by Lin Anderson
Rhona looked over anxiously at the crime site and was relieved to see that the tent was up. DS McNab had given up waiting for his private conversation with Rhona and was back on scene. The Necropolis was a hive of activity. Inner and outer cordons prevented the public from getting too close to the locus of crime, but the steep rise of the ground offered the more inquisitive a bird’s eye view, if they were prepared to climb to the top of the hill, or, even better, scale one of the higher monuments.
Rhona made her way back to the tent. Forensic samples taken from the body in situ were vital. History was littered with cases where not enough forensic material had been gathered, leaving the prosecuting lawyer with the job of trying to prove a case largely on circumstantial evidence. If the murderer had left any trace of himself on the body, or the immediate area, she wanted to find it.
Chrissy was already inside, working her way over the surrounding area. She glanced up gratefully as Rhona entered, then went back to what she was doing.
Rhona knelt next to the body. The filtered light of the tent softened the victim’s features. The woman’s face was still thin, her cheekbones prominent, but the expression appeared more peaceful.
She left the ligature in place. It was better removed in the mortuary, keeping the knots intact. You could tell a lot from the way perpetrators tied knots. Rhona took samples from below the fingernails and bagged the hands. Then she concentrated on the mouth. As she swabbed for traces of semen, she found a small metal crown. Any contact with the crown, perhaps during unprotected oral sex, would have left scrapings of DNA. Rhona sampled it, then moved to the wounds in the genital area. The irregular edges and evidence of tearing and bruising suggested they had been made by a blunt force instrument, like a chisel or screwdriver.
Rhona carefully extracted the shoe and studied the six-inch heel. The end looked similar in dimension to the wounds. She bagged and labelled the shoe and set it with the other exhibits. Vaginal and anal swabs would be taken at post-mortem. Sperm deposits could be retrieved up to twenty days after intercourse had taken place.
Closer examination of the inner thighs suggested the victim was a drug user. Rhona checked the bare arms and found the same. Needle sites weren’t the only wounds on the body. There were clusters of sores on the front of the thighs and lower arms.
Rhona called Chrissy over. ‘Take a look at this.’ Chrissy accepted the magnifier and directed it on the wounds.
‘She could be a tweaker,’ she said after a few moments’ study. Tweaking or skin picking was a common side effect of using crystal meth or methamphetamine hydrochloride, where the addict imagined there were bugs crawling under their skin. Chrissy shook her head. ‘If she did this to herself, she was living in hell.’
Her sampling of the body complete, Rhona examined the surrounding area. The earth was well trampled with no obvious individual footprints and no discarded condoms. Chrissy confirmed the same on her patch.
‘If he used a condom, he took it with him,’ she said.
When the mortuary crew had bagged the body and loaded it into the van, Rhona was free to examine the exposed grave. Until now the prominent smells had been a mixture of fresh blood and the acrid odour of urine and faeces expelled through fear, shock, or death itself. Now that the body had been removed, Rhona realised she was picking up another scent.
She sat back on her haunches and took a deep breath. Most of the Necropolis graves were grass covered, but not this one. Built into the hillside and fronted by a low stone wall, it lay constantly in shadow. Here there was no grass, only dark earth and a sprinkling of weeds.
Rhona bent closer to the ground. The smell was definitely stronger there. A terrible thought crossed her mind. One she hardly dared contemplate.
‘Are there any police dogs on site?’
‘I think so.’ Chrissy looked at her quizzically. ‘What’s up?’
‘Not sure yet.’
Outside the tent the drizzle had developed into stair rods. There was no sign of Bill, and Rhona assumed he had returned to the station to set up an incident room. McNab was standing near the inner cordon, apparently oblivious to the downpour.
Rhona called out to him.
‘What’s up?’
‘I need a police dog. The soil under the body is disturbed and there’s a strong scent of decomposition.’
‘This is a graveyard.’
‘The man buried here is too long dead to smell this bad.’
The cynical smile disappeared from McNab’s face.
‘You think there’s something else buried there?’
‘Let’s see how the dog reacts.’
He nodded, serious now. ‘I’ll radio one in.’
3
THE DOG WAS already working its nose as it entered the tent. On release it made straight for the grave.
They watched as it grew ever more excited, sniffing and pawing at the surface.
‘What do you think?’ Rhona asked the handler.
‘She smells something all right.’
Rhona checked with McNab. ‘Do we need permission to excavate?’
‘We’ll worry about that later.’
Rhona began to remove the earth cautiously with a small trowel, aware of what might lie beneath. It took a little over four inches to establish that something was buried there and by then the putrid smell was strong enough to gag on. McNab, reading the expression on the handler’s face, sent the relieved man outside.
Eventually an object distinguishable as a finger began to emerge from the damp soil, swiftly followed by another. From nowhere, the first fly appeared and made an attempt to land. Rhona swatted it away.
Gradually the full hand lay exposed. It was badly decomposed but recognisable as female, a small gold ring biting into the rotting flesh of the middle finger.
Chrissy muttered ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph’ under her breath.
Rhona stood up. ‘Okay. Looks like our perpetrator has killed before.’
McNab stared down in disbelief. ‘He knew the body was there?’
‘He knew all right,’ Rhona said with conviction. ‘Why else bring his victim to this particular grave?’
‘I’d better call the boss.’ McNab pulled out his phone.
‘Bill’s going to love this,’ said Chrissy.
By the time Bill returned, Rhona had exposed the face and upper body, both in an advanced state of decomposition, but there was no mistaking the ligature around the neck, fashioned from a bra.
‘Our man’s got a trademark.’
‘If the knots are tied the same way.’
‘How long has the body been buried?’
‘A shallow grave. Hot weather and plenty of rain. At a guess, maybe a month.’
Bill let a sigh escape. ‘There could be more.’
Young women engaged in street prostitution appeared and disappeared regularly. Many were homeless and went unregistered. Most were outcasts of society.
‘We should use the dogs. Check the rest of the graveyard for disturbed earth,’ Rhona suggested.
She didn’t need to look at Bill’s expression to know how many man-hours that would need. There were 3,500 tombs in the City of the Dead.
‘What about this one?’
‘I’ve contacted Judy Brown at GUARD. I’ll help her expose the body and get it to the mortuary.’
‘Do we call Sissons back?’ Bill said.
‘I don’t think we need a pathologist to determine death has occurred in this case.’
It was a feeble attempt to be light-hearted. Bill acknowledged it with the ghost of a smile. The truth was you couldn’t succumb to constant angst in this work. You accepted the horror and got on with the job, even if it meant developing a ghoulish sense of humour.
GUARD, the Glasgow University Archaeological Research Department, supplied the experts needed for dealing with concealed bodies. Judy Brown certainly had the experience, having worked on mass graves in the Balkans, Angola, and more recently Iraq. Thankfully, after a further period of carefu
l excavation, Judy’s trowel hit metal. The iron grave-covering lay a couple of feet below the surface.
‘He couldn’t have buried another one here even if he wanted to.’ Judy’s long dark hair was drawn back and fastened with a comb under the regulation hood. Smears of dirt marked her face and mask where she’d brushed aside some stray strands. ‘The official graves here are twelve feet deep and brick lined. There’ll be more than one member of the Aitken family sharing their patriarch’s resting place.’
‘I bet he never imagined two scarlet women lying on top of him,’ Rhona said.
‘I expect he preferred them alive,’ Judy replied cynically.
The exposed remains followed the same pattern as the one above ground. A short skirt drawn up, the chest exposed, the ligature and stiletto.
‘No pants again. Could they have rotted away?’
Judy shook her head. ‘Unlikely in the time this has been in the ground.’
‘So he collects them?’
‘Or they don’t wear them. Certainly makes things quicker.’
Rhona stood up, her knees protesting at the length of time she’d crouched. Judy joined her with a groan of relief.
‘What about transport?’
‘There’s a mortuary van waiting,’ Rhona told her.
‘Let’s get some fresh air, then.’
The evening breeze skimming the hill was a welcome relief from the stench inside. Rhona dropped her mask and took a deep breath. She had been inside the tent most of the day. The penetrating smell would have impregnated her clothes and hair, despite the suit. The only solution was a long hot shower.
McNab was still on duty, although Chrissy had long since gone back to the lab. He supervised the removal of the corpse, then joined Rhona and Judy.
‘So, not a mass grave then?’
‘Only if you count the Victorian layers,’ Judy said.
McNab gave Judy an appraising look and Rhona hid a smile. You could always depend on Michael McNab to eye up the ladies. She was just grateful his eye was no longer on her.
‘The dogs pick up on anything?’ she asked.
‘Not so far. We’ll have another go tomorrow.’
‘I’d better be getting back.’ Judy stepped out of her white suit.
‘I wondered if anyone fancied a drink,’ ventured McNab.
Rhona shook her head. She did fancy a drink, but not with Michael McNab, and besides, she fancied a shower more.
McNab looked directly at Judy.
‘Maybe, but I need to go back to the base first.’ Turning, so McNab could not see her face, Judy looked quizzically at Rhona – should she?
McNab was fun and had been pretty good in bed. Rhona hoped her expression conveyed at least that much. She left them to their decision-making and headed for her car, which was parked what seemed like miles away.
Dusk had rendered the Necropolis eerie and silent as the throb of the police generator faded into the distance. Out of the harsh glare of the arc lights, the shadowy gravestones stood sentry on Rhona’s walk back to the Bridge of Sighs. Below the bridge, a yellow stream of headlights flowed down the road built over what had once been the Molendinar Burn.
The victim had crossed here to her death, just as other victims had made the more famous crossing in Venice. Rhona’s mood was growing as dark as the day. She remembered what Bill had told her once, earlier in her career. The only death to fear, he’d said, was your own. It was a strange thought for him to voice, considering how much he worried about the well-being of his two teenage children, and now his wife Margaret.
A line of police vehicles was parked in Cathedral Square. Once inside her car, Rhona called Chrissy.
‘Go home,’ Chrissy told her. ‘I’ve logged and stored everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Rhona found herself readily agreeing.
She drove westward through the city towards a sky bruised red and blue. It looked both beautiful and ominous.
Rhona found herself craving the small ordinary things of life, as far away from violent death as was imaginable. The sounds of the flat when she would open the door, sometimes a hushed silence, sometimes music. The soft mew of the kitten. Its purr of pleasure as it greeted her arrival. Rhona’s skin prickled in anticipation as she slid her key quietly into the lock.
Tonight there was music, but no sign of Tom the cat. She stood for a moment in the hall, breathing in its familiar scents, then went in search of the occupants.
They were both in the kitchen. Sean stood facing the window, listening intently, the kitten cradled in his arms. Something in his stance stopped Rhona from interrupting.
The music was jazz piano, a tune Rhona was unfamiliar with. A padded envelope lay on the table. Nearby was an empty CD case. Musicians often sent Sean samples of their work, hoping for a gig at the jazz club. Rhona assumed this was one of those occasions.
As the track drew to a close, Sean turned, sensing her presence. He placed the kitten on the window seat, where it curled itself into a tiny ball.
‘That was Sam playing.’
‘Sam?’ Rhona’s heart leapt.
Sean indicated the envelope. ‘The CD arrived this morning.’
Sam Haruna, the father of Chrissy’s unborn child, had been forced to flee during Rhona’s last big case, uncovering a child-trafficking ring in Nigeria. The men chasing him were both influential and ruthless, and if Sam was still alive he was in great danger.
Rhona picked up the envelope, postmarked London, three days before. ‘He must have made it back to London. I have to call Chrissy and tell her. She’ll be over the moon.’ Rhona pulled out her mobile, but Sean stopped her hand before she could dial.
‘I think we should wait.’
‘Why?’
‘This recording could have been made at any time. It doesn’t prove Sam’s alive now.’
‘Who else would send the CD, if it wasn’t Sam?’
Sean didn’t have to answer. The Suleiman family were as powerful in the UK as they were in Nigeria. If they suspected Sam was back in Britain, then all his ties were here in Glasgow. His job, his church, his girlfriend. They would do anything to flush him out. The muggy heat of the kitchen suddenly seemed suffocating, as though West Africa had followed Rhona home.
‘We can’t tell Chrissy until we’re sure.’
Sean was right. It would be too cruel, especially now.
‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ said Rhona.
The kitten, sensing her mood, rose and stretched with a plaintive miaow, jumped lightly down and came to rub itself against her legs.
Sean waited.
‘Chrissy’s pregnant.’
A series of emotions played across Sean’s face, and Rhona convinced herself that envy was one of them.
He shook his head in amazement. ‘Sam would have loved that.’ He corrected himself. ‘Sam will love that.’
Rhona couldn’t meet Sean’s gaze. She’d purposefully kept this news from Sean, telling herself it was early days yet. Chrissy didn’t want everyone to know. All lies, of course. Chrissy had no problem with Sean knowing about Sam’s child. It was Rhona that had the problem. Ever since Sean had expressed his desire to have a child, one drunken night after his father died, Rhona had been torturing herself about it. When she’d challenged him sober, Sean had told her to forget it. That all Irishmen were maudlin in drink. But Rhona couldn’t forget it, because the words had been said, and drunk or not, Sean had meant them.
‘Rhona …’
‘I’m going for a shower,’ she said abruptly.
Rhona felt Sean’s eyes on her back as she left the room. It was at times like this she wished she wasn’t in a relationship.
4
LEANNE WOKE AT nine o’clock on Thursday morning, knowing something was wrong. Two sleeping tablets had rendered her practically unconscious, leaving her with a dry mouth and swollen tongue. She always took two when it was Terri’s turn to go out. That way she didn’t lie awake worrying about her.
; The lurch in Leanne’s stomach when she saw the empty place in the bed beside her sent her to the toilet. She retched in the sink, then turned the tap full on, rinsed out her mouth and splashed her face. In the poor light of a low-wattage bulb, her frightened face looked back at her, white and distorted. Leanne stared down at the healed sores on the blue-veined tributaries of her inner arms, testament to Terri’s determination that they should both get clean.
Leanne gripped the sink, as her legs lost what little strength they had. By rights the two of them should have woken curled together, Terri at her back, arm circling Leanne, hand cupping her breast. Leanne shut her eyes, the pain of wishing like a knife in her guts.
After a moment she straightened up, went for the mobile and rang Terri’s number, desperation growing with each unanswered ring.
They’d agreed from the beginning. Stay safe, call if in trouble. The phone slipped from Leanne’s hand as the trembling became an uncontrollable shake. A cold sweat swept over her, rattling her teeth. She hugged herself to control the tremors and tried to think through her fear.
Wednesdays were regulars. The stall guy from the Barras market who gave Terri pirated CDs. The old man who smelt of piss and called her Marie. Wednesdays were quiet, never more than six, then home. But Terri hadn’t come home.
Leanne tried the mobile at five-minute intervals while she dressed. Each time it rang out, she prayed for Terri’s voice to break the endless ringing, only to hang up in despair.
She made herself a heavily milked tea with two spoonfuls of sugar, Terri’s cure for just about everything, hoping it would quell the mixture of hunger and nausea that gnawed at her stomach. While she sipped it, she put on the radio and listened to the Scottish news. Dread was replaced with hope when there was nothing that might be linked with Terri.
Outside the flat, warm damp air prickled Leanne’s skin, as she headed for Terri’s favourite spot. On her right, the distant trees on Glasgow Green stood thick-leafed under a thunderous sky.