by Lin Anderson
She had called Sean from the station to explain her sudden departure for Edinburgh.
‘Will you be back before I leave for Amsterdam?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’ll give you a call when I get there.’
‘I’m staying at Greg’s.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you in a week then.’
The call had ended in an awkward silence.
Rhona turned to the window as the train drew away from Linlithgow Station. Low December sunlight brushed the imposing walls of Linlithgow Palace and danced on the choppy waters of the nearby loch. One summer when she was eight or nine, her father had brought her here for the day. She’d stood in the big courtyard with its wonderful fountain and tried to imagine what it was like to be the princess destined to be Queen of Scots.
She wondered, not for the first time, what her beloved adoptive parents would think of her now, had they been alive. They had never known about Liam. She’d kept her pregnancy a secret. Edward, her lover at the time wasn’t ready to be a father. She had to finish her degree and establish her career. Their relationship had been washed away in the misery and guilt she’d felt after giving up her baby for adoption. Like her, Liam had had adoptive parents who loved him. For her it had been enough. But for Liam?
Edinburgh Waverley was busy with tourists in town for The Biggest Hogmanay Party in the world. A young guy was selling the Big Issue on the Waverley steps. Rhona thrust a two pound coin in his hand. He tried to give her change but she waved it away and he smiled his thanks.
The east end of Princes Street was almost devoid of traffic. A little way along she realised why. The police had cordoned off a section of road and were directing traffic onto George Street.
When Rhona reached the cordon she showed the constable on duty her ID then headed for the incident tent.
Chapter 4
Severino MacRae reached for the phone on the third ring, an Americanism he’d picked up at some stupid management course they’d insisted he go on. Never before the third ring, never after. The habit had stuck.
‘Of course I’m up,’ Sev threw back the covers. ‘Already been for a jog.’ He lifted the open whisky bottle from the bedside cabinet with his left hand and threw some into a nearby glass. ‘It’s better than sex, Sergeant. You should try it.’ He moved the receiver out of the way. The alarm clock showed nine. ‘I’ve an appointment at eleven thirty.’ He held the phone in the crook of his neck while he poured another shot. ‘Okay I’ll be there. Just tell them to touch nothing. Got that? Nothing. And Sergeant? Tell MacFarlane not to piss on the embers or I’ll cut off his dick.’
The bottle was empty. He threw it in the bin on his way to the shower. There was always a chance Gillian might come round. He didn’t want her to think he lived like a pig just because she had left him and taken their daughter Amy with her.
The water on his head woke him up enough to remember Gallagher was still in hospital recovering from his heart attack. Looking at Gallagher’s colour last night, Sev guessed his colleague would be out of the game for at least six weeks. So no forensic or at least no forensic, that had Gallagher’s experience of fires. It was as if this particular fire raiser knew he had a clear run.
Sev dried himself and looked for a clean shirt. The hangers in the wardrobe stared emptily back at him. Shit. He’d left the six new non-iron shirts from Marks and Spencer in his office. He picked last night’s off the floor. If he kept his jacket on he might avoid knocking anyone out.
Before he left, he phoned Gillian. He knew before he started to speak it was a hopeless case. There was frost forming on the other end of the line.
‘What makes you think I would cancel?’ he tried to sound offended.
Silence.
‘I might be a bit late that’s all.’ Sev looked at the clock. ‘Look I’ll be there. Right? Eleven thirty.’
Sev rang off and headed for the door. The postman had already delivered an ominous pile of mail. MacRae kicked the half dozen brown envelopes out of the way and a small white one slipped into view. He picked it up, thinking the big round writing might be Amy’s. Since Sev’s ejection from the family home, Amy had taken to sending him small notes with big illustrations. Mostly they consisted of tales of her hamster and its various methods of escape. Every time one arrived, Sev’s guts twisted a little tighter.
The writing wasn’t Amy’s, and there was no postage stamp. Sev opened the door and looked out, trying to remember when he’d heard the letter-box rattle. When he was on the phone to Gillian? The stairwell stared back at him, silent and empty. Whoever delivered the letter was long gone.
Sev waited until he was in the car before he opened it, his mind already assimilating this latest development in the letter saga. So now the bastard knew where he lived? Sev examined the last few days. Where he had gone, when he had come home. The people he’d talked to. Had he been followed, watched as he muddled his way through what had become his life since Gillian threw him out? Sev began to unfold the white paper already knowing what it would say. The texture felt strange as if something had been spilt on it. He held the paper to his nose and sniffed.
‘Jesus!’
Thank God Gillian had thrown him out. If she hadn’t, some crazy bastard would have been pushing semen encrusted letters through her letter box instead of his.
The usual message spewed across the stiffened paper. All the key words were there. Fire. Bitches. Sex. This one hated women so much he needed an inferno to get a hard on. And that’s exactly what he had done last night. Lit one.
Sev parked his old Saab next to the mortuary van, wondering why the Sergeant hadn’t mentioned any bodies when he called him, just the extent of the fire and its prominent position on Princes Street. The building had been lying empty for months. Rumour had it development was being held up because the original façade had to be retained. An expensive investment for somebody.
Detective Inspector Peter MacFarlane came towards him as Sev climbed out of the Saab.
MacFarlane looked in need of a good night’s sleep. The mortuary van might have been there for him. Sev stepped over the yellow incident ribbon.
Sev nodded in the direction of the police tent, constructed over the pavement that bordered the famous Princes Street Gardens.
‘There was a body,’ MacFarlane told them as they walked. ‘A young girl. She must have been nearby when it blew. ’ MacFarlane looked sick.
The mental picture hadn’t escaped Sev either.
He turned on the first retch, thinking MacFarlane was emptying his stomach, but MacFarlane wasn’t the one being sick. To their left a gate led into the Gardens where a path cut through a bed of roses, a riot of colour for summer tourists but now in December, bare, pruned and colourless, except for the blonde head and blue jacket among the bushes.
‘She took a look inside the tent while she was waiting for you.’
‘Waiting for me?’
‘That’s right.’ Sev could hear caution in MacFarlane’s voice. ‘Visiting forensic from Glasgow.’
Sev didn’t like the sound of that, not after the latest epistle from the arsonist.
‘Send her home,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I said send her home.’ Sev wasn’t in the mood to go into details. ‘I don’t want a woman on this case.’
MacFarlane was getting shirty. ‘You need a forensic. She’s been working on the Glasgow fires. There may be a link...’
‘I don’t care. I don’t want a woman,’ Sev said.
‘I thought sexism was only rife in the Police Force.’
‘Leave it out, MacFarlane. I have my reasons.’
‘Well now’s your chance to tell them directly to Dr MacLeod.’
The woman coming towards him was exactly what Sev didn’t want. Sexy, her intelligent eyes examining him.
Rhona sat at a table while MacRae went to get some coffee. Even the furniture in the café smelt deep fried. She concentrated on breathing as shallowly as possible.
The toilets were right behind her. Close enough for an emergency.
When MacRae came back he was carrying a tray with two cups, a pot of coffee and the full works; bacon, sausage, black pudding, fried bread and a double portion of eggs. He laid the tray on the table and made a big show of splashing tomato sauce over everything.
‘Sure you don’t want some?’
Rhona shook her head. ‘No thanks I’ve eaten.’
‘It didn’t stay down long.’ He forked a sausage. ‘You going to do that when we get inside the building?’ He wagged the burnt sausage in her face then plunged it in the tomato sauce.
Rhona ignored the jibe.
‘So. How long have you been doing this job?’
‘I’ve been in Glasgow three years...’ She began the usual answer but he didn’t give her a chance to finish.
‘Three years. Wow. Long time.’
She ignored the sarcasm and continued. ‘I was seven years at the Forensic Lab in Birmingham before that.’
He took another bite of the sausage. ‘You married?’
She hadn’t been expecting that one.
‘Thought not,’ he said when she didn’t answer.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘No time?’ he suggested, the sarcasm back.
‘No inclination,’ Rhona said firmly.
He laid down the knife and fork and reached for her hand catching her completely off guard. The hand that held hers was warm and dry, the grasp firm but not tight. He pulled it towards the coffee pot and held it there for a moment.
‘Ever been burned?’
She pulled her hand free.
‘Yes... no... not really.’
‘What does that mean, not really?’
‘It means nothing serious,’ she said firmly.
He shook his head. ‘You don’t know fire until you’ve been burned.’
‘I disagree.’
‘Gallagher had ten years’ experience in this game.’
‘And he’s a man.’
He didn’t miss the icy sarcasm.
‘With a strong stomach.’
If she hadn’t been so angry, Rhona would have laughed. ‘I wasn’t sick because of the body.’
‘This isn’t a job for a pregnant woman. There are fumes, asbestos dust... ’
He was unbelievable. Rhona lifted her coat from the back of the chair.
‘Where are you going?’
This time she had caught him off guard.
‘I’m going to do what I came to do. My job.’
MacRae wasn’t defeated, yet. ‘No assistant of mine goes into that building until it’s structurally safe.’
Rhona was aware that at least half the café was listening to their argument. She raised her voice for the benefit of the other half.
‘You’d better find your assistant and tell them that, then.’
‘Look, lady...’
‘No, you look Mr MacRae. I am not your ‘lady’ assistant. I am a Forensic Scientist. You, I believe, are a fire investigator. Together we can find out why and how this fire happened or I can catch the next train to Glasgow. Either way I’m happy, although I think your superiors may not be pleased if I choose the second option.’
MacRae’s expression didn’t change. He stood up and looked at his watch.
‘I have an appointment to keep,’ he said. ‘No one goes into the building until I get back.’
Rhona watched him leave, irritated with herself for handling the meeting badly. MacRae didn’t want her there, that was obvious. Exactly why, she wasn’t so sure.
Sev got to the Family Reconciliation Office at 11.35am. It wasn’t soon enough for Gillian. The meeting had started badly and was deteriorating every time he opened his mouth. The counsellor was doing her best but what a sixty-year-old woman with hair like the Queen could tell him about marriage wasn’t what he wanted to know. He wanted to see Gillian alone, not as part of a family reconciliation sandwich.
The counsellor wasn’t giving up. Awkward customers like him were her bread and butter.
‘Mr MacRae. I believe you would like to discuss your daughter.’
That was rich.
‘No. I’d like to see my daughter.’
Gillian wasn’t letting him away with that.
‘You do see Amy. You see her more now than when you were at home.’
The way she said it sounded as if he had left home by choice. Sev stopped himself blurting that out, just as a fire engine went past, siren blaring. His first impulse was to go to the window but he already knew which direction it was heading. Besides Gillian would be watching his reaction, ready to jump on it like a dog on a bone. He sat still.
‘You’re not listening,’ she said.
He tried to keep his tone patient. He sounded long-suffering.
‘I am listening.’
‘Not to us.’
It was the counsellor’s turn.
‘Mr MacRae, your wife is concerned about the effect your work has on your family.’
‘I have to work,’ he said. ‘Everyone has to work.’
‘Not twenty-four hours a day.’
Gillian was right but it didn’t make it any easier.
Sev was waiting for the other fire engine, knowing it was only a matter of time. Tollcross was a good unit. Fast. The second engine would only be seconds behind the first. It was.
‘Like now,’ Gillian said, vindicated.
Sev tried to smile, feeling his face shift under the weight of it. Gillian was right. He was working just now. He was working out what the addition of a female forensic would do to the fire-raiser’s view of the current situation. If the fire-raiser liked watching him, he would like watching the woman even more.
MacRae dragged himself back to the present. ‘I’m not working right now,’ he lied.
‘No, but you’re thinking about work right now.’
The counsellor came back in like a good referee.
‘It would seem important to both of you that the issue of your daughter is resolved,’ she suggested.
‘That’s why we should discuss custody.’ Sev watched fear blossom in Gillian’s eyes as he said this, and was sorry. But he wasn’t going to back down on this one. Gillian might be giving up on him but he couldn’t live without his daughter.
‘It’s not called custody now, Mr MacRae. It’s called residence and... ’
Sev wasn’t interested in what it was called.
‘If she wants to break up the marriage, then I want to look after Amy.
‘That wouldn’t work.’
Sev was looking straight at Gillian, willing her to see how he really felt behind the anger and the bravado and the hurt. ‘I don’t want to be a part-time father,’ he said, and meant it.
But Gillian was there before he finished the sentence. ‘You always were.’
The drill of his mobile saved the counsellor the bother of another intervention. It was MacFarlane. Sev had left him in charge of the scene and Dr MacLeod until he got back. He suspected MacFarlane had his work cut out.
‘Just keep her away from the building until I get there.’
When he turned back, Gillian was on her feet.
‘I take it you’re leaving?’ she asked.
‘I can wait till we’re finished.’
‘We’re finished now.’
‘I suggest,’ the counsellor was brisk, ‘we start ten minutes earlier next time. Make up the time lost today.’
Sev followed Gillian down the steps. He could tell how bad she felt by the stiffness of her back. He wanted to put his arm around her, hold her. Instead, he stood beside her on the pavement with his hands in his pockets.
‘I’ll see you Friday then.’
Gillian nodded and turned to go. ‘If you want to see Amy before then...’ she looked back at him, ‘she’s been asking for you.’
‘I’ll phone and arrange something for tonight,’ he promised.
‘Just because we’re in a mess, doesn’t mean Amy has to be,’ Gill
ian said quietly.
Her sudden vulnerability made MacRae take her hand. This time she didn’t pull it away.
‘Gillian...’ he began.
His mobile vibrated against his chest. MacRae swore and reached in to switch it off.
Gillian’s voice was resigned. ‘You’d better answer it.’
‘I don’t have to.’ He sounded desperately torn even to himself.
Gillian gave him a look that suggested that in the end he didn’t have any real choice.
‘Okay,’ he reached in his jacket. ‘Give me a minute.’
She nodded, but when he turned back after speaking to MacFarlane she had gone.
Chapter 5
Jaz walked through the railway station, shouting a ‘Hi’ to the woman on the WH Smith counter. He bought a coffee at the kiosk on the corner and sat down on a bench to drink it. He was later than usual this morning and the rush was over. The rush hour wasn’t a good time for him anyway. The punters were in too much of a hurry to get to work. He just got in the way.
Now was the time for shoppers and tourists. Most of the shoppers were regular as clockwork. He even knew some of their names. Mrs Paterson from Musselburgh, off the train every Monday at eleven o’clock. She always bought a Big Issue from him. Sometimes she gave him a home-baked scone or cake. Even complained to him about her husband. Jaz didn’t mind. At least Mrs Paterson spoke to him like he was a human being.
He finished his coffee and headed for the exit, just as the ten twenty from Glasgow pulled in. He wanted to be ready with the magazines. Glaswegians had a reputation for generosity.
From his pitch he could see the Edinburgh skyline. The Castle and Law Courts to the left, the central sweep of the Gardens leading to the Art Gallery, and on the right the Scott Monument. Tourists loved this view. Jaz would watch them emerge from the bowels of the station into daylight and the sudden splendour of the city. The Athens of the north, he’d read that somewhere. In summer it was occasionally true.
Today was dull with a cold wind from the east and the odd spit of rain. The tourists didn’t care. As soon as they spotted the Castle, the cameras were out. If only he had ten pence for every photo taken of Edinburgh Castle, Jaz thought.