The Reborn (36 page)

‘It’s do-able, if you’re determined and the knife’s sharp enough.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s all yours now.’

She picked up her bag and the two headed off towards an inquisitive and growing group of bystanders.

‘Get a tent up,’ Bill called to the nearest uniformed officer. ‘And get rid of the vultures.’

The shadows were back, advancing and retreating. Sitting in the semi-darkness, bunched under the duvet with the cat on her lap, Rhona was comforted by their presence.

McNab would always be there, just out of sight in the corner of her eye. She had decided she preferred his ghost to the nagging hope that he might still be alive.

Further calls to the answerphone on Skye had yielded only silence. She’d enlisted Roy Hunter’s help as planned. After anxiously listening to her concocted tale about a stalker, he’d agreed to check her mobile and also the phone number on Skye.

She’d been itching to ask him to compare the voice to McNab’s, but sensibly had not. She would have to be content with discovering the origins of both calls.

Petersson hadn’t been in touch since Saturday morning when she’d harangued him at his flat about her mobile. She found herself hoping she would never hear from the Icelander again, and suspected his silence meant he had been using her as much as she had him. But one thing kept nagging at her; she could not deny that everything he’d told her had turned out to be true. She wondered if Bill had challenged Sutherland on Fergus Morrison’s death.

The phone rang, and she checked the caller ID. Not Petersson. Good. She answered it.

‘David Murdoch’s dead,’ said Bill.

‘What?’

‘Found knifed near the mirror maze. He left a note saying he killed both girls. Are you OK to come down?’

It was all too familiar. The throbbing music, the lights, the morbidly curious crowds. And the forensic tent, propped against the wall of the larger mirror maze marquee and blazing in the hastily-erected arc lights.

She donned her suit and mask, slipped on latex gloves and picked up her forensic case. Despite the thinness of the layer that now separated her from the funfair, the sounds outside seemed to drop away as she entered the smaller tent. When she pulled back the mask a little and took a deep breath, the first scent she distinguished was the sweet, sickly odour of cheap alcohol. After that came blood, then the rank undertone of emptied bowels.

She stood for a moment and took in the scene.

The body was slumped close to the canvas. She estimated it was a couple of metres short of the exit, which placed David’s body roughly level with the place they’d discovered Kira nine days before.

He lay curled in a foetal position, knees bent up, both hands on the knife that jutted at an angle from his chest. Through his fingers Rhona could make out the rough, grey, shark skin handle.

He was unshaven, the formerly straight fringe now wavy and swept greasily back. His startled eyes were bloodshot, his fingernails grimy. The jeans were covered in mud, trainers soaked through. It looked as though he’d been living rough since he’d left home.

The placement of his hands round the knife handle puzzled her – the grip looked unnatural and she wasn’t sure why. If she had been intent on thrusting a knife into her guts, how would she hold it? She mimicked gripping an invisible knife, and instinctively her right hand curled over the left. In David’s case, the left hand was on top. Had he been left-handed?

She gently loosened his grip, which proved easy as David’s fingertips had been scarcely engaged with the handle’s surface. That wasn’t surprising; as he’d lost control of his limbs, his hold would probably have loosened. Of course, there was a possibility his hands had never held the knife in the first place. She dusted the handle for prints.

Bill had said he’d left a note, admitting to killing both girls. Knives weren’t uncommon in suicides, if you were desperate enough. And David looked like a desperate boy.

As she worked, the noise outside diminished further as the funfair shut down for the night. The police would be busy asking the same questions as before, trying to find someone in the crowds that had milled around the rides and stands who might have seen the last few minutes of David Murdoch’s life.

When she finally emerged, Bill was waiting with coffee. A nearby snack van had stayed open at his request to feed and water the SOCOs and uniforms still present.

Rhona added two sugars before taking a grateful sip.

‘What do you think?’ Bill said.

‘Well, the angle of entry could fit with a self-inflicted injury, so it may well have been suicide.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He’s been sleeping rough. Probably drinking rather than eating. There was no obvious sign of an attacker. I loosened his grip, took some samples from the handle and left the knife
in situ
. It looked like shark skin. Was David left-handed?’

Bill thought about it. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

‘It’s OK. I’ll check.’

‘I just don’t get it.’ Bill shook his head. ‘If David did kill Kira and remove the baby, what the hell did he do with it?’

Rhona sighed. ‘It doesn’t fit with the Coulter situation either.’

Bill swore softly. ‘I forgot to tell you! Coulter’s partner, Geri Taylor, is pregnant. Apparently it’s due any day now.’

‘What? Are you sure?’

‘It was in her file from social services.’

‘Coulter took it very badly when Magnus even suggested Geri might have a new partner. I can’t imagine what he would do if he knew she was pregnant. Have you spoken to her?’

‘I planned to go there tomorrow. But if David was the killer, I don’t know where we’re going with the Coulter investigation.’

‘He still appeared to know what was happening,’ she reminded him.

Exhaustion had set in for both of them. Even strong, sweet coffee was no longer keeping it at bay.

‘Are you awake enough to drive home?’ said Bill.

‘It’s not far.’

‘I’ll let you know when the post-mortem is scheduled. It won’t be early, that’s for sure.’

48

Magnus woke with a start to find the first pink light of dawn filtering into the room. He was still sitting on the settee in front of the fire, Coulter’s diary on his knee. Beside him on a coffee table stood the remains of a bottle of Highland Park. He checked the level; he’d hit it hard, but not enough to give him a headache.

He glanced down at the open page of the diary, trying to remember where he had got to before he’d fallen asleep. Then he remembered.

Five times he’d spotted the same reference. He’d gone so far as to mark each with a slip of paper. He rose, excited. Was it too early to call Bill? He checked his watch. He would give it half an hour.

He switched on the coffee machine and headed for the shower. Under a burst of water, he almost felt like singing, but settled for some joyful humming instead.

Excitement had generated real hunger. He poured a mug of coffee, then set about frying himself bacon and eggs. Ten minutes later he sat down to a full plate with toast and more coffee and thought about what his discovery might mean.

Coulter had sent him the diary as a test. He’d planned everything, then written it in there to challenge Magnus, his own self-belief unassailable. How Coulter must have loved those hospital visits. The sparring between Dr Shan, his defendant, and Magnus, his chosen adversary. He remembered the man’s knowing smile when he’d said, ‘You’ve been reading my diary.’

He flipped through the diary again, double-checking in case lack of sleep or too much whisky had addled his brain. But the phrase was there.

Twenty minutes later he succumbed and rang Bill’s number. He thought it was about to go to voicemail, then a woman’s voice answered.

‘Yes?’

‘Is DI Wilson there? It’s Professor Pirie.’

‘Is it urgent? He only got home three hours ago. He’s still asleep.’

‘I’m sorry, but I think it probably is urgent.’

He heard the phone go down, then some whispered words, before Bill’s muffled voice came on the line.

‘Bill, it’s Magnus.’

‘You found something?’

‘I believe the baby’s alive, and I think I know where it is.’

The red sunrise had been replaced by a bright blue February sky. They were ahead of the rush hour traffic, and the city streets were just waking up to a new day.

Bill drove west along the Clydeside expressway past the Finnieston bridge, eventually cutting up into Dumbarton Road. Magnus sat in the passenger seat.

Earlier, Bill had listened intently to the professor’s theory about the references in Coulter’s diary, before breaking the news about David Murdoch.

Magnus had puzzled over that, and for the first time doubt had begun to creep in.

‘How does that fit with your theory?’ Bill said.

‘I don’t know,’ Magnus admitted.

Bill wasn’t convinced, Magnus could tell, but the DI was willing to go along with his request.

Exeter Drive was a steep street off Partick’s main thoroughfare, rising through red sandstone apartment blocks on the left and post-war flats on the right. They drew up outside the number Bill had been given, parked and climbed the steps to the communal front entrance, which was doorless, then on up to the first landing. Bill chose the central door, whose glass panel showed a light was on inside. As they approached, they heard the high-pitched cry of a baby.

Bill rang the doorbell.

A young woman opened the door to them, wearing a quilted dressing gown and slippers. Her face was fuzzy from sleep and she carried a baby’s bottle, full of milk.

‘Geri Taylor?’

She nodded, her sleepy expression replaced by wakeful suspicion.

Bill showed her his warrant card. ‘Could we come inside?’

Fear flooded her face and she made an attempt to shut the door, but when Bill’s foot prevented her, she turned and fled, running down a narrow hall and through a doorway. Bill raced after her, reaching the inner door before she could shut it in his face.

When Magnus followed, Geri was standing as far away from Bill as was possible in the tiny sitting room, hugging a bundle to her chest. A pushchair stood near the window and baby clothes hung on a drying rack close to a gas fire. The room smelt of baby: regurgitated milk and watery urine. The bundle against her squirmed, emitting a hungry cry.

‘Why don’t you sit down and feed the baby,’ Bill said quietly. ‘We can talk when you’ve finished.’

Geri’s eyes darted between them warily. A further piercing shriek decided things for her. She sat down on a nearby couch and offered the bottle to the baby’s eager mouth. The screaming ceased immediately.

Her eyes were on the baby all the time it fed, and her face was placid and happy now. She looked every inch the besotted new mother.

Magnus wondered if he could be wrong, but knew in his heart he wasn’t.

There were three babygros hanging on the drier. All were pink, with a daisy embroidered on the front.

Geri propped the baby upright on her knee and rubbed its back to burp it. While it did so, she said, ‘Well done,
Daisy
.’

Bill looked at Magnus.

‘I’ll call social services.’

By mid-morning, a hysterical Geri Taylor had been transferred to hospital along with the baby.

Any attempt Bill had made to question her while he waited for backup had been met with a terrified silence. Even Magnus’s soothing tones had brought no response. While they waited, she never let the baby out of her arms.

The arrival of the ambulance, paramedics and a social worker had sent her into a complete breakdown. Screaming and crying, she had begged them not to take her little girl away.

They all kept repeating that they just wanted to check that both she and the baby were well. It was a lie, and she knew it.

By the time they managed to get her in the ambulance, the whole street was twitching net curtains and wanting to know what was happening. Some came out into the street, which made it easy to quiz Geri’s neighbours about her pregnancy. As far as they all knew, she had indeed been pregnant, and nine days ago had been seen walking a newborn in a pram. There had been no boyfriend on the scene, as far as Bill could establish, and none recalled by the neighbours during the past nine months.

Bill also discovered that it had been Geri herself who’d informed social services of the pregnancy. A woman from the department had visited her and found her well and happy and looking forward to the new baby. When questioned about the baby’s father, Geri had insisted the pregnancy had been the result of a one night stand. She had been drunk at the time and couldn’t remember the man’s name. It was a common enough story, and the social worker had seen no reason not to accept it. In fact, in her case, the woman from social services had thought it better not to have a man in the picture, since Geri’s previous partner had killed her first child.

‘We had no idea the child had been born. Normally we get word from the hospital, who would have a health visitor scheduled. We would have followed up with a visit ourselves,’ she said worriedly.

Bill reassured her that this was an exceptional case. He didn’t tell her that in all likelihood Geri Taylor had never given birth.

He shuddered to think how things might have turned out if Coulter hadn’t sought to involve Magnus. If the inmate had carried out his plan without attracting attention to himself, they might never have found the baby. Even now, Coulter would be confident in his belief that he had Magnus and the rest of them fooled.

After the ambulance left, Bill called DS Clark and asked her to check whether Geri Taylor had had prenatal care locally in Partick or had been admitted to any hospital in greater Glasgow to deliver. Before he heard back from her, he had his answer; the doctor examining Geri at the hospital called to confirm that the child couldn’t be hers.