The Reborn (10 page)

He settled against the old leather and swivelled to face the window, enjoying the familiar creak as it turned.

‘Coffee, Sir.’

DS Clark placed a mug on the desk.

‘That’s not your job any more,
Detective Sergeant
,’ he smiled.

‘It never was, Sir.’

He accepted the mild rebuke.

‘We’re ready when you are, Sir.’

‘All leave is cancelled until we find the baby.’

A babble of voices erupted at his announcement. It was what should have happened in the first place. They had all known that, except Slater.

‘According to the pathologist, there’s a good chance it’s alive, despite the circumstances of the birth. Finding that baby is our top priority.’ Bill looked round the assembled team. DS Clark couldn’t keep the grin off her face. At least someone was pleased he was back.

And he
was
back. With a rush of emotion, he realised how pleased he was about that. The same intent faces, the sharp sense of excitement. He was addressing a hunting party, desperate to find its prey. This is where they caught the scent. Nosing their way through the mess of a crime scene.

But they had already lost precious time.

He’d listened to Slater’s version of events, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to know what these people thought, the questions they felt compelled to ask. He wanted facts, but also feelings and intuition. That was what distinguished the men and women of CID from the uniform brigade.

‘Let’s start with motive,’ he said.

Janice spoke first. ‘All recorded cases of foetal theft have been carried out by a female assailant.’

‘Why?’

The others began to join in.

‘Jealousy. They want a baby themselves and can’t have one.’

‘Mental illness.’

‘A fake pregnancy that needed a result.’

‘And how many of those babies died?’ he continued.

‘None.’

‘So this one is statistically alive, if indeed that was the motive. Other possible motives?’

Silence.

‘A girl was mutilated and killed here,’ he urged.

‘A jealous boyfriend?’

‘Revenge for something she did?’

‘Someone who hates women.’

‘A lust kill?’

‘Was she sexually assaulted?’ asked Bill.

A chorus of nos.

‘Then why a lust kill?’

‘He gets off on torture.’

‘And why take the baby?’

‘To kill it later?’

‘She was rendered unconscious,’ he reminded them.

‘He wanted it to be easy?’

‘He?’

‘He, she, they.’

‘You think there might be more than one?’

They hadn’t thought of that. The hubbub broke out again, and Bill gave them time to talk the possibility through.

‘So there wasn’t necessarily only one assailant?’

They nodded their heads in agreement. Bill moved on to witnesses.

‘The guy who sold her the ticket.’

‘Last witness, first suspect. Who interviewed him?’

DC Campbell raised his hand.

‘He says no one followed her in until the boyfriend, about twenty minutes later. He was getting ready to shut the place down.’

‘His alibi?’

‘The guy on the candy floss van opposite says he never left the booth.’

‘You believe him?’

‘He seemed pretty sure.’

‘Any other witnesses?’

‘The pals backed up David’s version of events.’

‘Who else saw Kira go into the tent?’

Janice answered, ‘No one we’ve interviewed so far.’

Bill now asked the question that had been bugging him.

‘Why the mirror maze? And why alone?’

‘Curiosity?’

‘It started to rain?’

‘Maybe she fancied the guy in the booth.’

‘Or she was avoiding someone.’

‘The boyfriend, maybe?’

‘He was on the Waltzers.’

‘Someone else?’

‘An old boyfriend? The baby’s father?’

‘Let’s have R2S’s 3-D recording up on the screen. I want to know who had a direct line of sight to the mirror maze entrance, what Kira could see from the entrance and why she went in there.’

There was a whirring sound, then the wall screen was washed with white light.

Bill continued. ‘Did we take a note of names before we let people leave?’

‘We recorded the names of those who were there, but some would have left before we arrived,’ said Janice.

‘Put out a request for anyone in the vicinity to come forward, even if they think they didn’t see anything. Imply that we have CCTV footage.’

‘We haven’t.’

‘They don’t know that. Guilt might urge some to come forward in case we turn up on their doorstep. The place was crowded with teenagers, and teenagers take mobile phone pictures on nights out. Let’s put out a call for any images of that night to be emailed to the police website. We might get lucky. Kira’s mobile wasn’t found with the body. I take it she had one?’

‘Top of the range, according to her parents.’

‘So where is it?’

‘Perhaps the killer took it.’

‘Why?’

‘Maybe there was something on it.’

‘Has it been used since it went missing?’

‘No record of usage since that night, Sir.’

‘What about a handbag?’

‘We didn’t find one with her. There was a purse in her pocket containing approximately twenty pounds, a couple of receipts, a bus pass and a credit card.’

‘A credit card?’

‘The family’s well-off, Sir.’

Of course. Morvern School for Girls was anything but cheap.

He now offered up the evidence of the mirror writing and asked them what they thought. The responses sounded like a rehash of Wikipedia: pacts with the devil, secret codes, Leonardo Da Vinci. He was interested in the small number of people who had the ability, and also wanted to know everything there was to know about the term ‘daisy chain’.

‘DC Campbell. Find out which hookers offer daisy chaining to their clientele here in the city. Also anything about it you can find online. Look in places where young people hang out. Facebook, Bebo, sites like that.’

A cheer went up as Campbell blushed furiously. Bill ignored it.

‘Carmichael, find out where she got the tattoo, and get the name of anyone else they tattooed with a daisy.’

A voice called, ‘We’re ready, Sir.’

Bill turned to face the screen.

13

After the briefing, Bill decided to visit the school. Independent schools insisted they knew their pupils on an individual basis, so it would be interesting to see how well Morvern School for Girls had known Kira Reese-Brandon.

He and Margaret had visited the school a couple of years back, and he had to admit he’d been seduced by it. Even Margaret, a staunch advocate of state education, had been swayed. If he’d said he wanted Lisa to go to Morvern, she would have gone along with it. It wasn’t hard to see why.

The façade itself was impressive. Where most secondary schools, particularly those built in the Seventies, looked in danger of falling to bits, Morvern was housed in a beautiful, century-old building, carefully maintained.

He climbed the four wide steps to the pillared entrance, the school flag fluttering above him, and pushed open one of the double doors. The scent of wood polish met him as he entered the panelled reception area. Ahead, a second set of doors led to a spacious marble-floored entrance hall. There was a kind of hush, an air of quiet application, that he’d noticed before in other places of learning.

This school had a history, all of it good. It sold itself on a reputation for intellectual and professional excellence, and it had plenty of evidence to back up its claims; a cursory glance through the top names in the Scottish medical and law professions would find a high proportion of Morvern old girls. That was why they had considered sending Lisa here for her senior years. Bill felt a momentary twinge of regret.

He gave his name to the receptionist, who lifted a receiver and relayed his message to someone. A few minutes later a woman appeared from the direction of the entrance hall.

‘Detective Inspector Wilson.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Diane Porter, Principal of Morvern.’

Her voice had a rich timbre, but it was difficult to place the accent. It wasn’t received pronunciation, more a cultivated Scots, he decided. She was tall and well-proportioned, her hair a springy black sprinkled with grey. Unlike many women in the professions, she wasn’t wearing the customary dark power suit, but a smart skirt and sweater, casual yet chic.

‘If you would like to come through to my office?’

She led him into the entrance hall. Two senior girls appeared from a nearby corridor and she exchanged pleasantries with them, using their first names. The girls eyed him curiously, but Ms Porter did not introduce him.

To the right was a substantial wooden door with a brass plate that read ‘Principal’s Secretary’. She opened this and led him inside where a woman sat behind a desk.

‘Joan, this is Detective Inspector Wilson.’ The secretary seemed unfazed by the arrival of a policeman and merely smiled a welcome.

‘Can you order us some tea please?’

‘Of course, Ms Porter.’

He was finally ushered through a further door marked ‘Principal’ and into a large, high-ceilinged room filled with winter sunlight and the scent of hyacinths.

Near the window stood a leather-topped walnut desk with intricately carved legs. On it sat a laptop, a phone and a tray of papers. On the neighbouring wall hung a row of portraits of what he took to be former Principals. All of them wore black gowns and looked down on him with piercingly intelligent eyes. Before the desk was spread a rectangular rug which featured the school crest and the words of its Latin motto.

She followed his gaze. ‘
Sapere aude
. Dare to be wise.’

He remembered the motto from the school prospectus. He’d thought it appropriate for a school that had promoted women’s education in the sciences when it hadn’t been popular or advisable to do so.

‘I understand you’ve come about Kira. Such a terrible business.’

There was a quiet knock at the door.

‘That will be the tea.’

Joan entered, carrying a silver tray with a china teapot, two delicate cups and saucers and a plate of chocolate biscuits. Obviously the fees of nine grand a year could stretch to such niceties. She set the tray on a glass surfaced coffee table that sat between two leather armchairs and a couch near an ornate fireplace.

He took a seat as requested while she poured the tea. The civilised setting seemed at odds with the reason for his visit.

She handed him a cup and saucer. He took a sip of the tea. Earl Grey. One of Margaret’s favourites, but not one normally served up at the police station. His team preferred builders’ brew. He relinquished the fragile china, setting it safely on the table.

‘What kind of student was Kira?’ he began.

‘Very able. Gifted, I would say. Her strength was mathematics, although she was good at everything, including music. An all-rounder. She planned to do maths at Cambridge.’

‘Before she became pregnant.’

A pained expression crossed Ms Porter’s face.

‘I believe, after the birth, she intended to continue with her studies.’

‘How would that work?’

‘The baby was to be put up for adoption.’

‘How did Kira feel about that?’

‘Initially, I believe she wanted to keep it, but eventually she came round to the idea.’

‘She was persuaded?’

‘Not by the school.’

‘Have you any idea who the father of the child was?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t ask?’

‘I felt that was a matter for the parents.’

‘There was no question of an abortion?’

She shook her head. ‘Kira’s family are practising Christians.’

‘Who don’t approve of abortion?’

‘Kira agreed with them. She didn’t want the child aborted.’

He changed tack. ‘Does the expression “daisy chain” mean anything to you?’

She seemed taken aback by his question, but when she answered, her voice bore no trace of nervousness.

‘There’s a support group for parents of autistic children which uses that name. We have some very able pupils here who exhibit some of the features within the autism spectrum, so I’m aware of the group.’

‘Savants?’

‘Some have areas of brilliance which are not necessarily reflected in other aspects of their life.’

‘Was Kira one of those pupils?’

‘Kira was a mature, well-adjusted girl with a very good brain.’

‘Who should not have got pregnant?’

‘We were surprised, yes.’

‘You don’t have many teenage pregnancies at Morvern?’

‘Not normally, no.’

He decided to press further. ‘How many of your pupils have become pregnant in the last decade?’

She hesitated. ‘Five.’

It hadn’t mentioned that in the prospectus.

‘So one every couple of years?’ It was still higher than he’d anticipated.

She shook her head, her cheeks flushing a little. ‘No. Five this year, in fact.’

Bill was stunned.

‘You’ve had five pregnancies within the last year?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s extraordinary. Have you any idea why?’

‘Teachers are often confronted by copycat behaviour. Fads, for the most part, which usually confine themselves to fashion. Jewellery, hair styles, body piercings. Dieting is the one we tend to look out for. Self-harm is another.’ She paused. ‘The atmosphere between sensitive, emotional, bright adolescent girls is often highly charged.’

‘You’re suggesting getting pregnant was the fashion fad this year?’

‘I assume we are speaking in confidence?’ She looked to him for confirmation, and he nodded. ‘I suspect it was more of a pact.’