Chrissy interrupted her. ‘I can’t believe J. D. Smart was there and I never got to speak to him properly.’
‘So you are a fan?’ Rhona said, with a smile. ‘I thought you were having McNab on.’
‘I like his crime podcasts. He examines old unsolved cases and—’
Rhona stopped Chrissy there. ‘He’s not made a podcast of the Mary McIntyre case?’
‘No,’ Chrissy assured her. ‘Although it might have been useful if he had.’
Rhona reminded Chrissy about her chat with Bill after the author’s departure, and their perception that J. D. was in fact attempting to control the proceedings.
‘So McNab has a rival,’ Chrissy said with a smile and a shake of her head. ‘I look forward to seeing that pair go head to head.’
‘The other thing he told us, having somehow just remembered,’ Rhona said, ‘was that the clothes Mary had been wearing before her confirmation were missing from her home.’
‘That’s weird. Could she have taken them with her? But why would she do that?’ Chrissy mused further. ‘Her house was opposite the school.’
‘Maybe she didn’t plan on going straight home,’ Rhona said, ‘and didn’t want to spoil her dress?’
‘God, I was terrified of messing my frock. Mainly because my mum had warned me to within an inch of my life that my Aunt Annie would have my guts for garters. And, believe me, Annie was one scary woman.’
‘If Mary had planned to go to her den . . .’ Rhona said.
‘Karen, her bosom buddy, would know if that was the case.’
Rhona nodded. The idea of not going to Stirling, having irked her from the beginning, now became major.
As usual, Chrissy was observing her thought processes.
‘You’re going up there,’ she said.
‘Can you manage on your own?’
‘Of course. But before you go, describe the missing clothes,’ Chrissy said.
‘A hand-knitted blue woollen jumper, a grey pleated skirt, white ankle socks, plus a pair of leather sandals,’ Rhona told her. ‘All circa 1975.’
‘I’ll make a start on the fibres you took from the body.’
‘And I’ll let DS Jones know I’m on my way.’
Now past mid-morning, the road out of Glasgow was quiet, which gave Rhona the opportunity to think. For Karen Marshall to disappear so swiftly after she’d just been located suggested she didn’t want to be found, or alternatively, someone hadn’t wanted her to get in touch with the police.
Rhona wondered how many people outside those in the recovery cafe had known about the diary. The press certainly hadn’t learned about it or it would have been a front-page splash, whether the diary contained key information on Mary McIntyre’s murder or not. The fact that the press hadn’t got hold of the diary story was a tribute to the support group who’d stayed loyal in their silence.
But, Rhona thought, as she approached the single-track road that led to Rowan Cottage, Karen Marshall’s home address couldn’t be kept a secret any longer. That was obvious from the existence of the barrier at the road end, together with the attending police officer.
She rolled down her window and told him who she was.
‘DS Jones said you were on your way, Dr MacLeod. Go on up. I’m just keeping the local press and other interested parties at bay. Although we’ve already had a drone from King’s Knot come for a look.’
Thick gorse bushes, some already starting to bloom in the milder weather of the last few days, blanked any view Rhona may have had of the cottage and its immediate surroundings. Only the castle rose like a sentinel in the near distance. Assuming Karen had left either on foot or in a vehicle, it was unlikely that she’d been seen on this road.
Meeting an abrupt corner, Rhona swung hard left to pull up behind a police car.
DS Jones came forward to greet her. ‘Dr MacLeod, you made it through the barrier?’
‘I did, thanks.’ Rhona looked up as the hum of a drone overhead caught her attention. ‘I see we’re being observed?’
‘It’s been around most of the day. We think it’s being launched from Castle Hill, but we haven’t located where yet. Still, if it spots our missing person, it’ll be doing us a favour.’
‘I take it there’s nothing back from the search party?’
He shook his head. ‘If she did walk into town she could have headed anywhere by bus or train. We’re checking out both possibilities and asking the public to help with possible sightings.’
‘So you have a recent photo of Karen?’
‘Fortunately, one was taken at the recovery cafe by Marge Balfour, when Professor Pirie visited the group. It’s not a great photo, but it’s the best we have.’
He walked Rhona to the front door. ‘Take as long as you like, Dr MacLeod. We’ve finished in there for now. I should say they’ve taken a few items for DNA purposes, which will come through to you. Here’s a list of what they took.’
Rhona viewed the cottage from the outside first. A traditionally stone-built single-storey house with a front porch, a window on either side and two skylights indicating a loft.
Stepping into the porch, she found a couple of potted plants on ledges, below which were two pairs of wellies, different sizes, and an umbrella. An inner door led into a hall with two doors leading off, plus a narrow passageway heading towards the back of the building.
The temperature in the hallway was comfortable, despite being near the front door, the warmth coming from her left.
The house had a familiar scent Rhona had noticed in other old buildings. It wasn’t unpleasant, more like lived in. Maybe it was the weathered stone or the wood finishes via the doors and floorboards.
She stood for a moment, deciding where to look first. On her left, the door lay half open. The one her right was firmly closed.
She chose to go right. As the clasp released and the door swung open, a rush of cold air caught her in its grasp. Now she understood why the team working on the cottage had kept this particular door shut.
Despite the time of day there was very little light, so she flicked on the switch. The room had the air of not having been disturbed for some considerable time. Even the visit from the SOCOs hadn’t changed that. The fireplace was empty apart from fallen soot, and Rhona’s nose caught a fleeting smell of damp, suggesting there hadn’t been a fire lit in that grate for some time. She stepped forward via the metal treads set out by the forensic team, intrigued by what looked like impressions on the soot.
Closer now, she made out the shape. Three lines meeting together to form a fourth, it looked undoubtedly like the footprint of a bird. Standing by the empty grate, Rhona was fairly certain she could hear the possible culprits cawing above her.
A three-seater sofa, two armchairs and a TV filled the small room. Marks left by the SOCOs told a tale of fingerprint dusting, but Rhona doubted, as they must have, whether this room had been visited recently at all.
Closing the door behind her, she now chose to walk the narrow passageway to its end, passing a neat bathroom on the way, together with an access point for the loft by way of a narrow set of steps.
The end door led into a bedroom, just big enough to hold a double bed, a wardrobe and a small dressing table, housing some toiletries. The saddest thing about the room was the bed. The duvet had been pulled back, exposing an indented pillow where someone had lain. On the other side, a pair of pyjamas stuffed with clothes had been placed to face the sleeper.
The poignant image told the tale of a marriage cruelly ended by death. It also painted a picture of Karen’s current state of mind.
Rhona stood for a moment, taking in the scene, then turned and headed for the scullery which had prompted Magnus to call 999.
Entering the kitchen, her first view was of two high-backed armchairs, sitting on either side of the source of the heat, an old-fashioned range. The room was cosy and obviously the most lived in in the cottage.
Rhona imagined Karen and her husband sitting there companionably o
n either side of the range. Just as in the bedroom, Jack’s absence had been replaced by his clothes, arranged as though he still sat in his chair. Apart from this oddity, nothing else looked out of place. Rhona checked the evidence list again, to find that a tea mug had been removed from the range next to Karen’s chair. Plus her mobile from the table.
If there had been an intruder it didn’t look as though they’d been in here.
Rhona now stepped into the scullery to view what had caused Magnus to call the emergency services.
Depending on the injury and its location, blood left the body in a variety of ways: flowing, dripping, spraying, spurting, gushing or simply oozing. Minor injuries could produce more blood than you might expect. Head wounds, for example, or slicing your finger with a sharp knife whilst cooking.
According to the forensic list DS Jones had given her, the knife found in the sink had been removed for further examination. It was the blood pattern on the surrounding surfaces, plus the faint bloodied footprint on the floor, that now interested Rhona.
Her initial reading suggested that Karen, presuming it was her blood, had been cut at the sink and, turning quickly, perhaps in shock or looking for something to stem the flow, had caused both the splattering and the drops to the floor, resulting in the footprint.
But if she had simply cut her hand, why was there no evidence of her stemming the blood in the form of a cloth or paper towel?
The bloody footprint faced the back door and not towards the kitchen, which suggested whatever had happened had sent Karen out of the cottage.
Why?
It was at this point that Rhona noticed another mark, this time on the window ledge behind the sink. Using a magnifier, Rhona took a closer look.
It was a bird print like those she’d seen among the soot in the sitting room. Rhona took a photograph, then went looking online for a possible match to confirm her suspicions from earlier.
It didn’t take long.
It appeared that a crow had been both in the sitting room and in the scullery. In here it had perched on the window ledge next to the sink. Had the crow escaped the sitting room to enter the scullery, its sudden appearance startling Karen, causing her to accidentally cut herself?
Or maybe it had strafed her.
It wasn’t uncommon for a single crow or a flock to strafe humans. It had happened quite recently to students on a campus in Cork in Ireland. The actual reason had been difficult to decipher, although it was thought to have occurred because a nestling had been on the ground nearby and they were protecting it. An alternative explanation could have been that they were demanding food. Perhaps, in this case, that’s what the crow had been after?
So a roof crow had appeared, either from the sitting room (what about the closed door?) or perhaps entering via an open back door?
Rhona stepped outside.
Treads were here too and there were photos already accessible taken by the investigation team looking into the scullery, although none capturing the bird footprints.
The back door was surrounded by ivy and, examining the foliage more closely, Rhona located three dark congealed spots on the glossy leaves, plus some spotting on the gravel of the path.
So Karen had still been bleeding when she’d come outside.
Standing looking towards the open door, Rhona now spotted another item of evidence of what might have driven Karen outside.
Tucked in at the edge of the path was a black feather, a match, Rhona suspected, for the crow that had caused Karen to flee her home.
There was no further blood spill to provide a trail, which suggested Karen’s wound had stopped bleeding. So why didn’t she go back inside and clean up the mess?
It seemed out of character for her not to have done that.
Perhaps something had happened to prompt her to leave. In her hurry, she’d grabbed her bag, leaving the back door open. Perhaps significantly, she hadn’t taken her mobile with her.
It was described on the evidence list as a pay-as-you-go, which couldn’t be traced, but maybe she didn’t want calls of any description. And the car? It too could be traced, so better to leave it behind.
Karen Marshall, Rhona thought, had run away, or someone had made her do so.
She now headed for the attic stairs, flicking on the light switch at the top of the ladder.
Just like the rest of the house, the loft space was tidy and well organized. Only one box lay open and that had Karen’s name on the side. A few well-thumbed books had been unpacked, their titles and the date on the side suggesting this box held Karen’s childhood. Is this where she’d kept the diary?
Rhona began to methodically unpack the remaining items, laying them out carefully in order of appearance. Apart from more books, there was a doll with a red dress and balding blonde hair, and, at the bottom of the box, a plastic bag. Lifting it out, she realized it wasn’t just there as lining, but in fact held something soft.
Opening it, she extracted the contents.
Moths had been hard at work, despite the plastic cover. Little holes patchworked the wool but, removed and shaken out, there was no doubting it had once been a blue hand-knitted jumper, of a size to fit an eleven-year-old girl.
43
‘She’s here already,’ Janice informed McNab when he walked in.
‘Well, so am I,’ McNab said. ‘Has the Prof arrived?’
Janice eyed him. ‘No, why?’
‘I called him and told him we were about to interview Karen’s sister. What?’ he added, taking pleasure in his partner’s bemused expression. ‘After which we can discuss his thoughts on today’s interview and the previous one.’
Janice gave him a sideways look of disbelief. ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ she said.
He hadn’t, he was just following the boss’s orders. Of course, he didn’t tell Janice that. At this point McNab noticed the coffee on his desk.
‘I don’t want us going in there with you needing a caffeine fix,’ Janice told him.
McNab smiled his thanks. ‘We’ll tell the front desk to put the Prof in the observation room when he does arrive.’
‘So how do you want to play this?’ Janice said as they walked.
‘Just like with McLaughlin. You start.’
By the gleam in her eye that’s exactly what Janice had wanted.
‘Why the change of venue?’ McNab said. ‘I thought you wanted to visit Mrs Jackson?’
‘Mrs Jackson asked to come here instead.’
‘Really? Most folk prefer not to venture inside a police station.’ McNab thought for a minute. ‘Maybe she’s got something to hide at home?’
‘After forty-five years, it’ll be well hidden,’ Janice told him.
They say you can make up your mind about a person in seven seconds. That first impressions are that important. Even as Eleanor Marshall, now Jackson, summed them up, McNab did the same with her.
She looked like a woman who’d been dragged down to a polling booth against her will and told to vote for the political party she most hated. There was a curl to her mouth and a defiant look in her eyes that didn’t suggest she had a mind to co-operate, no matter what she was asked.
After the introductions, she told them exactly what she thought about being questioned on something that had happened forty-five years ago. Particularly since she’d given a statement at the time when it was fresh in her mind. Anyway, Mary’s disappearance had blighted all their lives and she didn’t want to go back there again, ever.
Waiting quietly, a sympathetic look on her face, Janice let the woman have her say until the litany of complaints came to an end.
While this was going on, McNab simply watched. To his mind, what Mrs Jackson seemed most annoyed about was the fact that they’d found Mary McIntyre’s body, whereas she would have preferred that they hadn’t.
‘It was over and done with years ago,’ she was saying with a shake of her head.
‘Not for Mary’s family,’ McNab said. ‘Nor for her pal Karen.’
At the mention of Karen’s name, Eleanor pursed her lips. ‘Karen grew up and got married. She went on with her life, put it behind her. Like we all had to do.’ She paused. ‘Besides, we gave our statements to the detective when it happened.’
‘Back then it was a missing person enquiry,’ McNab said. ‘Now it’s a murder investigation.’ He nodded at Janice to begin.
Janice set up the recording, while Mrs Jackson fiddled with the clasp on her handbag, not looking at them.
‘What we want you to do is speak freely, Mrs Jackson. Answer the questions with as much detail as you remember. Is that okay?’
The woman gave a brisk nod, as though resigning herself to just getting on with it.
‘Right,’ Janice said. ‘Can you please tell us where you were when you first heard that Mary McIntyre had disappeared?’
The frown between her eyes deepened, and a wave of distaste twisted her mouth.
‘Why on earth does that matter?’ she said.
‘Just answer the question,’ McNab told her.
She threw McNab a disapproving look, before saying, ‘It was when I came home from work at Boots, the chemist.’ She drew herself up in the chair. ‘I was sixteen. It was my first job.’
‘What time was that?’ Janice asked.
‘The shop shut at six, so it would be around half six by the time I walked back. The police were out looking for her, plus most of the street.’
‘Where was Karen?’
‘In her room.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘I stayed with Mum. Dad was out with the search party, and she was upset.’
‘What about Karen?’ McNab said.
She shrugged. ‘She never said anything. She was never a talker, except when her pal Mary was about.’
‘Was she upset, crying, in shock?’ Janice tried.
‘She was silent, that’s all I remember.’
‘We’ve put out an appeal for everyone who lived nearby at the time to get in touch, in particular Karen. We’ve had no response from her. Have you any idea how we might contact your sister?’
The Innocent Dead - Rhona MacLeod Series 15 (2020) Page 21