The Reborn (19 page)

‘Sam’s back playing at the club. I thought you might come and hear him with Chrissy and Bill some time.’

The gang, she thought, all there bar her. And whose fault was that?

‘Soon,’ she said.

‘See you then.’

‘Yes, see you.’

She closed the door and stood against it for a moment, then walked quickly to the front room and glanced down into the street. Sean was loading the holdall and fiddle case into a smart little red sports car. A blonde head was visible in the driver’s seat. Angie, no doubt.

Rhona forced herself to vacate the window in case Sean looked up. Too late, she remembered she had not asked Sean to return his key.

23

‘Why do you ask?’ Sissons was regarding her quizzically.

‘I just wondered.’ Rhona tried to keep her tone light.

‘I didn’t perform the post-mortem myself.’

‘What about Sylvia?’

He shook his head. ‘Dr Barnes wasn’t present either.’

‘Then who did do it?’

‘As far as I am aware, it was performed by a pathologist sent up by SOCA.’

‘But McNab was killed on our patch. His murder is under our jurisdiction.’ She realised her tone had changed, but it was difficult to hide her astonishment and irritation.

‘I am well aware of that. However, I assume the Met were putting a case together on the Russian connection and . . .’

‘McNab’s death was part of that,’ she finished for him. ‘I assume there was a report filed on the results of the post-mortem?’

‘One presumes so.’

‘Do you have a copy here?’

Something in Sissons’s body language suggested she was about to be dismissed.

‘Dr MacLeod, as I understand it, you were with DS McNab when he died. You found the bullet casing. What more is there to know?’

He was right. She was sounding weird, obsessed.

‘In normal circumstances I would have been present at the post-mortem. I would like to read the report.’

He sighed, rose from his desk and went to a filing cabinet. She watched as he rifled through various drawers, making no attempt to disguise his irritation. Eventually he turned.

‘I can find no written record at the moment.’

In normal circumstances three hard copies would have been produced for dissemination and sent to the police. One to be given to the Fiscal, one for the senior investigating officer and one for the case file.

‘What about an ecopy?’

He regarded her with a stoical annoyance.

‘I suggest you talk to the office staff about that.’

This time she
was
dismissed, and she took it in good grace. She’d known Sissons long enough to realise that he’d already gone out of his way to help her.

Had Sissons or Sylvia performed the post-mortem, an ecopy of the report would have been in the system in case the Strathclyde police wanted it in pdf format. But if responsibility for investigating McNab’s death had moved elsewhere?

She would check with the office staff first.

If there was nothing on the system, she would try and locate the whereabouts of any hard copies, assuming they hadn’t gone south.

She decided she didn’t fancy approaching Detective Superintendent Sutherland to ask if he had a copy. Bill might have access to one but she wasn’t keen on alerting him to her interest. He had a knack of reading her motives. The only other alternative was the Fiscal, who might just humour her.

Rhona was pleased to find Dorothy Jenkins on duty in the admin office. Dorothy had been working in the job for as long as Rhona had. They exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather, then Rhona presented the secretary with her request. Dorothy accepted it with equanimity and immediately set about checking the system for a copy of the post-mortem results.

‘I don’t recall seeing them though. I vaguely remember someone else came to perform the post-mortem on the policeman.’ She paused. ‘They’re not in the usual place.’ She scrolled down the list. ‘We had three around that time. See the date.’

Rhona didn’t want to register the date.

‘I believe a pathologist from the Met did the post-mortem, so would that have been stored differently?’ she said.

‘Really? That’s unusual.’ Dorothy thought for a moment, then began a different search. ‘Maybe they wrote it up on their own system,’ she offered when nothing was forthcoming. ‘But I expect there must be hard copies around somewhere. You could try the senior investigating officer, or the Fiscal.’

‘I will.’ Rhona tried to keep her voice light. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Dorothy gave her a sympathetic look. ‘It was a terrible thing. A young man like that, with everything to live for.’

Rhona simply nodded.

She left the Forensic Pathology department and made her way onto University Avenue. The biting wind that fought her progress reminded her of the night of the snowstorm when she and Chrissy had been stranded in Fern Cottage, Chrissy only days away from giving birth. It was hard to comprehend that in such a short space of time so much had happened. A death and a birth. She allowed herself to contemplate for a moment what McNab’s reaction to the birth of young Michael might have been, then shook herself free and concentrated on reality.

She would find out which Procurator Fiscal had been involved and contact them. If they didn’t have a copy of the report, surely they would have been able to name the pathologist involved. She would then contact them direct.

She pondered what significance this had for Petersson’s pursuit of Kalinin. How did it affect the possibility that Slater was on the wrong side?

Rhona recalled Petersson’s reply when she’d suggested that McNab had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. His take on it had been quite different. He believed Kalinin had known exactly where McNab would be. In fact, the Russian had arranged it. If Petersson was right and Slater was on Kalinin’s payroll, then his freeing of Kalinin from custody that night had made McNab’s death inevitable.

The thought only served to make her even more determined to find out what Petersson wanted to know.

Back at the lab, a glimpse of Chrissy’s suited figure through the glass raised her spirits. It would have been even better if she could have confided in her about her enquiries. She wondered if her assistant was aware that McNab’s post-mortem had been performed by someone from outside the department – she couldn’t imagine Chrissy keeping that to herself.

Chrissy looked up at Rhona’s entry, her eyes inquisitive.

‘Where were you?’

‘Forensic Pathology.’

Don’t ask why
, Rhona prayed. Chrissy had a radar for lies. Luckily she seemed intent on asking questions on a different subject, one that made Rhona equally uncomfortable.

‘So who’s this new man in your life?’

Rhona was struck dumb.

Chrissy looked delighted at the result of her enquiry. She probed further. ‘Tall, Nordic looking?’

How the hell did she know about Petersson?

‘His name’s Einar Petersson. And he’s not my new man.’

‘That’s not what I heard.’ Chrissy was toying with her now.

‘I don’t care what you heard.’

Chrissy raised an eyebrow and waited. Rhona hung on, knowing Chrissy would be forced to reveal more. She had been in Petersson’s company in public three times. At the art show, the club they’d gone to afterwards and in the gallery café. If she hadn’t been spotted at any of these places, then Sean had to be the source.

Chrissy was looking fit to burst. She eventually did.

‘Sam told me.’

Had Sam seen them in the gallery café, or had Sean told Sam about his visit? She soon found out.

‘Sean’s not really serious about that woman, you know,’ Chrissy said.

Rhona couldn’t help herself. ‘How long?’

Chrissy pulled a face. ‘A couple of weeks, maybe. It won’t last anyway.’

‘A fortnight and he’s moved in?’ Rhona couldn’t hide her dismay.

‘Did Sean say that?’

‘He implied it.’

‘As far as I know, he’s still sleeping at the club. Anyway, you’ve got Petersson or whatever his name is.’

‘He hasn’t moved in.’

‘Sounded quite cosy to me though.’

‘Sean told Sam that?’ Now Rhona was annoyed.

‘Sean . . .’ Chrissy chose her next words carefully. ‘Sam got the impression he was upset.’

Rhona found herself pleased by that thought.

After all, no one liked to be replaced too quickly, no matter what the circumstances.

24

It had been difficult to get to speak to Dr Shan at all. Now that he finally had her on the line, the task hadn’t become any easier.

‘We need to establish whether the doll we have is one of Coulter’s.’

‘I understand that.’

‘So, if I send you a photograph . . . ?’

‘It would be easier to show Mr Coulter and ask him.’

Magnus had imagined Dr Shan visiting the photo gallery without Coulter and checking an image of their find against those on display. He didn’t want Coulter alerted to this. He didn’t want the man to fancy himself as the centre of police attention.

‘Psychopaths tell lies as a matter of course,’ he said.

‘I am well aware of that, Professor Pirie. However, Mr Coulter has not been
officially
diagnosed as having a psychopathic personality.’

Magnus knew the word
officially
was a direct dig at him. Coulter was being treated in the State Hospital as though he had a mental illness, not a personality disorder. He was apparently responding to drugs, if that could be believed.

Magnus tried a different tack. ‘Could you check if and how he signs his dolls without alerting him to why we want to know?’

‘That might be possible,’ she said grudgingly.

‘The Reborn we found has the initials
JC
signed in the head cavity.’

The silence that followed was heavy.

Eventually Dr Shan responded tersely. ‘I can’t take a doll apart. It’s a patient’s private property.’

‘He likes talking about his work. Perhaps just a general enquiry?’

There was a loaded pause, then she said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Magnus wanted to ask how soon, but decided that would be pushing his luck.

‘Thank you very much, Dr Shan.’

He heard the phone go down.

A complex woman, he decided. He reexamined his actions during the prison visit and the recent phone call, trying to work out how exactly he had annoyed her, then decided that he simply didn’t know and probably never would. He could ask her outright, of course, but people rarely liked being asked about these things and also rarely gave an honest answer. He came to the conclusion that he had to accept that he simply pissed Dr Shan off.

He put on some coffee, then took out Kira’s diary and laid it on the desk, with pen, paper and laptop nearby. It had been a good few years since mathematics had been an essential part of his life. He could only hope that it was like riding a bicycle and the thought processes would return once he stimulated that part of his brain again. He fetched a mug of coffee and settled to his task.

Bill had not specified his interest in the notebook, only that he wanted Magnus to take a look. A wise move on the DI’s part. Suggest one particular focus and that’s what the reader fastens on. Better to keep an open mind. Magnus was aware that Kira had been an exemplary student, good enough to study Mathematics at Cambridge. He began to leaf through the jotter. The contents were predominantly algebraic in content, and he recognised partial fractions and some calculations using the binomial theorem. After that came at least ten pages of matrix algebra. Magnus felt a surge of pleasure at the carefully laid-out matrix calculations.

Kira’s construction of the matrix form was beautifully scribed, the numbers and symbols written in a clear, small and precise hand. This was someone who loved maths as a poet must love the form and meaning of poetry.

The notes went through the various algebraic rules for addition, subtraction and multiplication, then how to find a determinant, obtain an inverse and transpose a matrix. All topics in the Advanced Higher syllabus which he’d checked online. Nothing special up to now, other than a promising mathematician at work.

Magnus turned to the next page.

There were some calculations using complex numbers followed by their polar form, z
⁼
r(cosθ + isinθ), then a space followed by a group of symbols

which seemed unrelated to the topic she’d been working on.

Two blank lines followed, then Kira reverted to her previous calculations. Magnus began leafing through the jotter, looking for anything similar and found quite a few. Some were written within the text, some along the margins or the spine. Most were written in a tiny hand that would require a magnifying glass to make out the shapes.

He considered whether the collections of symbols might simply be doodles Kira had carried out while problem solving or whether they were in fact significant. Most of the symbols he recognised as Greek, others he wasn’t so sure about.