Torch

by Lin Anderson

  Sev let the whisky slide down his throat and bite at his chest. It numbed his thoughts but it didn’t take them away. When he’d arrived at the building this morning, the team had known about what had happened at Gillian’s. He could tell by the faces, the dropped looks, the caution in the voices. He ignored it all, gave his orders and they’d got started, glad not to have to say anything. The team would systematically comb the debris, bit by bit, just as he had told them. They were probably wasting their time. And while they were analysing the last job, the arsonist would be planning his next.

  Jaz was standing behind him. He heard the scuffle of the dog’s claws on the floor as it sat at the boy’s command.

  ‘Hey.’

  Sev turned. ‘Hey.’ He rubbed the dog’s ears and it licked his hand.

  ‘Buy you a drink?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Not your drug eh?’

  Jaz ignored the taunt and asked the question Sev didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Have you found the man that killed Karen?’

  ‘You’re talking to the wrong man,’ he heard himself say. ‘You want DI MacFarlane of Lothian and Borders Police.’

  ‘He hurt your little girl.’

  Sev grabbed the boy by the jacket. Jaz didn’t resist, his face bunched up, his back pressed against the counter; he just looked at Sev, his eyes accusing.

  ‘Who told you that?’ Sev tightened his grip. Behind him the dog growled.

  The anger drained from Sev as quickly as it had come. He loosened his hold and Jaz stumbled free.

  Sev picked up his glass, his hand shaking. He was losing it, he realised dispassionately. An image of Amy’s face in that hospital bed kept swamping his mind. The thought that she could have been badly burned or worst still lying in a coffin, made him sick with fear.

  ‘Go away,’ he said without turning.

  But the boy was like MacFarlane, a stubborn bugger.

  ‘Don’t you want to nail the bastard?’ Jaz said.

  ‘I’ll nail him with my evidence,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You have to catch him first.’

  The guy was like a fly buzzing round his head. Swatting him hadn’t worked. What now? Sev looked Jaz up and down. The ponytail, the combat gear, the big boots, the determined face.

  ‘I know who he is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A mate of mine, Mary Queen of Scots. She hangs about the Gardens with two old guys, The Bruce and The Wallace...’

  That was all he needed. The demented drunken ravings of resurrected Scottish heroes. Sev stopped the boy mid-sentence.

  ‘Alchies.’ He waved at the barman for a refill.

  Jaz slid his eyes pointedly to the glass. Sev got the message.

  Jaz went on: ‘This guy told Mary to move from her squat last Friday night or he’d torch her. He came back when she was asleep and set her hair alight. The Wallace and The Bruce heard her screaming. The hospital kept her in for a week and she didn’t get any drink...’

  ‘I can sympathise with that.’

  The boy ignored the cynical remark. ‘She’s been on the bevy ever since,’ he went on. ‘She’s shit scared the guy’ll come back and get her.’

  ‘Maybe this guy just doesn’t like smelly old alchies squatting in his building.’

  ‘He isn’t the owner.’

  Sev knew he should stop listening now. Tell the boy to take his story to MacFarlane, keep out of it, but the story was planting itself in his brain, burrowing down.

  ‘So where’s this building then?’ he asked finally.

  ‘I wrote down the address.’ Jaz pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and flattened it on the counter.

  Below the address was a pencil drawing of a face.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Mary described the guy, so I drew him.’ The boy’s voice was anxious.

  Sev examined the drawing. It caught a likeness, he would know him again. ‘You are a wee smart arse.’

  The boy looked pleased. ‘He’s about heights with me. Twenties. She says he smells nice.’

  Sev looked him up and down. ‘Not on the streets then?’

  ‘You don’t smell so good yourself.’ Jaz was giving as good as he got.

  ‘I’ve been up all night.’

  ‘At least you’ve got a bed to go to.’

  Sev nodded at the picture. ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘If you like.’

  He folded the sketch and put it in his pocket, then put some money on the counter for his drinks. The boy was watching him. Sev suddenly remembered what the pathologist had said when he phoned about the post mortem. The dead girl had been living on fresh air.

  ‘You hungry?’

  The chin was up, the eyes straight at him. ‘I don’t need your money,’ Jaz said firmly.

  MacRae looked down at the dog. ‘Buy my friend some chips then.’ He pushed some money across the counter. ‘And don’t forget the salt and sauce.’

  Chapter 13

  Chrissy looked up from the forensic journal.

  ‘It says here that one gram of thallium sulphate constitutes a lethal dose in an adult. With doses greater than two grams, the illness progresses rapidly to cardiovascular shock, coma and death within 24 hours.’

  ‘If someone wanted rid of him, why not give him a straightforward overdose?’ Rhona suggested.

  Chrissy shrugged. ‘A waste of good cocaine?’ She slammed the book shut. ‘Neat stuff eh? Colourless, tasteless and odourless. Found as a contaminant in some Chinese herbal medicines, rodenticide and green fireworks, can be mistaken for cocaine and sniffed...’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said lots of things, which one?’

  ‘You said something about fireworks.’

  ‘Green fireworks. It’s in green-emitting fireworks.’

  Chrissy gave her a look that accused her mind of being elsewhere, which it was.

  ‘The victim visited the drug centre a week before he died complaining of nausea, vomiting and abdominal pain,’ Rhona read from the report. ‘The doctor there reported him as manifesting acute nervous and gastrointestinal symptoms. He wanted to admit him to hospital. He refused and was persuaded to give urine and blood samples. He then left.’

  ‘One week later he’s found dead of an apparent overdose in a burned out building,’ Chrissy added.

  ‘The general lab tests on the urine and blood showed nothing,’ said Rhona thoughtfully, ‘but then they weren’t looking for thallium.’

  ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,’ said Chrissy darkly.

  Rhona laughed despite herself. ‘I didn’t know you were a Shakespearean scholar.’

  ‘I’m not. It’s from a Ray Bradbury book.’ Chrissy shook her head. ‘Let’s face it. Something smells like shite.’

  ‘You’re sure about the hair?’

  ‘Come and look for yourself,’ Chrissy offered. ‘Most of the hair was singed but I got some from the back of the head. ‘Of course we don’t have a control sample from before death but...’

  Under the polarised light, the dark bands and distorted anagen roots supported Chrissy’s diagnosis of thallium poisoning. Rhona looked up. ‘The urine and blood taken after death?’

  ‘We’re working on that now,’ Chrissy’s self-satisfied look suggested that life went on as usual even if the Captain had left the ship.

  ‘I’d better call Bill.’

  When she did, Bill didn’t mince his words. ‘They don’t want you back.’

  ‘Why?’ Rhona tried to sound disinterested.

  ‘Apparently you’re difficult to work with.’ He paused and when she didn’t reply, felt safe to go on. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘you’ve got your hands full here.’

  Rhona came back at him. ‘And you agreed?’

  ‘It isn’t up to me.’

  ‘So what’s to stop me going back?’

  ‘Saving your sanity?’ he suggested.

  Bill was right. There was no reason to return. The
samples from the Princes Street blaze had been tested and confirmed the use of an accelerant. They were still waiting on an exact breakdown but that would arrive soon. The presence of an accelerant was all they needed. The trawl on the DNA sample from the semen on the letter had revealed nothing. And it didn’t match the semen left in the girl. If MacRae had handed the matter over to the police there was nothing more she could do.

  ‘Did you speak to DI MacFarlane?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. He suspects the arsonist will strike again soon.’

  ‘So we just wait and see?’ she said.

  ‘They wait and see. We worry about our own.’

  She should keep her nose out of the East’s affairs. That was fine by her. There was plenty of work here without bailing out the East. She changed the subject.

  ‘Chrissy’s tests confirm Dr Sissons’ suspicions about the presence of thallium in the body.’

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘Thallium salts are colourless, tasteless and odourless,’ Rhona explained. ‘A poisoner’s dream.’

  ‘Where the hell would he get thallium?’

  ‘Rodenticides, pesticides, Chinese medicines, fireworks. He could also have sniffed it thinking it was cocaine. Wherever he got it, it was a potentially lethal dose.’

  Bill didn’t sound convinced. ‘Cocaine would be a bit upmarket for him.’

  ‘Well if there’s cocaine contaminated with thallium out there, there’ll be more like him soon.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I suggest you warn the drop-in centres to look out for tell tale signs. I’ll send you a standard description to pass round.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And Bill, I think the blisters on the wrists happened before death. If the victim was being fed thallium and getting his wrists burned, someone didn’t like him very much.’

  ‘He wasn’t a dealer as far as we know. Maybe he owed his supplier money?’

  ‘Suppliers don’t normally kill their customers. It cuts the profit margin.’

  ‘Maybe we should check back over the last year. He wasn’t the first junkie to die of an overdose in that area,’ Bill said thoughtfully.

  ‘Just what I was thinking.’

  ‘Mind you there was no reason to think about poisoning in the other cases.’

  ‘There is now. And Bill?’ she caught him before he rang off. ‘Personally I’d like to know who’s behind the redevelopment plans for that area. Junkies have a bad habit of lowering the tone of the neighbourhood.’

  When she finally got round to attacking her desk, the contents suggested she had been away for a week rather than a couple of days. The report from Chemistry lay on top. Rhona checked through it again. Most forensic laboratories felt confident in identifying the commonly found accelerants like petrol and kerosene on the basis of their chromatograms alone. Spencer had gone one step further. The Edinburgh sample report was conclusive. But then Severino MacRae had known that by his nose.

  Rhona pulled the brown envelope from her briefcase and emptied its contents on the desk. The inside photographs of the Princes Street building only served to confirm the conclusions. The burning pattern was obvious, the seat of the fire revealed as she’d suggested. She was momentarily embarrassed by the memory of that morning in the burned out building, her determination to tell the man his job. Still, she had been right and no more insufferable than MacRae himself.

  She had a quick look through the remaining photographs. The wide-angle lens had been used to photograph the building from the two opposite corners, showing the overall degree of fire damage and the locations of the various entrances and windows. The aerial photograph showed the force of the explosion and the trail of debris that sprayed the railings and beyond. The photographer had taken two shots, once right above the building, one nearer the front covering the debris, the railings and the Gardens. The white tent was already up round the body. Rhona winced when she spotted the flash of blue among the roses behind the tent. So that was why MacRae had included the photographs. He couldn’t resist the parting shot. Forensic Scientist being sick in the flowerbeds.

  She checked the back of the photograph in case he’d written a caption, but it was blank. It was just a pathetic idea of a joke. She shoved the photos to one side. She was forty-six miles away from him and Severino MacRae was still irritating her.

  Rhona opened her in-basket. Most of the titles on the list were self-explanatory. There was one from Chemistry in reference to the delivered report, a couple from other forensic labs, a request from a forensic student to visit the lab. She opened each one in turn and stored it in an appropriate folder for later action. She kept Liam’s email to last. She took a breath then clicked it open, her heart thumping in her chest. The message was short and to the point. He would call when he knew what his movements were over the New Year. He signed it simply L.

  A mixture of disappointment and relief swept over her. Liam was as nervous as she was about a meeting.

  Rhona got started on the bit of the job she liked least, the paperwork. If she concentrated on her reports it would stop her thinking about Edinburgh and about Liam.

  When she pushed open her front door, three hours later, the flat smelt stuffy and unlived in. She had stopped on her way up the stairs and thanked Mrs Harper for feeding the cat in her absence.

  ‘My pleasure dear. There’s some post for you, I left it on the hall table and your ansaphone’s blinking,’ Mrs Harper gave Rhona a knowing smile. Mrs Harper was one of Sean’s many admirers.

  Her neighbour’s front door closed when she opened her own. Mrs Harper took her mothering seriously. Rhona shuffled through the bills and circulars wishing that Sean wrote letters the way he wrote music. The most she could hope for when he was away would be a postcard.

  She went in search of some alcohol and found an unexpected bottle of white wine in the door of the fridge. She was the one who bought white wine. Sean didn’t like it. She tried to remember when she’d bought it and couldn’t.

  She carried her filled glass to the hall and sat down to listen to the phone messages.

  When the tune began, Rhona thought the caller had the radio on too loud in the background. Then she realised the song by The Crazy World of Arthur Brown was the message.

  The music stopped abruptly on I’ll see you burn’. Only someone with a warped sense of humour and a liking for retro music would leave her a message like that. She fully expected it to be followed by some sarcastic remark from MacRae that included the word lady. But no.

  There was a short pause then Sean’s enthusiastic voice. ‘Hi Rhona. Got here okay. It’s great. You can reach me on this number... ’

  Rhona wrote down the number.

  Chance appeared at her feet winding in and out of her legs, looking for food. Rhona headed for the kitchen. She fed the cat and went back to the fridge for something for herself. It was then she noticed the set table. Place mat, knife, fork and wine glass. Beside it sat a fresh red rose in a tumbler of water.

  Fear trickled down her spine. The strange message on the ansaphone. Now this. She stood very still, listening to the silent flat. Maybe it was Mrs Harper? A distinct possibility and one she could check easily enough. But the song on the ansaphone?

  She walked through the flat, checking every room for signs of an intruder. All the windows were tight closed. Nothing was disturbed. The flat looked just as Sean would have left it.

  Chapter 14

  Detective Constable Janice Clarke had wordlessly warned Rhona on entry. DI Wilson was not a happy man.

  Janice was Bill’s equivalent of Chrissy. They might have been related, not in looks but in attitude. Janice handed Rhona two cups. The right hand one was hot, the left one cold, the milk already congealing. Just the way Bill liked it.

  Rhona offered the cup as the old leather chair girned round to reveal a sour faced Bill.

  ‘So what’s wrong with your face?’

  ‘Long time since I heard that one.’ Bill gave her a half smile. �
�There’s been a call from our friends in the East asking about the possibility of contaminated cocaine.’

  ‘Thallium?’

  ‘Maybe. They’ve had two serious cases of suspected drug contamination in the last two weeks. Both critically ill in hospital. And something else. There was a house fire early this morning on an Edinburgh council estate. They found the body of an addict inside.’

  ‘I’ll take a bet all three addicts lived in a rundown area earmarked for redevelopment,’ Rhona suggested.

  Bill nodded. ‘All from the same estate.’

  It was too much of a coincidence. ‘Who’s the developer?’

  ‘A well known and respected company, with interests all over Scotland,’ Bill raised his eyebrows, ‘including council redevelopment in Glasgow.’

  ‘I take it you pointed that out to your Edinburgh equivalent?’

  ‘The company has its headquarters in Edinburgh.’

  ‘He reminded you of that?’

  ‘And the fact that the chairman of the company is a pillar of Edinburgh society.’

  ‘You’re not going to let that stop you.’

  Bill gave her a look that suggested pigs might fly.

  ‘Janice and I are working on it.’

  ‘Could you get me details on firms manufacturing fireworks?’ she asked.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Thallium is used in green emitting fireworks. And Edinburgh, as we both know, is big on fireworks.’

  ‘Before you go... ‘ Bill’s face betrayed his concern. ‘I think you should know a body’s been found in the hills near Arrochar.’

  Rhona took a seat, her legs suddenly weak. The horror of her last case, a paedophile ring that murdered young vulnerable men, had ended with the disappearance of the main suspect, a man whose pen name was Simon.

  ‘Initial examination suggests it could be him. Dr Sissons is doing a post mortem,’ he paused. ‘I can get someone else to do the forensic work if you want?’