The Reborn (31 page)

‘OK.’

‘Ronald Reese-Brandon is confirmed as the father of Kira’s baby. Bill may have him in custody by now.’

So the Myrrha reference had meant what he’d thought it had.

‘He murdered his daughter?’

‘We haven’t any evidence yet that places him at the scene of crime, but the pregnancy would be a strong motive.’

‘Does Bill think it’s a case of abuse?’

‘Given Kira’s age, it would usually be assumed so.’

‘Maybe, but I’m not sure Kira could have been coerced into anything. I get the impression she liked being the one calling the shots in every area of her life.’

Rhona quickly filled him in on the latest from the second murder case, including her discovery of Melanie’s mobile and the fact that David Murdoch had been reported missing.

‘Why would David hurt Melanie? You said the baby was his.’

‘I don’t think he knew that. And if he wore the mask, she would have had no idea who impregnated her.’

‘Kira was controlling everything, even down to who the Daisy Chain girls had sex with,’ he said.

‘Which might be why she died.’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘I’m coming with you tomorrow. Bill wants me to take a look at Coulter’s workroom.’

He was glad of the prospect of spending more time with her.

‘So I’d better get home.’ She rose stiffly from the couch.

The suggestion was out before he had time to think. ‘You could stay, have another dram. There’s a spare room,’ he added hurriedly.

She seemed to find his impromptu offer amusing.

‘Thanks, but I like to end the day in my own place. And there’s Tom to think of.’

‘Tom?’

‘The cat,’ she reminded him.

When she left, Magnus helped himself to another drink, then went and picked up the sweater she’d borrowed and buried his face in her scent.

It was an outside chance and she didn’t hold out much hope, but it was worth a try.

She waited until she was home, not trusting her mobile any more. What Petersson had said about being bugged had unnerved her. He had had her phone in his possession for twelve hours. What if he was the one doing the bugging?

She picked up the handset of the landline and rang the answering service for her father’s cottage on Skye, her heart beating rapidly. There were three voicemails.

The first was from the Gaelic College, asking if she was willing to let out the cottage again to a visiting lecturer. The second was a cold call about house insurance. The third began in silence, then a man’s voice simply said, ‘Rhona’.

40

He had tried turning off his mobile, but it hadn’t helped. He’d simply felt compelled to switch it on every five minutes to check for messages. He’d finally decided it was better to keep it on and not answer. Since he’d decided to make himself scarce, there had been three calls from the police station along with many from his stepfather’s mobile.

After finding Melanie, he’d gone straight home and taken a very long shower, then put all the clothes he’d been wearing in the washing machine and turned it on. After that, he’d raided the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large vodka. By the second glass, he’d made up his mind to sit things out, convincing himself he’d removed any trace of Melanie from his person.

He’d stayed in his room when his stepfather arrived home from work, insisting he’d eaten already, and played computer games until ten o’clock, when he’d turned on the TV to find no mention of Melanie’s death on the Scottish news. That had made him feel better, as though finding her body hadn’t really happened at all.

The next morning he’d been woken by his stepdad leaving for work. Not long afterwards, Owen had destroyed his carefully constructed peace of mind by leaving a voicemail saying the police knew about the parties and that they were all to go down to the police station and be fingerprinted and swabbed. Owen had sounded quite excited about this as though it was all just a game.

The thought of going back to that police station had scared the shit out of him. The police had already taken his fingerprints and a mouth swab ‘to eliminate him from their enquiries’. Why the hell would they want him back there? He’d tried to stay calm, but when the call came he didn’t pick up, just waited before listening to some woman on voicemail asking him to report immediately to the police station.

In the hours since finding Melanie, he’d come to the conclusion that the killer had smothered her. He’d seen it done numerous times on TV, a pillow placed gently over someone’s sleeping face. And she was so little and skinny, it would have been easy. Then he thought about the way he’d covered her mouth tightly with his hand.

What if they found flakes of his skin on her mouth and thought it was him who’d smothered her? Once it had occurred to him, his brain had gone into overdrive, reliving everything he’d done in that room. Sitting on the bed, touching her arm, gripping her wrist. He’d shaken her arm up and down, for fuck’s sake – his DNA must be all over her.

He’d tried to calm himself down by recalling how he’d wiped her mouth, her arm, her wrist and got rid of his fingerprints. It was then he realised he had no idea what he’d done with the towel.

After ten frantic minutes of searching he’d found it in the washing machine among his clothes. He’d gone on to hide the damp clothes in his wardrobe, thinking hanging them out on the line (which he never did) would have looked suspicious. He’d taken the towel with him and tossed it in a skip in the city centre.

Now he was standing in the line at McDonald’s, trying not to look or act like a fugitive from the law – which, he had to keep reminding himself, he wasn’t. Jesus, he’d never realised how many CCTV cameras were trained on the city centre. He’d counted at least eight on the way here. How the hell did the neds get away with anything? That must be why they all wore the same hoods and baseball caps, so you couldn’t distinguish one from the other.

He took possession of his breakfast and headed for the darkest corner. No one even glanced up. He was back to being invisible, just like he’d been before Kira had taken him under her wing. He didn’t know whether to be sad or glad about that.

As he ate, he worked on his plan. He could stay away for at least a couple of nights before Gary freaked. Since his mother had died, the two of them had pretty much kept out of one another’s way; with her gone, they had nothing and no one in common. He was actually surprised Gary hadn’t asked him to leave once he’d reached seventeen, and had always felt that’s what would happen should he put a foot wrong.

Well, he’d certainly put a foot wrong now.

As he polished off the burger, he wondered if he might delay things by sending Gary a text saying he was staying with mates. But if the police went round to the house looking for him, that wouldn’t wash for long.

He might be better to lose the mobile altogether. He was savvy enough to know that the police could trace him if he used it. He should throw it in a skip like the towel, say some ned had stolen it from him. He brought it out of his pocket and stared at it. The thing was, he couldn’t bear to lose his phone. It would be like losing his right arm. He put it away again.

He was suddenly aware just how difficult it was to lie, properly and consistently. It seemed that one lie just tripped up another. He’d occasionally lied to Gary about where he was going, although Gary always looked as though he couldn’t care less, but proper lying was much harder. Kira had been great at it. He’d been shocked at first by her ability to tell the Daisy Chain something that sounded true, but which he knew to be a lie. She was always so convincing. You just believed everything she said.

She’d assured him that he was the only one she would never lie to, and he’d believed her, although that night at the funfair he hadn’t been so sure. She’d never mentioned liking candyfloss before, and when he’d offered to fetch some for her, she’d given him a look that had scared him.

He swallowed the last mouthful of Coke, then got rid of the tray. Where to now? He made a quick decision to head for Kelvingrove and put in some time at the
Dr Who
exhibition. His plan was to stay warm and off the radar.

41

She’d spent ages listening to the message left on the Skye number. The voice had said her name, just once, then nothing more. When she’d eventually fallen asleep on the couch, she still had no idea who the voice belonged to.

McNab had known about her father’s place on Skye. He’d even tried to persuade her to invite him there for a few days’ walking, during their brief affair. All a ruse, of course. McNab hated the great outdoors. His plan had not been to see the Isle of Skye but to have a weekend of uninterrupted sex.

He’d called her there once, and she remembered how annoyed she’d been. She’d accused him of stalking her and told him to fuck off.

All that seemed a lifetime ago. McNab’s lifetime.

She’d spent a restless night, the voice on the phone echoing through her dreams, and had been glad to finally glance at her watch and realise it was morning, albeit before sunrise.

Now, during a long, hot shower, she asked herself whether she should enlist Roy’s help in trying to find out where the Skye call had come from. She would claim she had a potential stalker as an excuse for her request to check out the ‘dead man walking’ text, and it would be easy to add the Skye voicemail to that scenario.

Or maybe she should just tell Roy the truth?

If she did, she would have to admit to herself that she was giving credence to Petersson’s story. She would also have to reveal that she’d supplied him with information about the post-mortem which, if not illegal, was unprofessional.

She stepped out of the shower, quickly dried her hair and got dressed. By the time the phone rang, she’d fed Tom and was pouring her second cup of coffee.

‘I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,’ said Magnus.

‘What about Bill?’

‘He’s not coming. Something about watching phone footage of the funfair that night. He wants you to sit in on the interview with Coulter before examining the workshop.’

Rhona had never been to the State Hospital before, although she’d given evidence in court about a number of its inmates.

As they crested the hill, she caught her first glimpse of it. In the cold morning light of late February there was something Alcatraz-like about its position, but surrounded by mist-swathed moorland instead of water.

‘Dr Shan has requested a meeting before we interview Coulter.’

‘What’s she like, this Dr Shan?’

‘In her thirties, oriental, probably a Buddhist judging by the décor of her office. I think she resents my visits to her patient.’ He paused. ‘Coulter has . . . a
way
with women. He makes them feel special – chosen, even.’

‘You think he has some influence over her?’

‘Perhaps. What I do know is that Coulter can be very persuasive and very charming. Scarily so.’

‘So I should be on my guard?’

‘You can try.’

The woman who approached them was exactly as Magnus had described. What he’d failed to mention was how beautiful she was.

It was Magnus who performed the introductions.

‘Dr Shan, this is Dr Rhona MacLeod. She will sit in on the interview.’

The woman appraised Rhona.

‘You are a medical doctor?’

‘A forensic scientist.’

Her finely plucked eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Really.’ She looked to Magnus for an explanation.

‘Dr MacLeod is here to examine Mr Coulter’s workroom. DI Wilson wants her to meet Mr Coulter before she does that.’

A flash of something resembling anger crossed Dr Shan’s face. ‘We have already searched both Mr Coulter’s living quarters and his work space, as you requested. We found nothing untoward.’

‘You’re probably right, but I’d like to take a look anyway,’ Rhona said pleasantly.

Magnus wisely changed the subject. ‘You wanted to speak with us before the interview?’

‘I wanted to register my disquiet at your repeated visits to my patient. As he is confined here and under watch all the time, he cannot be involved in crimes committed outside these walls. Secondly, I believe your continued interest in him is affecting his progress.’

‘How is that?’ Magnus said, with genuine interest.

Dr Shan hesitated, perhaps sensing she should have phrased her complaint differently. ‘He has become more agitated than usual, and continually asks when you will return. Visitors are few here, very few in Mr Coulter’s case. It is unfair to give him hope that more visits will take place.’

‘I get the impression that Mr Coulter likes being the centre of attention.’

‘I don’t believe that to be the case at all. I think he is unnerved by it.’

‘He told you that?’

‘Yes, he did.’

Rhona decided it was time to come clean. ‘I apologise if that’s the case, Dr Shan, but this is a necessary visit. It relates to a police investigation into the murder of two young girls.’

‘Two?’ Dr Shan looked shocked.

‘Kira’s pregnant friend, Melanie Jones, was found dead on Friday afternoon under suspicious circumstances.’

Dr Shan’s hand fluttered to her mouth. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Jeff Coulter has fashioned two Reborns which may be linked to this case. One, called Daisy, he made for Kira’s mother. It was found near the scene of crime. The other doll Mr Coulter said he had named Melanie, and he made a point of telling Professor Pirie that on an earlier visit. Since that visit, Melanie Jones and her unborn baby have both been killed.’

Dr Shan was speechless, her face a mask of surprise.

Rhona continued. ‘We think at the very least Mr Coulter has been receiving information about these crimes that wasn’t readily available from watching the news reports.’

Dr Shan recovered herself a little. ‘All this may be just a coincidence.’

‘That’s why I’m here. To see if it is.’