by Lin Anderson
As soon as she got to the flat, she shut the door and locked it before she made the call. She knew it would achieve nothing, but she had to make it all the same. The hospital gave her a further number which they said might be able to help. They warned how difficult it might be. An adopted child could not be forced to contact a natural parent. The adoptive parents might not agree, either.
Grief has the ability to strip away time. Rhona had felt it when her father died. Looking down at his still face, it was as if her own adult life dissolved, leaving her a wee girl again. A girl whose hand fitted easily inside his big one, whose cheek met his in a whiff of tobacco smoke and bristly beard. All her certainties began to crumble. And it was happening again. Seventeen years of her life dissolving into nothingness.
There was a second knock at the door, this time much louder, then someone tried the lock, rasping it this way and that. Her name was being called. It came from far away.
‘Rhona. It’s me, Sean. Open the door.’
Rhona went to the door and unlocked it.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I must have turned the key by mistake.’ She kept her face turned away from him because she had no idea what she looked like. She didn’t even know if she’d been crying.
Sean closed the door carefully and checked the lock (not because he wanted her to know he didn’t believe her, she knew that, but to give her time), then he hung his coat on the peg. Rhona went into the kitchen. The golden light was there, trying to lift the room to normality. Rhona went to the fridge, took out a bottle of wine and opened it.
Sean didn’t like drama. She knew that. He was puzzled by it. His attitude to life was, if things went wrong, they went wrong. If he couldn’t figure out why, he forgot about it and went and played his music. Music held all the drama Sean needed. Tonight he didn’t go and play his saxophone, but followed her into the kitchen.
‘I’m going away for a week,’ he said quietly. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down opposite her at the table. ‘I’ve got a gig in Paris.’
She said nothing and he reached out and took her hand, stroking the palm gently with his thumb. ‘An old mate of mine wants me to fill a spot while one of the band takes a holiday.’ He gripped her hand more tightly now and dipped his head so that he caught her eyes and drew them up to meet his. ‘I thought you might come with me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘The murder…’
‘You’ll have finished with that. I don’t go for a couple of days yet.’
She shook her head. ‘No, it’ll take longer.’
She pulled her hand from his, got up, and went to the window. The convent bells had stopped and the world seemed suddenly empty without them. If she didn’t go with Sean to Paris he wouldn’t come back, she thought, at least not to the flat, not to her. He had put down his glass and was coming towards her. She turned and tried to walk past him but he stopped her at the door. She turned her head away but he brought it back and held it there while he looked at her.
‘You’re going to have to tell me if you don’t want me, Rhona. You’re going to have to say the words.’ He laid his cheek against hers and spoke softly in her ear. ‘Tell me, Rhona. Tell me you want me to go away. Tell me you don’t want me to come back.’
In the silence that followed he moved his mouth to cover hers.
When Bill got back to the office after speaking to Rhona, Janice had plastered his desk with yellow notelets. It seemed as though plenty had been happening while he was away. A few phone calls had revealed the owner of the murder flat, but, according to Janice, he was swanning his time away in a bar he owned in Tenerife. The guy had lots of money and plenty of property in and around Glasgow, most of the details of which were well hidden. The flat in question was let out for him by a property services company on Dumbarton Road. Janice had already been there. The place was clean looking, she reported, but deserted. Maybe the owners had also decided to take a break.
When Rhona called him later to tell him some of the results would be with him by the morning, she sounded more like her old self.
‘We’ve identified a DNA profile from the saliva and the seminal fluid. We also have two hairs, neither of which came from the boy,’ she said.
‘So we have a genetic profile of the killer?’
‘Yes. I’ve sent the samples to the DNA Lab. The fastest they can do is forty eight hours.’
‘It’s not much use without a suspect,’ he said.
‘Maybe we’ll be lucky with the DNA Database.’
‘Let’s hope so. What about the cover?’
‘Still working on it. There are a number of older stains we still want to examine.’
‘The cover’s had a busy time of it then?’ he said.
‘Yes. I’m afraid it has.’
When Bill called DC Clarke in, she told him the cover was even more interesting than that. They were now sure it had been a curtain, made to measure by the looks of it, and expensive. So it was possible the material might be traceable. The pattern was very distinctive, huge swirls of red, blue and green silk.
Bill thought back to that terrible room. The smell of sex and sweat and dirt and those awful shite coloured curtains pulled tightly across the window to hide what went on inside.
‘The material is French,’ Janice was saying. ‘We even have the maker’s name,’ she almost smiled. ‘A small but exclusive shop in the rue St George near the Sacré Coeur stocks it. We think someone either bought the material in this country from an imported lot and had the curtains made up, or they bought it in Paris. Either way it can be traced, Sir.’
Bill was pleased.
‘Better contact the Procurator Fiscal and get permission to release details on the curtain in case someone recognises it.’
‘Done that already Sir,’ Janice declared triumphantly.
It seemed his ship ran quite happily without him.
‘How did the course go?’ Janice asked.
‘Grim.’
She’d guessed as much already, she said. She’d spoken to Constable McPhail on the phone. Seems she’d decided to go home straight afterwards and see her wee girl.
‘Aye. I don’t blame her,’ Bill agreed.
He leaned back in his chair. The swivels girned at him as he swept them round to look out of the window. The sun had broken through the cloud and was turning the stoneblasted tenements opposite to russet.
They said when you stopped caring about what happened to people in this job, it was time to retire. Bill wondered just what level of caring was supportable. It was a bit like being a doctor. Care enough but not too much, not so you took it home. He’d survived in this business a long time. He could still laugh when things got rough. You had to have a sense of humour or you’d go mad, as mad as the folk you were trying to catch and lock up.
Bill stood up and went closer to the window. The problem was, he’d lost his sense of humour on this one. The crime had become too personal somehow. And something in Rhona’s face when he told her about the boy’s birthmark had unnerved him. It was the same expression he’d seen on the face of the young female Constable at the Child Abuse Course; haunted, guilty, despairing, as if the world was too horrible a place to live in.
When he’d arrived at the lab, Rhona had been working at her desk and she hadn’t tied her hair back. It was loose about her face, making her look too young, like a student, rather than the experienced scientist Bill knew she was. When he told her about the birthmark, he knew his voice had been excited because he wanted to believe that they had something to go on, something that would help them identify the boy. And Rhona’s face had crumpled. Someone other than himself was taking this murder to heart.
The phone rang. It was McSween.
‘You asked for word on those glasses.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Fingerprints show one was used by the boy, the other by an unknown.’
‘Right.’
‘And Sir…’
‘Wha
t?’
‘They were drinking good whisky, Sir. The Big T, it’s called. Origin, Tomatin Distillery, Invernesshire.’
The boy, it seemed, had drunk well before he died on his designer curtain.
Bill looked at his watch. He’d been told to be home sharp tonight. Margaret had organised a meal out with her friend Helen Connelly and her husband. Bill grimaced. How that nice woman had ever ended up with that man, Bill would never know.
‘I wonder what crusade he’ll be on tonight,’ he muttered to himself.
Bill scraped back the chair and stood up, just as the phone went again. This time it was Janice.
He had been right, she said. The victim had been a student. James Fenton. Studying Computer Science at Glasgow University. The people at the Computing Department recognised him from the photograph.
‘They told the Constable he hadn’t logged onto the system for the last few days, Sir. Apparently he was a frequent user before. Spent a lot of his time there.’
‘Surprise. Surprise. So, have we contacted the parents?’
‘The mother, Sir. They’re divorced. The boy lives, lived, with the mother when he was at home. We’ve contacted the Manchester force. Someone should be round there by now.’
‘So we didn’t need the birthmark after all?’
‘Sorry, Sir?’
‘Nothing, Janice.’
Janice rang off, sounding relieved and distressed at the same time. Bill knew why. Now the boy was real. He had a name, an occupation, a home and a mother.
We’ll have to bring the mother up, Bill thought, to identify the body. Some job that would be. What a world. And he still had a night of Jim Connelly to face.
When he got home, Margaret was already dressed for dinner. She glanced at the kitchen clock, then threw him a look that sent him straight to the shower. But she must have relented a little, because when he stepped out of the cubicle there was a glass of whisky deposited by the sink. He carried it through to the bedroom to find his clothes already laid out on the bed.
As he dressed, he could hear Margaret giving last minute orders to whichever of the kids was going to be around that night. He heard her voice and what closely resembled a moan following it. Whatever she was saying, someone didn’t like. She came in, just as he was finishing knotting his tie.
‘Ready?’
He gave her a nod.
‘Just as well. Jim and Helen will be here in a minute to pick us up.’
He pulled a face but she wasn’t at the jollying stage yet.
‘Just be glad you’re not driving,’ she said. ‘At least you can take a drink and relax for a change.’
As he walked down the garden path, Bill wasn’t surprised to see Helen Connelly behind the wheel. Jim Connelly wasn’t a man to give up his drink, even on his wife’s night out.
Helen smiled out at him, her face slightly concerned. ‘We were worried you might have to call off at the last minute.’
‘He knows better,’ Margaret gave his arm a squeeze and Bill suddenly wished he was going out alone with his wife. It had been too long since they had sat talking over a meal together. He slid into the back seat beside her and took her hand and she smiled at him. He would make an effort for Margaret’s sake.
‘So, Bill. How’s the murder investigation going?’ Connelly turned round to look at him.
The man has been drinking already, Bill decided. His face was flushed, his voice too loud. Margaret had said Connelly was trying to cut down on the booze. Helen was getting worried by the quantity of work and drink her husband seemed addicted to. He doesn’t know how lucky he is, thought Bill. Helen could have had her pick at university.
Helen smiled in the rear mirror at him and he felt mean. After all, hadn’t Margaret said Helen and Jim were happy together? She and Helen had been friends since their student days. Then they had taught together in the same Primary School for years, until Margaret left to have the kids. Helen never had any kids. Maybe that was the problem. Come to think of it, Connelly treated every newspaper story like his kid. His baby. The man just didn’t know how to compromise. Much like himself.
‘You tell me how it’s going.’ Bill laughed as if he meant it. ‘We both know the Evening Post is always one step ahead of us.’
‘True,’ Connelly said with a grin. ‘By the way, the guy who owns the flat you found the boy in? We found some stuff on him a couple of years back. We had no proof so we didn’t use it.’
‘Oh?’ Bill tried to keep the interest out of his voice. One thing he had to say about Connelly, the man was hellish good at ferreting out information. He had been responsible for lifting the lid on a number of criminal activities in the past. Ever since their university days together, when Connelly had filled the student newspaper with tales of corrupt landlords and student grant scams, he had been able to sniff out a story. His methods were unconventional and irritating, but Bill had to admit, he had his uses.
‘I’ll send you the information over, if you like,’ Connelly was saying, ‘without the contact name of course.’
‘Of course.’
Bill was not going to rise to the bait. He turned and smiled serenely at Margaret. If things didn’t go well tonight, it wouldn’t be his fault.
But Connelly wasn’t finished yet.
‘I’m working on a piece just now that might interest you.’
‘Really?’ Bill was almost certain the damned man licked his lips.
‘All about Freemasons and the police force.’
Bill had difficulty controlling his voice. That was the last thing he wanted to hear about, even if the Super was one.
‘No use talking to me about that, Jim. The Freemasons don’t let Catholics in, lapsed or otherwise.’
Margaret nudged him in the ribs.
‘Enough!’ Helen was shouting in exasperation. ‘Haven’t you two got anything else to talk to one another about except work?’
No, thought Bill silently, that was the problem.
By the time they reached the Italian restaurant, Bill had already had enough of Jim Connolly. Tonight’s topic was to be the Freemasons and their infiltration and corruption of the police force, whether he liked it or not.
But as things turned out, the food was good and the women, at least, talked sense. They were at the coffee stage when things began to deteriorate. Margaret and Helen disappeared to the Ladies and left Bill alone to defend the force again.
‘So you see, Bill,’ Connelly was saying seriously.
Bill wondered if you could get thrown out of an Italian restaurant on Sauchiehall Street for hysteria.
‘They’re everywhere,’ Connelly announced, looking about him. ‘Got a finger in every pie.’ He poked the table with his forefinger, then raised it and pointed at Bill. ‘Including your little lot.’
Connelly finished his pronouncement with a wave at the waiter for another whisky. Bill had lost count of the journalist’s intake. Bill was at least three behind him. Doubles at that. If Connelly was cutting down on the drink, it certainly wasn’t tonight, he thought. And, I hate this air of boys together he’s using. He shook his head at the suggestion that he might like another whisky but Jim Connelly had gone past the point of listening to anyone except himself.
When the glasses arrived this time, there was a bottle with them.
‘Tasted this one before?’ Jim turned the bottle so Bill could read the label. ‘Tomatin. The Big T. 12-year-old blend. Difficult to get. I acquired a few bottles from an acquaintance of mine. Maybe you know him. Judge McKay?’
Bill shook his head at both the whisky and the name and wondered if Judge McKay was a Freemason or whether he was just helping Jim Connelly with his enquiries.
‘I think he was hoping I would keep my mouth shut about his Freemason connections,’ Connelly said, tapping his nose.
Bill had his answer.
‘You two ready to go?’ Helen had appeared behind her husband. ‘It’s getting late.’
‘Sure?’ Bill stood up.
‘Our
treat. Eh, Helen?’ Connelly said, his voice slurred.
Bill caught Helen’s eye. ‘You can settle with Margaret later,’ he said, and she nodded. When he went over to the cash desk, she came with him.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘You know. Not losing the head at him. He can be a pain in the neck when he’s involved in a story. Investigative journalism, he calls it.’
‘I’m much the same myself. Ask Margaret.’
She smiled at him. ‘This murder enquiry, have you found out who the boy was yet?’
‘As a matter of fact we have. The mother will know by now, and the Evening Post too, I expect.’
‘Jim’ll go in after this, you know.’
Bill smiled sympathetically at her, wondering how often Margaret had said the same thing about him.
The car was silent on the way back. Helen concentrated on the road. Margaret leaned against him, her eyes half closed. Connelly seemed lost in thought. When they reached the house, Bill thanked Helen for a good night, thinking Connelly was asleep. He wasn’t. When they got out, he rolled down the passenger window and called after them as they went up the path.
‘Judge MacKay is a good friend of Sir James Dalrymple, you know. And Sir James plays golf with your Superintendent… Cosy, isn’t it?’
Bill lifted his hand in a wave, as the car took off. The trouble was, Connelly was probably right. Well, good luck to him. If he was brave enough to lift the lid on the upper echelons of the police force, he was a braver man than most.
Chapter 8
Chrissy moved from one foot to the other to kill the cramp. Apart from having cramp in one leg and wet feet, she was also pissed off. The guy she’d spoken to had told her to wait here for him, he would only be five minutes. That had been fifteen minutes ago. Three cars had slowed down beside her and one had stopped and offered her twenty quid for a blow job. When she shook her head the man upped his offer to twenty-five.