Torch

by Lin Anderson

  Praise for Torch

  Scottish born Anderson’s work is sharper than a pathologist’s scalpel. One of the best crime series to emerge from Scotland since Ian Rankin’s Rebus. Shari Low, The Daily Record

  Just a few pages in and there’s a brutal murder, arson attacks in Glasgow and Edinburgh, a fire investigator with an alcohol problem, threatening notes and a detective laid up with a heart attack - and we haven’t even got to the heroine yet.

  Not only is forensic scientist Dr Rhona MacLeod’s workload piling up, but there are sure signs of a troubled love-life and the nerve-wracking prospect of a reunion with the son she gave away.

  Torch

  by

  Lin Anderson

  Copyright 2011 Lin Anderson

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is available in print at most online retailers

  Discover other titles by Lin Anderson at Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk

  Chapter 1

  It was starting to rain. Emperor looked up reproachfully as an icy drop hit his muzzle.

  ‘Okay, boy.’

  Karen slipped the penny whistle into her pack and rolled up the blanket. She counted the money in the hat. Shit! Ten pence short.

  The Alsatian was pacing, anxious to be away, anticipating a meal. Karen set off head down, into the rain. There was an empty building near the west end of Princes Street. She had been sleeping behind the hoarding for the past couple of weeks.

  The dog started to jump about as they got near Burger King; tongue hanging out, eyes bright with excitement. The door opened and a guy came out, stumbling over Emperor, nearly dropping the precious cardboard box. He smiled when he saw her.

  ‘Hey Karen! You eating?’

  It was the Big Issue seller from outside Waverley Station. He’d told her his name. Jaz. She liked that, to be called after music. He’d asked her name and she’d told him. But that was all.

  Karen shook her head.

  ‘What about Emperor?’

  ‘He’s eaten.’

  Emperor was sniffing the box, so she started to walk on.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ Jaz shouted after her.

  When she was far enough away, she hugged Emperor and he licked her face.

  ‘I promise, Emps. Tomorrow. First thing. Ten pence more, and it’s yours.’

  The hoarding was plastered with posters advertising Edinburgh’s New Year. She waited till no-one was looking, then slipped in behind, swept the litter off the step and spread out the blanket. Emperor waited patiently while she settled herself, then lay down beside her.

  Through a hole in the hoarding, an illuminated Edinburgh castle looked down on her like a picture in a fairy tale.

  When she opened her eyes, Emperor was alert beside her, his ears pricked up, a low growl in his throat. Someone was moving about behind the door.

  ‘Easy boy,’ she whispered.

  Karen waited, a hand on Emperor’s head. A security guard would check the door then go away and they could go back to sleep. As the door opened, she quickly reached for her pack and blanket.

  ‘Go, Emps.’

  She was about to follow when she was grabbed from behind.

  ‘Not so fucking fast!’

  Emps had heard her scream and was coming back, but he was too late. The man yanked her inside and kicked the door shut in the dog’s face.

  ‘Look what I found.’

  The other two men turned and stared at her. The smile on the blond one’s face made her sick. The one in the leather jacket was excited about something, but it wasn’t her. Behind them, Emperor was barking and scraping at the door.

  Leather jacket said: ‘Get the dog!’

  The blond one picked up a metal bar and opened the door, just enough to let Emps get his head in. The agonised yelp as the bar hit the dog’s muzzle brought Karen to her knees.

  Now he was finished with the dog, the blond guy was looking her up and down. ‘Seems a shame to waste her.’

  Leather jacket was walking away, his mind on something else. ‘Make it fast,’ he shouted.

  The one holding her laughed. ‘Only way he knows.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  Karen felt spittle hit her face as he climbed on, pining her arms to the floor. The one behind pulled up her jumper and stuffed it in her mouth. She wasn’t going to scream anyway. If Emperor was dead she didn’t care what they did to her.

  When she came to, the room was thick with smoke.

  She dragged herself onto her knees and crawled towards the door, hauling herself up by the handle, praying it wasn’t locked. When she pulled it open, a long cold surge of oxygen smacked her face.

  As the air rushed past, there was a high whistling sound like a train going through a tunnel. Seconds later the back draft hit her, demolishing the hoarding, propelling her forward in a ball of flame.

  Chapter 2

  Dr Rhona MacLeod switched on the data projector, inserted the crime scene tape in the video recorder and pressed ‘Play’.

  The output on the large wall-screen was as good as if she had been at the cinema. Police photographers routinely recorded a body’s position and injuries, sometimes catching those who moved quietly in the background - the scene of crime officers, the pathologist, the forensic expert like herself.

  The body on the screen was that of a young male. He lay in the pugilistic attitude typical of fire victims; the arms extended from the shoulders, the forearms partially flexed in a boxer’s stance. In close up, his skin had odd white patches left unburned, although intense heat had ruptured his skull and split his ankle joint, so that the right foot was free of his leg.

  She had examined fluid from his blistered skin but the results were puzzling. Some behaved as if they had been made after death, with little fluid to extract and no positive protein reaction on test tube heating. Others behaved as though they had been created while he was still alive.

  It was common for murderers to believe they could cover a death by fire, but fire did not consume everything. Even the slightest traces of accelerant could be sampled and identified. The difficulty lay in deciding whether a chemical detected at the scene was there normally, or for the purpose of starting the fire.

  Rhona stopped the tape and switched it for the home video Detective Inspector Bill Wilson had sent round. While the hullabaloo was going on round the burning Glasgow tenement, someone in the crowd had had the sense or the morbid curiosity to capture it on video.

  She might have been watching a television drama, except that the expressions of fear and determination on the faces of the firemen were real and the flames that roared from the roof of this building were not computer enhanced.

  The owner of the camcorder had zoomed in on a couple on the second floor. The man was holding a baby out of the window in a desperate attempt to help it breathe. The look of terror on the woman’s face still distressed Rhona even though she knew all three members of the household had escaped unharmed.

  Rhona concentrated on the flames, their colour, shape, direction, and intensity. The characteristics of a fire could provide clues to its origin. She played the tape through once more, pausing periodically, taking notes, knowing someone in the fire department would be doing exactly the same thing.

  Chrissy McInsh, her scientific officer, stuck her red head round the door at seven.

  ‘I’m starving. Fancy something to eat?

  ‘We could try the new Chinese takeaway on Gibson Street?

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  Rhona shrugged. ‘You decide.’

  While Chrissy went to order, she began to clear away the debris of the day. She checked her email once more in case there was a message from Chemistry about the tests on the fire debris, knowing it was too soon. This was the time in an investigation when patience was mo
st needed. And when she had it least. Outside mid-winter darkness enveloped the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery and the neighbouring park. The park was frequented by families during the day, but it became the location for a different type of pleasure after dark. Tonight the ill lit paths were deserted.

  There was one message in her inbox. No subject title, and she didn’t recognise the address. She contemplated dumping it. IT services advised the deletion of any unofficial looking mail, in an attempt to cut down on the spread of viruses, but curiosity got the better of her.

  It was a string of capital letters.

  I C H B U N R T E B T H

  She’d had two like this already and deleted them both. She tried for a couple of minutes to make the characters into a word, then gave up and saved it. If another one arrived, she would try and puzzle it out.

  ‘It’s got to involve drugs,’ Rhona said.

  Chrissy looked up from her lemon chicken.

  ‘Because in that part of Glasgow it usually does?’

  Rhona nodded. ‘If I’m right and the blistering on the victim’s wrists was nothing to do with the fire, what does that suggest to you?’

  Chrissy shook her head. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Drug barons like to control their patch. Beating up and torture is a way of doing that.’

  ‘Dr Sissons said the death looked like a heart attack.’

  ‘Or a heroin overdose.’

  Chrissy pushed her food away.

  ‘Can we leave the post mortem for tonight? My stomach feels funny.’

  ‘I think it’s the chicken.’ Rhona made a face and gestured towards the bin.

  The flat was in darkness when Rhona got home. Sean would have already left for his gig at the Ultimate Jazz Club. The ansaphone was flashing in the hall and there was a note beside it. There was fresh pasta in the fridge if she was hungry. He’d see her at the club.

  She pressed the button to save the messages and went through to the kitchen, wishing she hadn’t succumbed to the Chinese takeaway and waited till she got home.

  A full bottle of red wine was uncorked and waiting for her. Sean never drank before a gig. Playing the saxophone was his high. That, sex and cooking, in equal proportions and sometimes at the same time.

  She opened the bedroom window a little and pulled the curtains, got undressed and climbed into bed.

  Rhona felt the cat before she heard it; a long soft tail brushing her face, then the press of paws as it settled on her chest. She opened her mouth to protest and a hand slid over it, smothering her complaint. The cat jumped with an angry miaow to the floor.

  ‘Ssh now. You can’t blame the cat for lying where it did.’

  ‘Sean!’

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly three.’ He touched her lips, his own cold.

  ‘You’re frozen,’ she protested.

  ‘You can warm me up.’

  He quickly pulled off his clothes. She caught a glimpse of chest, of thigh. The duvet flicked back, there was a rush of cool air and then Sean pressed his naked body against hers. She shivered with pleasure and cold.

  ‘You shouldn’t go to bed and leave the window open,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘We look down on a convent. God will protect us.’

  He laughed. ‘Who’s the Irish Catholic here?’ and buried his face in her neck.

  His chilled lips travelled downwards to draw in her nipple and suckle it. A ripple of anticipation encircled her hips. She felt him stir against her and traced his thigh with her fingers.

  He flipped her, pinning her below him.

  ‘I want to play a tune.’

  She smiled. ‘What’s wrong with your saxophone?’

  ‘Your notes are sweeter.’

  Rhona rolled over and flicked on the light.

  ‘I was going to tell you,’ Sean said evenly.

  ‘When? After we had sex?’ Rhona asked accusingly.

  ‘I only got confirmation this morning.’ He was placating her as usual. ‘You said you were coming to the club. I would have told you then.’

  Rhona was silent.

  ‘It’s a good gig, Rhona. I’ll only be away a few days.’

  ‘I know. It’s just...’

  ‘What?’

  He waited, sensing something was wrong.

  ‘I’ve arranged to meet Liam,’ she said quietly.

  The name of her son hung between them.

  ‘He’s coming north to visit a school friend before he leaves for his gap year in Africa.’ She paused. ‘He wants to meet me.’

  Sean was struggling to understand her distress.

  ‘But you’ve wanted this for so long,’ he said puzzled.

  ‘And now it’s happened...’ her voice tailed off. She couldn’t articulate her fear even to Sean. What if Liam didn’t like her. What if he hated her for what she’d done?

  ‘Your son will love you.’

  She wondered if he believed that or was saying it to avoid any further discussion.

  ‘Love the mother who gave him away?’

  He pulled her to him, pressing her head to his chest. His heart beat gently in her ear.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ he murmured.

  Sean’s answer to everything.

  ‘And if it’s not?’ she insisted.

  There was no reply as Sean drifted into post coital sleep, his mind already in Amsterdam.

  A knot had formed in her chest. She shouldn’t have mentioned meeting Liam. Now if it all went wrong?

  She waited until she heard the soft measured sound of sleep then extracted herself carefully from beneath Sean’s arm and got up.

  Rain splattered the window so that the lights of Glasgow ran into one another like a watery kaleidoscope. Her naked shadow stood alone, reflected in the glass. She mouthed the words, we are born alone and we die alone, even as something inside her wished Sean had said, ‘You’ll always have me.’

  Chapter 3

  When DI Bill Wilson contacted her early next morning, they had to transfer the call to the Chemistry Lab where she’d been with Dr Spencer since first thing.

  Spencer was definite. It was a Class A fire.

  ‘So, mainly paper, wood and fabric?’ Rhona suggested.

  The forensic chemist nodded. Rhona wondered if the long granite face would ever be split by a smile.

  ‘And no evidence of hydrocarbons?’

  He shook his head. ‘Only the normal traces from household goods.’

  ‘In the video,’ Rhona paused, already knowing he would put her down, ‘I thought the smoke looked black.’

  He gave her a sideways look. ‘You’ve been studying too many American flame charts.’

  ‘So how do you think the fire started?’

  ‘You’ll have to discuss that with the fire investigator. As far as I’m concerned there is nothing chemical to suggest that this was a wilful fire incident.’

  Rhona tried another tack. ‘We found evidence of alcohol in the remains of the victim’s jacket, especially round the wrists.’

  ‘Maybe the guy couldn’t hold his drink.’

  Rhona didn’t laugh. Spencer never made jokes intentionally.

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘We’re still running tests, but there’s nothing to suggest there were any on the premises.’

  When Spenser’s equally dour assistant called her to the phone she found Bill’s friendly voice a pleasant relief.

  ‘How’s cheerful Charlie?’ Bill asked.

  Rhona kept her voice neutral, for the sake of inter-Lab relations. ‘Same as usual.’

  ‘And the tests on the fire debris?’

  ‘No evidence to suggest an accelerant was used,’ she told him.

  ‘The Pathology report says the victim died of an overdose.’

  ‘And the fire?’

  ‘He dropped a cigarette and whoosh?’

  It didn’t sound right to her. ‘What about the blisters on his wrists?’
>
  ‘Accidental.’

  Bill was baiting her to see what she would come up with.

  ‘You and I both know another accidental fire in three months in an area up for re-development is suspiciously convenient.’

  ‘We have nothing to substantiate that at this stage.’

  That would be just what his superior would say.

  ‘So why did you phone?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ he paused.

  Rhona had worked with Bill on many cases since she’d arrived in Glasgow after her stint in the DNA Laboratory in Birmingham. She had thrown herself into the new job, relishing the responsibility for drawing the different branches of forensics together. The relationship between the forensic department and the CID was good because of Bill.

  ‘Dave Gallagher’s had a heart attack,’ he told her.

  ‘My God. Is he okay?’

  ‘He’s out of danger, but he’ll be off work for six weeks at least,’ he paused. ‘He’s been working on the recent Edinburgh fires. There was another one last night.’

  ‘I heard on the news this morning.’

  She waited, knowing what he would ask.

  ‘I’m pretty tied up here, Bill.’

  ‘I know.’ he sounded apologetic but resolved. ‘But if there’s a remote chance there’s a link between their fires and ours... ’

  He waited.

  ‘Okay,’ she relented. Wilful fire raising at the same time in Scotland’s two major cities was unlikely to be co-incidence.

  ‘Great.’ Bill’s voice had grown cautious. ‘Severino MacRae is the chief fire investigator. You’ll be working with him.’

  The best thing to come out of Edinburgh is the train to Glasgow, or so say the citizens of the dear green place. Of course, the pun can be reversed. Cities, forty-six miles apart, one douce the other gallus, the dichotomy of the Scottish urban psyche.

  Rhona turned from the train window and shook her head at the offer of coffee from the trolley. The lemon chicken from the night before was taking its toll.