by Alex Gray
It would all work out, he told himself. Another murderer would be banged up for life, he’d get a commendation and the satisfaction of seeing Rosie Fergusson make a complete fool of herself in court.
A frown crossed McCauley’s face for a moment. It was a pity that young DC, Kirsty Wilson, was so friendly with Fergusson and her husband, Professor Brightman. Lorimer’s fault, of course; the lot of them were thick as thieves. Wilson was a useful detective and he would need to see what he could do to bring her alongside in this particular business.
*
She saw Rosie heaving herself out of the office chair as she opened the door to the consultant pathologist’s office.
‘Jacqui, lovely to see you,’ Rosie declared, coming forward and stretching up to give the taller woman a peck on her cheek.
‘Great to be back in Glasgow again,’ Jacqui White replied. ‘And just look at you! How long to go now?’
‘Too long,’ Rosie grumbled. ‘My due date’s a few weeks yet but the way I feel I could go on leave right now. Thank goodness you’re able to step into my shoes. The department needs someone with your experience, Jacqui. We’re taking on a junior pathologist from Australia as well so you don’t have to be overstretched. Daisy Abercrombie. She’s a character.’ Rosie grinned. ‘Hope she’ll stay once I’m back.’
Jacqui White returned the smile but kept her own counsel. She was tired of racketing about the country, even the smartest hotels had long since lost their appeal, and she wanted to settle down here in Glasgow and have a permanent job, possibly the one that Rosie Fergusson was about to relinquish for several months.
‘I’d love to meet her,’ she said. ‘Now, how about you bring me up to date on the current workload? I’ll be happy to start any time you feel I can come in, you know.’ She affected a worried expression and nodded towards Rosie’s bump. ‘No need to wait till that little one decides to make an appearance.’
She heard the sigh, saw the woman shake her head and for a moment she was annoyed. Why couldn’t Rosie just go home and put her feet up? Let her get on with running this department instead?
‘Oh, you’re always so dedicated, Rosie,’ Jacqui said. ‘But maybe it’s time to put yourself first for a change.’
‘Aye, well, perhaps you’re right,’ Rosie said doubtfully, shuffling back to her place behind the desk. ‘I just need to sort a few things about this current case. Dorothy Guilford,’ she added, lifting a file from the pile at her side. ‘Here, it makes interesting reading.’
Jacqui White sat in the university library, hand on chin, poring through her colleague’s notes. Alan was right, she decided. The case was shot full of holes. Rosie simply wasn’t up to it any more. She felt a rush of sympathy for the woman who had seemed so weary sitting there in her office. It was always hard to juggle work and family, women constantly told her. But Jacqui White had decided long ago that kids were not part of her own plan and right now she wanted to see what she might do to persuade Rosie that staying at home for good was in everyone’s best interest. Not least the good-looking detective inspector who had shared her bed last night, she thought, smiling a secret smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘White male, late twenties, no identity on him,’ DS Jolyon, the scene of crime manager, noted.
Several people stood at the edge of the steep slope that ran down to the pool at the foot of the old quarry. The stink from the scum-covered water had been made worse by the recent hot spell and the officer wrinkled his nose in distaste.
The body had been spotted by kids, probably playing truant from school, their breathless phone call giving the location but leaving no names. A police diver in full wetsuit had retrieved the man and now his corpse was laid out on the grass, the team of white-suited SOCOs examining the terrain.
‘Been badly beaten, by the looks of him,’ Jolyon observed. ‘We’ll know more when . . . ’ He broke off as a car door slammed and a small blonde woman emerged, already dressed in protective whites. ‘Dr Fergusson,’ Jolyon called. ‘Mind your step on these treads. Need a hand?’ He watched anxiously as Rosie Fergusson stepped onto the first of the metal treads that snaked a path from where the patrol cars were parked to the body by the cliff edge. Having a heavily pregnant pathologist was just one more risk to assess, Jolyon’s expression seemed to say as he came forward, one hand ready to guide Rosie forwards.
‘I’m fine, really I am,’ Rosie insisted. ‘Who called it in?’ she asked, stepping carefully but steadily along the row of treads.
‘Some local kids. Wouldn’t leave their names but the operator said they sounded genuinely freaked so we came to check it out. Turned out they were right. What they saw down there was a body floating in the water.’
‘Phew, poor soul. What a niff!’ Rosie exclaimed. ‘Never mind,’ she made a face at the DS, ‘I’ve smelled a lot worse than this.’
The heat and the stink had brought swarms of flies and Rosie had to swat them away with her gloved hand several times as she attempted to examine the dead man. The wound from his throat was probably what had killed him, she decided, though a full examination back at the city mortuary would be necessary to determine that.
‘Any idea when . . . ?’
Rosie looked up to meet DS Jolyon’s eyes, giving him a you know me better than to ask sort of look.
‘Just asking,’ he sighed.
Rosie shook her head. ‘Fairly recently, I’d say. A couple of days, maybe? Is there anyone fitting his description that’s been called in as a missing person?’
‘That’s being checked out now, doctor,’ Jolyon replied. ‘The photographer’s sent pics straight to divisional HQ. They’ll be processing them as I speak.’
It was a change from the old days, Jolyon knew, when forensics could take days or weeks to determine certain details. And, once the post-mortem had been done and DNA samples and fingerprints sent to the lab, they would be able to see if this chap had been on any database that might give them a clue as to his identity.
The detective sergeant stepped to one side, hand in the air to ward off a cloud of bluebottles. Only this morning he’d been extolling the fine spell of weather but here, at a crime scene like this, with the stench of putrid water floating upwards from the corpse and the drone of flies, he would have preferred a cold winter’s day.
‘Over here!’ a voice called and Jolyon looked up to see two of the SOCOs bent down around a patch of ground.
‘Blood stains,’ one of the white-suited figures proclaimed as he came closer, careful not to disturb the area. ‘Think this may be the place where they killed him.’
Jolyon looked to where the gloved fingers had parted stems of grass. The evidence would be bagged and sent for examination to see if it met the dead man’s blood type but he was pretty sure that this was where he had drawn his final breath.
He looked up at the cloudless skies, one hand shading his eyes against the brightness, wondering if that was the last thing their victim had seen before he had closed his eyes for ever on the world.
‘I could do the PM, if you like,’ Jacqui offered. ‘Give you a bit of a break.’
‘Okay, I’ll take notes, then. Thanks,’ Rosie agreed. The double-doctor system this side of the Scottish border meant that one pathologist performed the surgery whilst another took notes, corroborating any evidence that would be required for the future.
As she watched her colleague, Rosie felt a sense of satisfaction that the department would be in good hands once she decided to begin her maternity leave. It wouldn’t be long now, a couple of weeks perhaps, her due date early July. Perhaps, once Abby’s nursery days were over, she could spend more time with her little girl, preparing for the new baby’s arrival.
At last the body was wheeled back into the refrigerated drawer and Rosie could strip off her gown, another post-mortem completed.
‘Not hard to see the cause of death, was it?’ Jacqui remarked. ‘That blade cut straight into his jugular.’
‘They’d beaten him up first
, though, hadn’t they,’ Rosie mused. ‘And taking him all the way out there looks like they had a reason for that. Premeditated murder, wouldn’t you say?’ She had filled her colleague in with the SOCOs initial findings, two sets of footprints other than the victim’s, leading the police to think that the dead man had been brought to that lonely spot deliberately.
‘Yes. If I had to,’ Jacqui replied. ‘These marks around his ankles and wrists suggest that he had been bound up at some time before. Wonder why he hadn’t been secured when they took him to that quarry? Especially if they had meant to kill him.’
‘Maybe tox results will tell us more,’ Rosie offered. ‘See if the victim had been drugged.’
‘Mm.’ Jacqui White was non-committal. ‘Anyway, you can forget all about this seeing as I’ll be the one in court as expert witness.’
Rosie glanced at the woman, wondering at her confident tone. Would that really be the case? It was Dr Rosie Fergusson who had been at the scene of crime first, after all, so her name would be on the initial paperwork, but perhaps given that Dr White had performed the post-mortem, she could continue with the case should it ever come to court.
Rosie felt a familiar movement and smiled, glancing at her swollen belly. She’d have more important things to think about soon enough.
James Spencer paid the cab driver and looked around him. London in summer was a wonderful place to be, albeit just for the day. The trees in the adjacent park towered above him, then a movement caught his eye, making him stop as several bright green parakeets swooped overhead. Lorimer would have loved that sight. James grinned. It reminded the young man just how different things were a few hundred miles further south and how much more exciting life could be in another country altogether.
His interview with the American firm was in a little over an hour, plenty of time to have a quick coffee and look over his notes. It was as important to have questions of his own as it was to answer theirs, Solly Brightman had counselled. And James had agreed, wanting to know more about the life he and Kirsty might enjoy in Chicago.
The city appeared to have undergone a transformation, everything shining even more brightly than before in the early afternoon sunlight. Wherever he walked the pedestrian lights turned to green as though by magic to let him cross the roads. It was a day where nothing could go wrong, he thought, oblivious to people turning their heads and staring at him as James walked past, a huge grin on his face.
He’d done it! He’d actually done it! The job as an economist at the bank was his for the asking. All he needed to do was have a talk with Kirsty and let them know within the week if he was prepared to move to the US and begin his new career in Chicago. A generous housing allowance would be forthcoming, mortgage rates guaranteed, as well as a company car. He would have accommodation for two months initially, rent-free, in the company’s own city centre flat until he found a home for them both. James clutched his briefcase and began to whistle, still oblivious to the stares of passers-by.
A flock of pigeons soared from the pavement near his feet and James felt his spirits lift with them as they flapped across the clear blue sky. Life was wonderful! Now he must hope that his lovely girl wanted to share this adventure with him and everything would be perfect.
The big man strolled along Gordon Street, turning into the shadows as the tall buildings in Hope Street cut off the sunlight. He blinked, the sudden change making him reach for the sunglasses, but his hand fell again. Better to keep them on, now that he’d spotted her.
He had followed her through Central Station, up one flight of steps from Union Street and across the concourse, watching as she hesitated and looked around. No Uncle Pavol, Juliana, he had thought, seeing her head droop with disappointment. Then, keeping a safe distance between them, the baseball cap pulled down across his brow, he had followed her out into Gordon Street and was now watching as she began to walk uphill.
‘Juliana!’ he called then watched as she spun around, her face alert, fearful.
‘Over here!’ He waved and grinned then watched as she retraced her steps and walked back towards him.
What did she see? he wondered as she hesitated, staying a couple of feet away, a look of concern on her face.
‘Juliana? Juliana Ferenc? I’ve a message from your uncle,’ he told her.
‘Pavol?’ The girl’s face changed immediately and she took a step forward, no longer hesitant but eager to hear what this stranger had to tell her.
‘Shh.’ He looked around and motioned her to walk alongside him.
‘It’s okay, but we have to be careful. Never know who’s watching us, do we? Here, down this lane.’ He grabbed her arm and steered her around one of the cobbled lanes that criss-crossed the main arteries of the city. ‘Got a car waiting. Take you to see him, okay?’
The lane was empty save for the big car and he pulled her roughly along, no longer the friend the Slovakian girl had hoped for but her captor.
Juliana struggled for a moment as he lifted her off her feet, mouth open in terror, a scream that never came.
‘Where is she?’ Molly Newton hissed at the two plain-clothes detectives who were standing outside the building.
‘Didn’t show, did she?’ one of them said with a shrug. ‘She changed her mind, I suppose.’
Molly frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ she began. ‘I was so sure she would be here at four o’clock. What if something happened to her?’
‘Hold on,’ he said sharply, holding his mobile to his ear. ‘Hello, yes we’re here.’
Molly watched as his face became serious.
‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘That was Transport. We’ve had them watching all the CCTV cameras in this area.’ He began walking briskly down the hill, the others in his wake. ‘Someone’s lifted her,’ he said quietly. ‘Just down there on that corner.’ He pointed to a lane two blocks down. ‘Come on!’
They sprinted across the road, avoiding the oncoming traffic, ignoring the blasts from car horns.
‘Where are they?’ Molly ran, fists pumping by her sides. ‘What’s . . . ?’
‘CCTV shows her with a big fellow, hard to see his face, wore sunglasses and a baseball cap. He took her around here.’
The three officers stood at the mouth of the empty lane, sunlight showing at its far end.
The detective held his mobile to his ear once more as another call came in, Molly watching him anxiously.
‘They think he may have had a vehicle waiting. Traffic will have a record of every car and van that left this lane.’
‘Any further signs of them?’
The detective shook his head. ‘A few cars have been seen going down Renfield Street from that entrance in the last half-hour,’ he told them as they walked swiftly to the end of the lane, glancing from side to side for any visible clues.
‘So they’re heading south,’ the second officer suggested as they emerged into the sunlight once again.
‘We don’t even know what car she’s in,’ the first man sighed.
‘Oh, dear God,’ Molly groaned. ‘We’ve lost her now. And who on earth has picked her up?’
‘Has to be someone she knows. Or someone who knows her,’ he answered darkly. ‘Either way, she’s in danger.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
One always had to think of their mothers. That was a perennial consideration when the professor tried to create a profile of someone who had strayed from so-called normal behaviour into an area of darkness. The tabula rasa, or blank slate, was what babies were born with, according to certain philosophies, and Solomon Brightman also found it hard to conceive of a tiny baby being born with inherent wickedness in its soul. Yet, from his experience of life and humanity, that was something he could not deny in some cases. The child that tormented flies and birds then went on to target larger creatures had more of a chance of becoming a killer of his fellow men. Was there a genetic predisposition to kill? That was a question both for the philosophers and psychologists that were students of human be
haviour.
Who was this man? Max, he was called, possibly his real name but that was not something to be sure of either. Not a Slovakian national and Europol had no record of a British criminal with that name and answering the man’s description on their list of sex offenders or traffickers. An alias, perhaps? And, if so, why choose that particular name? The word was redolent of power and fame, living life to the max, Maximilian, maximum . . . all sorts of connotations could derive consciously or subconsciously from that short syllable.
And why was he disposed to target vulnerable females? Power? That was possible. But money was also a strong motivator and this man had undoubtedly gathered some wealth from his trafficking if each girl was sold on for a cool ten thousand pounds. Had he deliberately selected these girls for their religion? Solly had considered this at the start but now he was inclined to believe that it was their sheer vulnerability that had made them this man’s target. Juliana Ferenc, the missing girl, was a Romany, one of several taken from the small village in eastern Slovakia where their standard of living was achingly poor. Fruit picking, harvesting grapes and other seasonal work kept them from starvation and so the chance to find work in the UK was a life-changing opportunity for these young women.
Did this Max have any family links with the Slovakians? Solly did not think so, at least from the point of view of being related to them. There was a strong sense of family amongst many Slovakians and to deviate from that would be to break away from their Romany ties, something that the psychologist found hard to conjecture. Had he spent time amongst these people? That was a strong possibility, given that he undoubtedly spoke their language. And the face . . . something that might make a woman shudder . . . had it been hard for him to form relationships after whatever disaster had burned his features, leaving him with a mask of taut skin?