered Mollie Curtis. And now there is the other issue I spoke of in my letter to the governor.’

  ‘What issue?’ snapped McNab.

  Swanson looked confused. ‘I thought that was why you were here, Sergeant. I wrote to the governor on Saturday after I visited Colin. The poor man was in a dreadful state. He’d been told you were coming to interview him. I tried to reassure him, of course, but finding those remains had brought it all back.’

  ‘McCarthy told you the remains were Mollie’s?’

  Swanson shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then what was the issue that compelled you to write to the governor?’

  The man took a moment to compose himself. ‘It might mean nothing, but Colin began to talk about a boy. I was concerned he might have harmed another child. One we don’t know about.’

  A thin film of sweat glistened on McNab’s bruised brow. He leaned forward, his mouth a taut line. ‘What exactly did McCarthy say?’

  Swanson thought for a moment. ‘That the boy wasn’t his fault. When I asked what he meant, he wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Has McCarthy any friends on the outside?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, and I’ve been visiting him from the beginning of his incarceration. I am his only visitor, that’s why I can’t stop going, although sometimes I would like to. Colin is psychologically damaged and simple in the extreme, Detective Sergeant. Not the easiest of clients.’

  Swanson was fiddling with the plaster on his left hand.

  ‘Cut yourself carving the Christmas turkey?’ asked Rhona.

  He shook his head with a smile. ‘A hazard of the job, I’m afraid. I work with glass.’

  Rhona felt McNab give a start beside her.

  ‘Engraving?’ She kept her voice even.

  ‘I specialise in stained glass, repairing church windows mostly, but I also create my own designs.’ He looked pleased by her interest. ‘It’s a passion of mine, actually.’

  McNab made a sound that might have been construed as indifference and made to rise, as though the interview was over.

  ‘My father was a keen photographer of church windows,’ Rhona improvised as they moved towards the door. ‘Are you working on anything at the moment?’

  ‘An American benefactor has donated money to the local church for the restoration of a window. I’ve agreed to carry out the work.’

  ‘How interesting. I’d love to see it.’

  Swanson seemed pleased by the idea. ‘If you don’t mind a freezing workshop, I could show you before you leave?’

  Outside, the temperature had dropped and the moon shone in a black liquid sky. The snow crunched under their feet as it froze hard. Swanson unlocked the workshop door and flicked on a light.

  The workshop was as neat as the house and as cold as a morgue, Rhona thought as she stepped over the threshold. A three-metre workbench was backed by a wall rack filled with art glass. The bright overhead light reflected off a patchwork of colours; blues and reds, oranges and greens.

  ‘It’s over here. Be careful, it’s a little slippy. I spilt some water when I washed the window.’

  He led her to a stained-glass panel lying on the left-hand section of the workbench. It depicted a figure kneeling in prayer. Above its head was a smaller figure made up of red fragments.

  ‘I’m not sure who the main character is, but the smaller one is probably meant to represent a seraph. In the Bible, seraphim are the highest rank of angels. They’re associated with burning, so are always depicted in red glass.’ Mr Swanson was evidently enjoying himself.

  Rhona surveyed the panel admiringly. ‘I suppose every picture tells a story?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what makes the work so interesting.’

  A second work lay next to the panel. This one was more abstract, with no clear central image. The swirls of colour were powerful and at the same time slightly unsettling.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘One of my own designs.’

  ‘It’s quite beautiful,’ Rhona said honestly. ‘Particularly the opal glass segment. What does the image represent?’

  Swanson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing in particular. I just like mixing colours.’

  She sniffed the air. ‘The scent of putty always reminds me of my childhood.’

  ‘Linseed oil is used in the cement for the windows,’ he explained. ‘You smell of it for hours even if you wash your hands well. Good job I don’t have a wife to complain about it.’

  Swanson led them outside and closed and locked the workshop door. McNab thanked him for his time.

  ‘You’re very welcome, although I fear I wasn’t much help.’

  ‘On the contrary. If McCarthy reveals anything more during your visits, you’ll let us know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  When they reached the car, McNab opened the door, then turned back, as though he’d just remembered something.

  ‘I suppose you
know how we discovered Mollie’s remains?’

  Swanson shook his head.

  ‘A car went off the road near by. One of the occupants of the car was a child. She found the skull when she wandered into the woods.’

  ‘How awful.’ He looked genuinely distressed.

  Rhona wondered what McNab was playing at. The police had gone out of their way not to tell the public about Emma.

  ‘I don’t know if you caught the news bulletin about a woman and her young daughter who disappeared from their home some time on Friday night in suspicious circumstances?’ McNab continued.

  ‘I think I do remember something …’

  ‘That was Emma, the girl who found the skull.’

  Swanson now looked horrified. ‘You don’t think their disappearance has anything to do with finding the remains?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  The older man floundered a little under McNab’s penetrating gaze. ‘I just thought when you mentioned the girl’s part in discovering the body, then her disappearance …’ He tailed off.

  ‘Claire Watson reported seeing a man on the road prior to the crash. She thought he’d come from the woods.’

  ‘Really? Is that important?’

  ‘It might be, if McCarthy had an accomplice.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, Detective Sergeant, McCarthy was and is a loner.’

  ‘That’s what bothers me.’

  Rhona could see that McNab had rattled the man.

  ‘I don’t understand, Sergeant.’

  ‘Colin McCarthy can’t drive, Mr Swanson. So how did he transport Mollie’s body to those woods?’

  45

  Swanson waited until the car’s headlights were out of sight before he went inside and locked the door. The anger he’d held in check now rose to consume him. He gave it free rein, relishing every violent image of what he could and would do to both McNab and the woman. They thought they were so smart, springing information on him, trying to catch him out. There was nothing, nothing to connect him to the remains in the wood. There was no one to connect him to that night. Not any more. He had absolutely nothing to be concerned about.

  That DS was a sly bastard. Bringing up the subject of the bitch and her daughter’s disappearance like that. His answer replayed itself in his head and he smashed his hand down on the nearby coffee table. That was the forensic woman’s fault. She’d tricked him by pretending to be interested in his work. And he’d allowed her to enter the workshop. He’d shown her the window. He thought about her reaction. The stupid bitch hadn’t a clue what was hidden in the picture. And even if she had made out the shape of a child, there was nothing wrong with that. He suddenly recalled the intensity of her gaze. She was a forensic scientist and they noticed things others didn’t. But there was nothing to notice. Nothing but glass and the smell of putty.