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  Rhona tried Bill’s mobile. When it rang unanswered, she called the main desk and asked if he was still about. The sergeant told her the DI was at the hospital. Rhona immediately thought something had happened to Margaret, but the sergeant put her right.

  ‘An old guy, pulled in for questioning on the Necropolis case, was knocked down near Duke Street.’

  ‘Geordie Wilkins?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Is he alive?’

  The sergeant didn’t know. Rhona had to be content with his promise to tell the DI she’d called.

  A smell of cooking greeted Rhona’s entrance to the flat, lifting her spirits. Then she heard voices, and realised Sean had a visitor. Rhona wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Sean was easy if she didn’t want to chat, and there were plenty of other ways to take your mind off the job. Rhona had been thinking of one in particular as she climbed the stairs.

  She listened in the hall, wondering if she could head for the shower in the hope that the visitor would have left by the time she’d finished. The voices were low, but quite intense, and for a frightening moment Rhona thought it might be something to do with Sam. She opened the kitchen door to find Sean and his visitor at the table. They were drinking red wine.

  Sean spotted her, and both men stood up together. When the other man turned, Rhona’s heart leapt in recognition.

  ‘Liam!’

  Rhona’s eyes ranged over her son. He seemed taller, or thinner, or both. His skin was burnt brown, his hair bleached by the sun. Africa had changed him, just as it had changed her the first time she’d gone there. He had an air of confidence she didn’t remember from their last meeting.

  Neither seemed sure what to do next. At last Liam stepped forward. He smiled, but made no move to embrace her. Rhona would have given anything to put her arms around her son, but felt that wasn’t possible – not yet.

  ‘I tried calling you,’ Sean said.

  ‘Sorry, I switched the mobile off while I was in the lab.’

  ‘I’ve asked Liam to join us for dinner.’ A forced smile turned Sean’s bruised face into that of a circus clown. ‘I told Liam about falling into the cellar in the jazz club. How it spoiled my good looks.’

  Rhona nodded, glad Sean had warned her. No point freaking Liam out with tales of the Suleimans. She asked if Liam minded if she went for a shower before eating, deciding they could both do with a few moments’ grace. Now her son was here, Rhona had no idea what to say to him, how to treat him. She only wished she could be as relaxed as Sean obviously was.

  Standing in the shower, the water beating down on her head, Rhona shut her eyes and allowed herself to acknowledge a feeling of intense happiness. Her son had sought her out. He was sitting in her kitchen, talking to Sean. She would share a meal with him, hear about his time with the VSO in Nigeria.

  Rhona stepped out of the shower and took a mouthful of wine. Already nerves had begun flickering in her stomach, thoughts of how she might screw up. How Liam might never return after tonight. Rhona fought her growing anxiety as she dressed. Part of her wished that Sean wasn’t there, and that she could have Liam all to herself. Another part was relieved he was, so she and Liam might avoid long empty silences where they realised they were strangers to one another.

  She couldn’t help but think of Nora Docherty, sitting in an empty house with the ghosts of her children. Nora deserved to get her daughter back. Rhona didn’t deserve her son. Sean would dismiss such ideas as fanciful, and not worth talking about. But then again, he hadn’t given away a son. Rhona took herself through to the kitchen, before her moment of happiness was completely extinguished by guilt.

  Liam was setting the table. Sean had put on some jazz, something Rhona recognised for once. A second bottle of wine was open and taking the air. Rhona suspected Sean had raided his ‘cellar’ and brought out the best. She felt a rush of affection for his thoughtfulness.

  They ate in comfortable semi-silence. Rhona realised Sean’s laid-back attitude had put Liam at ease. Sean peppered the intermittent silences with Irish charm and craic, while Rhona spent her time surreptitiously studying Liam’s face, as though he were a painting.

  She imagined she saw Edward in the young man’s jaw line, herself in his eyes. She’d been Liam’s age, no, younger, when he was born. Edward was only a few years older. The years flowed backwards and Rhona saw herself then, burdened by a desperate desire to hang on to Edward. Confused, frightened and guilt-ridden.

  Liam looked up, sensing her eyes on him, and Rhona rose from the table, ostensibly to fetch a glass of water. Behind her Liam muttered something about having to go soon, and Rhona was seized by a panic that she would never see him again. Then she heard Sean urging him to stay for coffee, as there was a tune he wanted to play for him. By the time she sat back down, Sean had gone to fetch his saxophone.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ Rhona managed to say.

  Liam smiled. ‘So am I.’

  It was enough to be going on with.

  They finished with coffee and an Afro-jazz number. Then it was time for Liam to leave. Watching the two men shake hands, Rhona silently acknowledged that Sean would make a good father, better than Edward could ever be.

  Sean busied himself clearing the table, leaving Rhona to take Liam to the door. They were only there a moment. Liam struggled between offering his hand or giving her a hug. Rhona wondered what happened between her son and his adoptive mother, at such a time. If he usually hugged her, doing the same to Rhona might feel like betrayal. She solved his dilemma by putting her hand lightly on his arm and telling him he was welcome any time. Liam nodded, an awkward teenager again.

  Rhona stood listening to his footfalls on the stairs, then the sound of the outside door clicking closed behind him. When she eventually turned to go inside, Sean was waiting in the hall.

  ‘He’s a great kid.’

  ‘All the better for having been brought up by someone other than me.’

  Sean didn’t rise to her challenge.

  ‘Maybe it’s in the genes. My mother gave me away. I gave Liam away.’

  Rhona was spoiling for an argument and Sean knew it. His face was wary. He was trying to read her and failing. Probably because she herself had no idea what she would say or do next.

  They stood trapped in time, each waiting for the other to dictate the next step in the dance. The evening had gone well. Why did she have to spoil it? What would that prove? That she wasn’t cut out to be a mother?

  Her mobile broke the spell.

  It was Magnus. Rhona stepped out of earshot, hoping Sean would use the excuse to move out of harm’s way.

  ‘You heard about Geordie?’

  ‘The desk sergeant told me.’

  ‘He’s in a coma, not expected to last the night. Bill suspects it was no accident.’

  The thought had crossed her mind too. Geordie was a witness to Terri’s abduction. Perhaps her abductor had spotted the old man?

  ‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about,’ Magnus went on cautiously. ‘Before the meeting tomorrow.’

  Rhona waited for him to continue.

  ‘Can you meet me?’

  She contemplated suggesting he came there, but decided against it. Instead she gave him directions to a nearby bar that stayed open late.

  Sean was in the shower, a CD playing above the rush of water. Rhona opened the cubicle door.

  He was rinsing lather from his hair, sending water cascading down tautly muscled arms.

  ‘Coming in?’ he offered.

  It was stupid leaving like this. She should call Magnus, tell him it could keep until tomorrow.

  ‘There’s been a development in the Necropolis case. I have to go out.’

  39

  ‘THE MOON?’

  Rhona looked up at the evening sky, where drifting clouds partially obscured the moon and stars. Magnus had met her outside the bar, but had declined her invitation to enter. Instead he’d led her to the outskirts of nearby Kelvingrov
e Park, lovely by day but not the safest place for a midnight stroll. When questioned, Magnus had merely said ‘the moon’.

  Rhona was waiting for him to expand on this. She could feel Magnus’s underlying excitement, but whatever was causing it, he was finding it difficult to put into words.

  ‘You’re aware that the moon affects people’s behaviour?’ he began.

  ‘Folklore that’s never been scientifically proven.’

  ‘Sussex police force put extra men on the beat for the days surrounding a full moon, because there are more aggressive incidents recorded during that time.’

  ‘I can’t see Strathclyde falling for the lunar effect.’

  Her scepticism wasn’t putting Magnus off.

  ‘I checked. Lucie was killed two days before a full moon. The other girl in the grave, a month before. The earlier victim …’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘The symbol on the grave was made up of a fish and a full moon.’

  A terrible thought struck Rhona. ‘You’re not planning to bring this up at tomorrow’s meeting?’

  ‘If he has killed Terri, don’t you think it strange we haven’t found her body, when he made sure we found the others?’

  ‘Why are you changing the subject?’

  ‘I’m not. The moon has an affinity with water. It rules the domain of the night, the unconscious mind, the world of dreams and fantasies. His fantasies.’

  Rhona was at a loss for words, so Magnus continued. ‘The lunar effect describes behaviour over the days surrounding the full moon. Lucie died in the early hours of Thursday morning. The full moon was Sunday.’

  It was like being told a story. Enticing, alluring, compelling – but, ultimately, fiction.

  ‘Remember our killer is working to a plan in the world he has created for himself. We have to try to understand that world, however bizarre it might appear to the rational mind.’

  ‘I don’t see how any of this helps.’

  ‘If I’m right about the lunar effect, he’ll kill Terri within the next forty-eight hours.’ Seeing that Rhona was unimpressed, he carried on. ‘We questioned Gary Forbes today. He confessed to running the blog, but claimed he knew nothing about the auction.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘I don’t think Gary originally wrote those words.’

  Suspicion rooted itself in Rhona’s mind. ‘You were ordered to do nothing about that auction, Magnus.’

  He continued as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘Remember the Vancouver serial killer, Robert Pickton?’

  She did. Pickton, a pig farmer, had murdered upwards of fifty drug addicts and prostitutes, burying them in slurry on his farm or feeding them to the pigs.

  ‘The police suspected Pickton was running online auctions for snuff videos. Subscribers could bid to determine how the next woman should die. We were assuming our man was doing the same. But I don’t think he is. I think he’s offering up his victim. To anyone who wants to rape, torture or kill her.’ Magnus left his bombshell until the end. ‘So I went online and made my bid.’

  40

  MAGNUS SAT OUT on the balcony. It was neither dark nor light. The broad expanse of river lay silvery grey under a full moon. This was the time he liked best. In Orkney, during the summer months, there was virtually no night, only a delicate twilight zone before dawn. He’d played football once at 3 a.m. They’d sailed to Sanday from Kirkwall after work, spent most of the time on the crossing drinking home brew and still managed to win the match.

  He realised he could never live where the summer days ended in early darkness. Visits to London only served to emphasise the difference a few degrees of latitude made to the length of a summer’s day.

  Magnus breathed in the scent of the river. He was calm enough now to contemplate his meeting with Rhona. Her anger when he’d revealed what he’d done had caught him off guard. He should have read the signs better, but he found his ability impaired when with her. He was too busy controlling his other emotions.

  Since the night she’d visited the flat he’d tried to maintain a distance, although he enjoyed the intensity of their exchanges. Rhona, he’d noted, was adept at changing the subject if she believed they were becoming too familiar, like in the car en route to Inverkip. Her voice then had said one thing, while her body language told a different story. Few people can hide their true emotions, even when they try.

  The faint scent of soap or shower gel had intrigued him when he’d met her outside the bar earlier that evening. Had she been in the shower when he called? The scent, however, seemed masculine.

  He and Anna had often showered together. Before, during and after making love. He could never forgive himself for what happened to his last lover, but neither could he turn back the clock. It was at moments like these, Magnus realised how deep the wound still was.

  He’d left the computer on, the mail program open and waiting. The ping of an incoming message ended his contemplative mood. As he approached the laptop, the landline rang. Magnus hesitated between the two, then answered the phone. No one spoke. Magnus heard a sharp click, then a moment’s silence, followed by the sound of a female weeping. Every hair on his body stood on end.

  The terrible sound stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The silence that followed seemed to breathe even more horror. Then a man’s hoarse voice spoke.

  ‘She’s waiting for you – but you’ll have to find her.’

  ‘How?’

  The line went dead.

  Magnus quickly checked the incoming email. At first glance the title looked like typical spam, but he opened it anyway. Disappointment rose like bile as his eyes scanned an advert for Cialis and Viagra at a special low price. He’d thought, arriving as it did with the phone call, it would contain a clue about how he might find Terri. Magnus double-checked the paragraph at the bottom. It was a typical string of nonsense inserted for the search engines. The email wasn’t remotely relevant.

  He’d been set up. The killer had challenged him, knowing full well he had no chance of finding Terri. Frustration and anger drove him back onto the balcony. He gripped the rail, steeling himself to admit he’d failed. He should call DI Wilson, but he would have to admit he’d done exactly what he’d been told not to do. And with nothing to show for it. The only crumb of comfort he could offer was the possibility that the crying he’d heard had really been Terri, which meant she was still alive.

  Magnus had a hunch he was missing something. He’d had a similar feeling in the culvert, when he’d told Rhona about the symbol on the grave.

  He went inside and laid out all the crime scene photos on the dining table. He’d looked at them a million times already. What had he said to Rhona about studying images and missing the obvious?

  An hour later Magnus was none the wiser and infinitely more frustrated. He made up his mind to go out. He cycled slowly eastwards through the slumbering city centre, his only companions taxis and night delivery vans. As he approached Glasgow Cross, he was aware a white van had been sitting close on his tail for some time. Magnus was used to drivers who saw harassing cyclists as a sport, and kept well in. The van finally overtook as he swerved right into London Road, and Magnus allowed himself the pleasure of swearing at its rear end.

  He cut up through the network of streets that led to the Gallowgate, with no clear objective, except he wanted to be in the killer’s hunting ground. He located Terri’s alley and walked the bike in. Terri’s spot had been taken over by another teenage girl. Magnus could smell her on approach, cheap scent masking perspiration and the stink of sex. A few discarded condoms lay nearby.

  The girl regarded him with clouded eyes. An attempt had been made to cover a bruise on her cheek with make-up, and there was an angry scab at the corner of her mouth. She opened a short jacket to expose her breasts, and offered him whatever he wanted. Magnus asked if she knew Terri.

  Her expression grew sullen. ‘Are you the polis?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Terri’s.’

 
‘A friend,’ she sneered. ‘Is that right? Well, friend, Terri’s gone, disappeared. That’s why I’m here. If you’re not interested then fuck off.’

  ‘What if I pay you for information?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Anything you can tell me about Terri.’

  She thought about it. ‘Same price as a blow job?’

  Magnus asked how much and handed over the money. The girl, who said her name was Nikki, counted it and stuffed it in her pocket.

  ‘Terri disappeared from this very spot. Got in a car and never came back. Cathy says she’s still alive.’

  ‘Cathy McIver?’

  She nodded. ‘Cathy met a punter she knew from way back, who said he’d seen Terri some place outside Glasgow. Cathy went with him for a look.’

  From the way Nikki was talking, she didn’t know Cathy was dead.

  ‘Cathy’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Nikki. There’s something you should know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police found Cathy’s body today. She’d been shot through the head.’

  Fear and shock broke through the drugged haze. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ She stepped away from Magnus.

  ‘I’m a psychologist working with the police.’

  Her eyes narrowed angrily. ‘You fucking liar!’ Nikki took a swipe at him. Magnus stepped back, but she came at him, fists flying. He tried to catch her arms, conscious of what this must look like on nearby CCTV, and tried to reason with her.

  ‘Nikki, if you know anything about the man Cathy met, you have to tell the police.’

  She spat at him and he caught it full in the face.

  Just at that moment a car entered the alley, its headlights blinding them. Nikki broke away and ran towards it. She had the passenger door open and was inside before Magnus got moving.

  The black car revved hard and Magnus realised it was headed for him. He flattened himself against the wall as the car screeched past, inches from his chest.

  41

  BILL PLAYED THEM the mobile message. Cathy’s voice was upbeat but cautious. I think Terri’s alive. I’ll call when I know more.