by Lin Anderson
‘Stephen?’
The steady plip of water was the only answer to her call. She opened her case and took out a forensic torch. The beam lit up what looked like a small white shoe lying on the concrete floor.
McNab responded immediately to her frantic shout. She watched as he sprang across the waste ground, leaping the piles of rubbish with the ease of a hurdler. He had always been fitter than the rest of the squad, but he must have been in training during his spell at the Police College. He was barely out of breath when he reached her.
His anxious glance moved from her shocked face to the open doorway. ‘Is it . . .’
‘I can see a child’s trainer but it’s too dark. I don’t want to go in before I put on a suit.’
He peered in, registering the ominous smell. ‘I’ve got crime scene gear in my boot. I’ll go and get it.’
‘Don’t use the track in case of tyre evidence,’ she said, as though McNab needed to be told his job.
‘You sure you’ll be all right here?’
Distress at the possible contents of the building rendered her voice sharp. ‘Of course!’
He scanned the waste ground as he left, obviously checking for her earlier assailants. The feeling that he was watching out for her only served to make Rhona feel more vulnerable.
She was pulling on the suit as the threatening sky let go in a sharp burst of rain, plastering her hair to her head and running down her face. Forensically, rain was bad, washing a site clean of evidence. The weather had stayed pretty dry since Stephen’s disappearance. That had been their only real luck . . .
Street lights on the distant River Road popped on, bathing it in orange, as McNab’s headlights emerged from beneath the railway bridge. The car swerved to avoid a pile of tyres on the remains of the tarred surface then swung left onto the waste ground. If McNab reached her without a puncture he was doing well.
He stayed clear of the rutted track, weaving between clumps of bushes and piles of rubble, the back axle jumping violently up and down, and finally drew in behind the building.
She waited for him to lay metal treads as far as the door. When he was finished she handed him a suit. ‘If you’re coming in you’d better put this on.’ It was her way of saying she didn’t want to go in alone.
McNab drew on the suit and pulled up the hood, leaving the mask dangling around his neck.
He produced two high-powered torches, handing Rhona one. It felt heavy and solid. She pressed the switch and a strong beam of light sprang on.
‘We should call Bill.’
‘I already have,’ he told her. ‘There’s the usual rush-hour traffic on the M8. They’ll be here as soon as they can.’
McNab stood back, letting her go first. She ducked under the lintel, hearing him grunt as he ducked and followed her. He directed his beam at the centre of the floor.
The trainer lay on its side, a smear of mud on the white surface.
She swung the beam across the floor, holding her breath.
There was no body.
She heard a muttered ‘Thank God’ from McNab. Rhona wasn’t so relieved.
‘Check the walls,’ she told him.
Both circles of light danced the back wall together.
‘Jesus.’ McNab’s voice was a hiss. ‘What the hell is that?’
The rectangular brick construction was about three foot high and two foot wide. On its surface sat two candles. Between them stood some kind of animal skull, wrapped in barbed wire. There was a red diagonal cross painted on the wall above.
Rhona directed her beam to the left as McNab moved right. There was nothing but concrete wall glistening with water that trickled down in green and slimy trails. Apart from the single shoe and the strange altar, the place was empty.
McNab fetched another couple of treads and laid them in a path to the back wall. He stepped across first then held out his hand. Rhona took it and joined him. They both stared down at the grey bony object on the makeshift altar.
‘What kind of animal is it, do you think?’ McNab looked to her for guidance.
‘I don’t know – maybe a sheep or goat.’
Rhona took some camera shots. The flash lit up rusting barbed wire and four six-inch nails that were driven through the bone.
She turned it and took some more shots from a different angle.
‘The smell’s stronger here,’ McNab said. ‘Where the hell is it coming from?’
He was right. They had grown gradually used to the scent of decomposition. But it was stronger in the area of the altar. The skull was old and clean, washed almost white and there was nothing on the floor or the walls to explain the smell.
Rhona bagged the skull and the candles, then bent closer to the bricks. ‘It’s coming from inside the altar.’ She placed the bags at her feet and examined the bricks. ‘They’re not cemented together.’
She pulled at the top front one and it slid forward. She removed it and placed it carefully on the ground.
The smell rushed out at them.
She heard McNab smother a gag.
‘Use the mask!’
Officers’ vomit was not welcome on a crime scene. The bile was full of DNA.
Above the hastily pulled-up mask, McNab’s eyes were watering.
‘Maybe you’d better wait outside,’ she suggested.
He shook his head.
The space left by the top brick was too small for the torch. McNab held it for her while she removed two more.
This time she could shine her torch inside.
The altar appeared to be built around a hole in the ground filled with stagnant water. A long grey thing floated on its surface.
‘What can you see?’ he muttered through the mask.
‘Dirty water. And something that looks like a stick.’
She caught it with her gloved hand and pulled it towards her.
The resulting sensation was both peculiar and horrific. The surface of the object seemed to part from the whole, stripping down its length like a snake discarding its skin.
She let go and quickly withdrew her hand, realising with sickening certainty what she had grabbed. Disintegrating skin and hair stuck to the pale latex of her glove.
‘It’s a dead dog,’ she told him. ‘The stick was its tail.’
Lamps had been rigged up inside the concrete structure. It was like illuminating a grave: harsh, unrelenting and without respect.
Chrissy’s face was a livid white. In the forensic suit she looked ghost-like, a wraith in a tomb, as she finished sampling the damp walls.
From somewhere in Rhona’s memory came the thought that in African culture, buildings were made circular to prevent evil spirits from lurking in the corners. But within this cylinder, evil was in the very air they breathed.
The altar had been dismantled and the dog’s body removed. There had been no other body parts in the hole, human or otherwise.
She had collected human faeces, both fresh and old, from the foot of the wall, which also smelt strongly of urine. This place had been a prison, but the lack of blood suggested it had not been a place of torture or death. The red cross on the wall had been made with ordinary household paint.
The shoe could be a match to the ones worn by Stephen. That was all they’d found of the missing boy. Their one stroke of luck: the trainer had a Velcro fastening and everything stuck to Velcro.
‘I could do with a drink,’ Chrissy exclaimed with gusto. ‘A big one.’
‘Me too.’ Rhona rolled the latex gloves off her hands.
They had gone over the building with a fine-toothed comb. Collected plenty of material, none of it pleasant. And none of it seemed likely to lead them to Stephen.
The light had faded, leaving a faint red glow to wash the western sky. It had transformed the coal bing into a prehistoric volcano. In the foreground the river shimmered red, like a ribbon of blood. The police divers had managed an hour’s search before giving up for lack of light. They would return at dawn tomorrow.
; A westerly breeze fluttered the cordon tape. Rhona breathed in its freshness.
A group of teenagers had found their way onto the railway bridge and were peering down on the floodlit scene. Rhona wondered about her attackers. If they used the farm ruins as a meeting place, they could have seen something. She scanned the group, but there were no checked caps or white tracksuits. McNab was approaching them, having had the sense to block their escape across the river with a couple of uniforms.
He waved down at Rhona, gesturing to her to come up.
‘Why does he want you?’ Chrissy asked, puzzled.
‘I saw kids here earlier. He wants me to check if they’re among that lot.’
Chrissy gave an exasperated sigh.
‘Look, you go on. I’ll meet you at the club.’
‘I’ll be drunk by the time you arrive,’ Chrissy threatened, as Rhona walked off.
The final span on this side of the bridge had been demolished, leaving a drop of a metre. McNab was waiting to pull her up.
There were four in the group. Two girls, one blonde, the other a streaked auburn, and two boys, both with blond highlights, all mid teens. Dressed in sports gear, they might have been out for a run, were it not for the intricately gelled hairstyles of the boys and the girls’ thick make-up. They appeared defiant and scared at the same time. McNab had that effect on people.
‘Recognise any of them?’
Rhona took a good look at the two males. When she said no, there was an audible sigh of relief from the skinnier one.
‘Mine were taller. One with freckles, the other had a tattooed hand.’
At her words, the blonde girl tried to exchange a look with the other, who pointedly ignored her.
‘You know who we’re talking about?’ McNab aimed his question at Blondie.
It was the other one that spoke. ‘Naw.’
These four needed lessons in body language. What they said and the moves they made when they said it, didn’t match. Rhona wasn’t the only one who had spotted that.
McNab was moving in for the kill.
‘Okay.’ His voice had an ominous quality, not lost on any of them. The skinny boy was squirming, his expensive trainers scuffing the stone.
When necessary McNab could lie with ease. ‘Since this is a murder enquiry, you’ll all have to accompany me to the police station.’
‘Murder?’ Skinny looked aghast at the others. ‘Jesus. Malchie’s murdered somebody!’
The cooler girl gave him a withering look. ‘You stupid bastard.’
‘Right, ladies and gentlemen, where does this Malchie live?’
The worried one coughed up the information pretty quickly. McNab told the two uniforms to escort the four home and get their details.
‘My dad’ll kill me,’ Skinny told him.
‘Then I’ll charge him with murder.’
Rhona couldn’t disguise a smile as the four left. ‘You could have been kinder,’ she suggested.
‘And not get a name and address for Malchie?’
‘This isn’t about earlier?’
‘Not if you don’t want it to be.’
‘But if Malchie thinks he might be charged with sexual assault, it might make him talk?’
‘Great minds think alike.’ McNab gave her the same boyish grin that had attracted her in the first place. ‘Malchie and mate like to party in the ruins. Chances are they’ve seen something and will want to tell us about it.’
Rhona glanced down, searching for DI Wilson among the figures that still criss-crossed the crime scene. ‘We should pass the info to Bill.’
‘If we don’t head there now, someone will get word to Malchie and he’ll be gone. If he’s there, we’ll bring him back with us.’
18
MALCHIE LIVED NEAR the primary school. The only thing growing in the front garden was a pile of rusting metal. The contrast with next door’s neat lawn and flower beds must have irked his tidy neighbour every time he looked out of the window.
A woman opened the door to them. She was thin and nervous, her eyes darting from them into the sitting room. Rhona suspected she was about to tell them Malchie wasn’t home, when a voice called, ‘Who is it, Ma?’
McNab shot Rhona a questioning look.
She nodded. It was Malchie, all right. A coldness crept through her. Facing him might be more difficult than she had imagined.
The woman glanced at McNab’s badge then stood aside to let them past. ‘My man’ll be back soon.’ The warning seemed to frighten her more than them.
Malchie jumped up from the settee as McNab stepped into the room.
‘You stupid bitch,’ he threw at his mother.
The woman shrank back and McNab stepped between them.
‘Malcolm Menzies?’ McNab flashed his ID.
‘What is it to you?’ Malchie’s expression suggested he wasn’t home to visitors, especially the police. That changed when he caught sight of Rhona.
‘Is this one of them?’ McNab asked Rhona.
If McNab thought Rhona’s presence would bother Malchie, he was mistaken. Malchie made a show of licking his lips and slowly looking her up and down, lingering at her breasts and more pointedly at her crotch. Then he squeezed his hands suggestively and gave her a sly smile.
Rhona forced herself to meet Malchie’s penetrating gaze, her mouth dry, her skin crawling, blood rushing to her face.
Her voice surprised her by its strength. ‘Yes.’
McNab addressed Malchie, his voice as cold as ice. ‘You met Dr MacLeod earlier on the waste ground.’
‘We . . .’ Malchie paused for effect, ‘brushed against one another so to speak.’
‘You and another youth assaulted Dr MacLeod.’
Malchie shook his head in amazement. ‘No way. We were looking for rare plants. Rare plants grow on those bings, you know.’
McNab was barely controlling his temper. If the mother hadn’t been there, Rhona suspected he would have throttled Malchie.
‘If Dr MacLeod presses charges . . .’
Malchie liked that idea. ‘Two against one. We win.’
‘The CCTV footage says otherwise.’
For a moment Malchie was thrown, then he came back, sharp as ever. ‘Doesn’t work.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’
Doubt crossed his face.
‘Under-age drinking, smoking dope . . . sexual assault.’ McNab gave a disappointed shake of his head. ‘And all on camera.’
There was a wee gasp from the mother. ‘Malcolm . . .’
‘Shut it!’ Malchie licked his lips again. His eyes darted from McNab to Rhona and back again. ‘What do you want?’
‘We want to know who’s using the round building on the waste ground.’
For a moment, fear clouded Malchie’s weasel eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Think,’ said McNab. ‘Think very hard.’
‘You are the Crime Scene Manager, you are not in charge of the investigation.’
‘He was part of the crime scene,’ McNab insisted. The stubborn look suggested Bill was being unreasonable.
Malchie stood between two uniforms a few feet away. He was watching the disagreement with relish.
Rhona butted in. ‘We were worried someone would warn him before we checked with you.’
If Bill was surprised at her standing up for McNab, he didn’t show it.
‘Malchie and his mate assaulted Rhona while she was waiting for us.’
‘What?’ Bill shot Rhona a look.
‘We thought we could use that to make him talk . . .’ Rhona petered out at Bill’s expression.
‘And when did you become a detective, Dr MacLeod?’
The question stung her, not because he asked it, but because of the tone of his voice. Bill didn’t use sarcasm normally, at least not on his team.
Bill gestured to the two uniforms to bring Malchie over.
He swaggered towards them, the sly look back on his face. ‘They threatened me,’ he whined. ‘Forced me to co
me down here.’
Bill let him finish, not taking his eyes off Malchie’s twisted face. ‘Okay, son. Here’s the story. I’m detaining you on suspicion of an assault on a forensic scientist working at a scene of crime.’
‘Like fuck!’
Bill looked at McNab. ‘What age is he?’
‘He says fifteen . . .’
‘Take him home and pick up a parent,’ Bill told McNab. ‘I’ll see you down at the police station.’
Malchie cursed his way to the police car, the swagger turned to a shuffle.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rhona said.
Bill’s face had collapsed into weariness. ‘You’ll need to come to the station and make a statement. We can hold him for six hours then we’ll have to charge him or let him go.’
‘He looked frightened when we mentioned this building.’
Bill glanced around at the dark entrance. ‘Who can blame him? It looks like a tomb.’
‘But it wasn’t,’ Rhona reminded him.
Chrissy sounded pissed off when Rhona called her. ‘How long will you be?’
‘I don’t know. I have to go to the station and make a statement.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then?’
‘Chrissy – the altar, don’t mention it to Sam, will you?’
‘As if.’
The altar was significant, but it shouldn’t be in the public domain until Bill decided.
19
CHRISSY THREW THE mobile in her bag and picked up the plastic cup, temporarily masquerading as a real glass. She would have preferred a shooter bottle with a straw but Glasgow was contemplating taking its first steps in combating pub assaults with broken glass. A recent report condemning it as the most violent city in Europe demanded some response. Broken bottles were a weapon of choice for many villains, not in here, but in many other bars.
She took a mouthful. Decanting the drink had made it warmer. She would have to start asking for ice.
Sam was on the piano tonight, covering for the absent Sean. Music was one way of trying to forget the minutiae of the day . . . and the smell. ‘That Old Black Magic’ seemed oddly appropriate in the circumstances.