The Innocent Dead - Rhona MacLeod Series 15 (2020)

by Anderson, Lin

  The killer had spent a considerable time with his victim, and every contact left a trace.

  They just had to identify that trace.

  47

  Since she’d left the cottage, she’d begun to fill in the blanks, although she wasn’t sure what was the actual truth or what she imagined to be the truth.

  She remembered her childhood as happy, yet bad things had happened. Her time with Mary she remembered as good. They’d laughed a lot. Or Mary had made her laugh. Mary knew about the world. How, Karen didn’t know, but Mary knew more about it than she did. Mary had told her there had once been a volcano in Edinburgh. How could that be right? Volcanoes were in other places in the world, not in Scotland. But she’d believed her.

  Sometimes Mary said she didn’t believe in God, but she still went to chapel all the time, and she worried about God forgiving her.

  That was why it happened. Why it had all happened.

  And she was as much responsible as Mary. She’d seen her chance and took it. If she hadn’t, Mary would be alive now.

  That’s what she knew to be the truth. What Mary had asked her to do that day had made her happy. She’d jumped at the chance, because it would get her what she wanted.

  She should have told Mary that God forgives. They tell you that in the church on Sunday, but there’s also a lot about hell and damnation. And that had frightened her.

  It wasn’t until later that she’d realized it wasn’t Mary who was likely to go to hell. It was her.

  The uphill track through the trees had reached its steepest part. Karen took a seat on the carved wooden bench that awaited her at the next fork in the path.

  From here she could see the layered green of King’s Knot through the budding branches of the ancient woodland. This walk up Castle Hill to Stirling’s famous Old Town Cemetery had been a favourite with her and Jack, and the dog, of course.

  Before life had gone to hell.

  Karen glanced down at the self-inflicted wound on her wrist. Swollen and seeping, its throbbing sent a wash of perspiration to bead her brow. The smell when she raised the wrist to her nostrils reminded her of Jack’s final days. It had been the signal that it would soon be over. Just like now.

  She waited until her head stopped swimming, then restarted her climb, hoping to have reached the top before another wave of weakness hit. She was entering by the open gate that led into the Old Town Cemetery just as it did.

  Determined to reach the grave before it swamped her, Karen tried to up her pace, stumbling like a drunk through the gravestones.

  Then she was there, her hand on the cold granite. Jack’s headstone her support.

  ‘What now, Jack?’ she whispered.

  ‘If you tell them, you know what will happen?’

  ‘Mary told me too.’

  He sounded surprised by that. ‘But the killer might already be dead, and what about all the innocent folk who’ll be made to suffer?’

  But the killer wasn’t dead.

  Her mind made up, Karen gathered her strength. If she could make it up the hill, then she could make it down again.

  Gravity and momentum were helping her descent, but maybe a little too fast. The trees were rushing past and Karen experienced the pleasurable sensation that she was running through the woods towards their den, where Mary would be waiting for her.

  It was at that point that a man stepped out in front of her downhill race.

  ‘Found you at last, Karen,’ he said.

  48

  McNab had been woken by the alarm. The one set to get him out of bed and off to the gym for his daily workout (which hadn’t been exactly daily). He reached out as usual only to discover the place beside him empty. Then last night’s events rushed back to explain Ellie’s absence.

  Had she been there, McNab would have cheerfully doused the alarm and achieved his workout in a more pleasurable way. Since he was so obviously alone, he decided to head for the gym instead.

  Two cups of coffee, a workout and a motorbike ride later, he arrived at the station, surprisingly on time. And upbeat. McNab would never openly admit it, even to himself, but McLaughlin’s recent demise felt like a positive in the Mary McIntyre case.

  That didn’t mean they wouldn’t engage in finding his killer, or killers. It did mean, however, that McLaughlin could never abuse (or kill) a child again. By getting his name and story in the papers, McLaughlin had set himself up and someone had taken a shot at that target. McNab couldn’t believe he’d taken that chance unless there was big money or some other reward in the offing such as notoriety, something McLaughlin was inclined to court.

  Despite his early arrival, he found Janice there before him. ‘Jeez, DS Clark, do you sleep here?’

  ‘You look happy,’ she said, not answering his question.

  ‘Just well rested,’ McNab told her.

  ‘I take it Ellie didn’t stay at your place last night then,’ Janice said.

  McNab assumed a shocked expression. ‘I’m certain that’s a sexist remark, I’m just not sure why.’

  ‘I’m your partner. I can say what I like to you.’

  ‘How come you know stuff about my personal life and I know nothing about yours?’ McNab said, suddenly realizing that was true.

  Janice stuck out her left hand.

  ‘What?’ McNab said.

  ‘My personal life. I’m engaged.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since last night.’

  McNab mastered his surprise. ‘Who’s the lucky bloke?’ he said, glancing around the room as though the said bloke would suddenly walk up and announce himself. ‘I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend.’

  ‘I don’t. I have a girlfriend, Paula, soon to be my wife,’ Janice told him, a smile playing her lips.

  Was she having him on? Then again, Janice wasn’t a big joker. McNab, conscious that his mouth hung open, closed it. ‘I didn’t know you were . . .’ He stopped, unable to finish that particular sentence.

  ‘You didn’t wonder why your male charm never worked on me?’ Janice was grinning now, obviously enjoying his discomfort.

  McNab rallied. ‘Well, congratulations. Can I take you and your partner out for a drink tonight to celebrate?’

  ‘There’s a few of us heading for the Merlin after work. You can come along if you like.’

  McNab nodded absent-mindedly, while his brain wondered how many other folk knew when he hadn’t wised up to it. Rhona and Chrissy? Surely Chrissy would have told him?

  He thought back to all those times he’d definitely flirted with Janice. In particular when she’d first appeared on the scene. He’d taken offence when she’d turned him down, to the extent that the boss had had to have a word with him.

  Was it possible just not to notice? He shot Janice a sideways glance. Well, it wasn’t as though the word was tattooed across her forehead. Maybe he hadn’t registered her sexuality because it didn’t matter. She was his partner, a good one at that. After their initial misunderstanding, that’s what she’d become.

  But then again, if he was that shite at reading people, why was he a detective?

  ‘So,’ Janice was saying, ‘I’ve taken a look at last night’s crime scene. Pretty rough.’ She made a face. ‘Are you planning on attending the autopsy?’

  ‘Not my responsibility,’ McNab said firmly. ‘I was only called in to identify the victim and because he was one of our suspects.’

  ‘Any thoughts on who did it?’

  ‘Let me count the possibilities.’

  ‘What if it was our killer, because McLaughlin knew too much?’

  ‘If it was, then we’ve rattled somebody’s cage.’

  They’d continued with their enquiries with respect to other known paedophiles and child murderers across the UK. There were plenty who would have fitted the timing, including the notorious Robert Black. But the consensus among the team was that this had been local. McLaughlin’s demise might be a further signal that they were right.

  McNab told Jani
ce about the blue sweater. ‘There’s no guaranteeing it was Mary’s, but I called on Jean Barclay last night and she thought it might be. According to Jean, her mother knitted a blue one for Mary and a maroon one for her.’

  ‘Karen Marshall could provide the answers to a lot of this,’ Janice said.

  ‘If we find her.’ McNab didn’t add ‘alive’, although that’s what they were both thinking. ‘Rhona reckons the wound in the kitchen could have been self-inflicted,’ he added.

  ‘So she may be in danger from herself as well as someone else.’ Janice glanced at her watch. ‘The Prof’s bringing in Marge from the recovery cafe to speak to us about exactly that.’

  They went via the coffee machine. Armed with a double espresso, McNab held the door open for his partner to enter first, which resulted in a strange look from Janice and a whispered ‘Stop it.’

  Slightly rattled by this, he wondered if he’d never done it before. The truth was, he had no idea.

  Magnus rose on their entry and shook both their hands, before introducing the woman who sat next to him as Marge Balfour, from the Raploch women’s recovery cafe.

  McNab examined the formidable-looking woman, who was also eyeing him up with the same interest.

  ‘I’m not o’er fond of the polis,’ she declared. ‘But the professor tells me I can trust you,’ she told McNab.

  ‘We all want to find Karen,’ Janice said. ‘Anything you can tell us with respect to that, we’d be very grateful.’

  The firm set of Marge’s mouth eased a little. ‘I take it he’s your partner?’ She gestured to McNab.

  When Janice nodded, she said, ‘If you can trust him, then I suppose I can.’

  That settled, Janice set up the recording, then asked Marge to tell them everything she could about Karen.

  It was a sorry tale, interspersed with hope. She spoke of Karen turning up at the recovery cafe, like a waif and stray. How the women had welcomed her but hadn’t hounded her about her reasons for being there.

  ‘She’d been on the drink,’ Marge said. ‘Although not on that day. She looked more like she could have done with a drink.’ At this point she eyed McNab, as though reading him like an open book. ‘She eventually told us about her man, Jack, and the dementia. Christ, anyone who hasn’t seen that fucking awful illness in action has no idea the way it hollows you out, you and the folk caring for you.’ She paused. ‘The drink had got her through it, but she’d stopped that before coming to us. “Jack told me to,” she said.

  ‘Things were going well for a bit. The Prof came to speak to us as a group, and she listened, but said nothing. Karen could do that, you know, retreat into herself, but she was coming back, until . . .’ She paused, looking round at their intent faces. ‘Until the bloody crow arrived. The crow and the dead cat.’

  She then proceeded to explain about the invasion of the crow via the chimney, followed by a vision of Karen’s dead cat passing the window. ‘She said she was having nightmares. That it was about her pal Mary who had disappeared all those years ago. She thought she was going doolally. I told her we all were. That’s why we came to the cafe.’

  Marge halted a moment to see if they would say anything. When they didn’t, she continued.

  ‘Then she heard on the bloody radio about the body you lot found on the moor. She knew right away it was Mary, so that made matters worse.’

  ‘And the diary?’ Janice prompted.

  ‘She still had the fucking diary she’d kept around the time her pal disappeared. Imagine keeping it all those years. Apparently Jack had told her to get rid of it. To forget the past. But it haunted her because she couldn’t remember that day. Not properly. She’d gone into a dwam apparently, stopped speaking altogether when it happened.’

  ‘Go on,’ McNab urged.

  ‘Then stuff started coming back. The day she brought the diary in for me to look after because she wanted it out of the house. We were drawing a map of the street. She told me there was a wood where they’d built their den. When I started drawing it, she suddenly freaked out.’ Marge paused to look directly at them. ‘She said Mary was upset. She wondered if God would forgive her.’

  ‘Forgive her for what?’ Janice said in surprise.

  ‘Some bastard had been interfering with Mary, and she thought because of that she couldn’t get confirmed.’

  ‘Jesus,’ McNab mouthed under his breath.

  ‘That’s when Karen made off. I thought she’d just gone to the bathroom, but when I went looking for her, she was out at the car and she’d taken back the diary.’ She paused again. ‘That’s the last I saw of her.’

  The silence that followed was heavy with thought. For McNab the possible admission by Mary that she’d been abused was the most significant part of the whole speech. McLaughlin had suggested Mary had been pregnant when she’d disappeared. The truth of that, considering the time lapse and the state of the remains, couldn’t be determined. But this memory of Karen’s suggested someone had been preying on Mary before she’d disappeared.

  ‘The woods,’ Marge said. ‘Something happened in those bloody woods. Something Karen’s buried so deep, she can’t bear to have it resurface.’ She looked round at the faces. ‘What me and the Prof saw at the cottage – did Karen hurt herself, or has some bastard got at Karen to stop her telling you the truth?’

  Janice didn’t answer the question but posed one of her own instead. ‘If Karen wanted to hide, where do you think she might go to do that?’

  Marge thought for a minute. ‘I can’t see Karen leaving Stirling, because that would mean leaving Jack. She still talks to him, you know? That’s what the chair was all about in the kitchen. So . . .’ She paused. ‘She spent a long time alone, no one noticing her. I’d say she stayed around Stirling somewhere. Or else she’s dead, just like her pal Mary.’

  49

  ‘Well, how’d the date go?’

  Chrissy smiled. ‘Very well, thank you.’

  Rhona waited, expecting a bit more than that. When nothing was forthcoming, she added, ‘So what film did you watch?’

  ‘By the time we had our pizza, it was a bit late to watch a film.’

  Rhona said nothing, just met Chrissy’s grin with one of her own.

  ‘What about you?’ Chrissy said as they continued to kit up. ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘Too late for my dinner party,’ Rhona admitted.

  ‘Fuck,’ Chrissy said, suddenly remembering. ‘You were supposed to be eating with Liam.’

  ‘It would’ve been better if you’d reminded me of that last night,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Sorry.’ Chrissy assumed a pained expression. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I found six missed calls from Sean as I was leaving the locus. I met the lingering aroma of something delicious in the stairwell, but the party was over and they had gone.’

  ‘Shit,’ Chrissy said in sympathy. ‘Was there any food left?’

  ‘Yes, in the slow cooker, with a note from Sean telling me to call. It was too late for that so I sent both men a text apologizing,’ she said.

  ‘You’re going to have to make it up to them,’ Chrissy advised. ‘In different ways, of course.’

  Rhona nodded. ‘Liam’s with his parents now, so it’ll have to be when he next comes to Glasgow. As for Sean, I’ve asked him out to dinner at a place of his choice. No expense spared.’

  Chrissy nodded approvingly. ‘Nice. Followed by a film afterwards at your place?’

  ‘Could be,’ Rhona agreed, before changing the subject. ‘Anything else come back on the evidence?’

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Chrissy said. ‘There’s an email through from Jen Mackie. I haven’t opened it yet, though the title suggests success of some sort.’

  There were a couple of paragraphs and a request to look at the three attachments for further details.

  Hi Rhona,

  I’ve attached a soil map of the area of interest, including the woodland where the girls had their den, together with an Ordnance Sur
vey map circa 1975. Note on the OS map there is a track running behind the wood, which has since become a tarred road. I believe it would have been possible to drive a vehicle along this track at that time.

  As to the soil recovered from the outer sole of the shoes, it is an inorganic sandy loam mineral soil with high phosphorus, and contains well-preserved fragments of deciduous leaf material (beech, birch) and a pollen profile reflecting the understory of a wood (beech, birch, many mixed grasses, etc.), which has definitely not come from a peat. This likely indicates that she had walked last in a deciduous woodland. There’s no trace of fibrous peat, nor is there any of the pollen I would expect to find if the contact location was peat, such as Cyperaceae (sedges) or Sphagnum (mosses) – there were none found.

  The trace of pollen recovered from the edges of the dress. This corroborates the results from the footwear – showing direct contact of the fabric with brushings of ash and birch pollen into the weave of the fabric, both of which peak in pollen numbers from April to May . . . I’d say that’s been the last place she visited alive in the late spring.

  If you want to discuss further, just give me a call.

  Jen XX

  Chrissy had been reading alongside her. ‘So Mary did return from chapel?’

  ‘And she went to the den or the woods,’ Rhona said, ‘still wearing her confirmation outfit. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? If the dress was borrowed or even if it wasn’t, going to a den in the woods would likely get it dirty.’

  ‘She was going to meet someone?’ Chrissy tried. ‘Maybe her pal?’

  ‘Her pal’s house was across the road from the school. Karen was probably waiting for her there. Why go to the woods?’

  The most probable answer was that she was going to meet someone. But if not Karen, then who?

  ‘Whoever it was, they were either the last person to see Mary alive . . .’ Chrissy said.

  ‘Or the person who abducted and killed her,’ Rhona finished for her.

  They were convinced by the evidence that Mary had been naked when she’d died. So her abductor had managed to subdue her as far as his vehicle. Whatever happened then probably sealed Mary’s fate.