The Special Dead Read online

  His first instinct was that the secret he shared with Rhona was no longer a secret. That would account for her obvious concern. Also, she wouldn’t want to reveal this in a phone call, hence the request for his lab visit. McNab’s joie de vivre evaporated and he was back in the real world.

  She was in her office when he arrived. Security had buzzed him in, commenting on his early visit, to which McNab had feigned a jocular reply. A mood he was no longer in. Dread had descended again. The dread he used to experience when he first opened his gritty eyes and knew he had another day to face, half of which would involve a hangover. The light mood with Freya had gone so quickly, McNab questioned whether it had really happened or whether it could ever happen again.

  Seeing Rhona only served to heighten this feeling.

  Her studied look reminded him that Dr Rhona MacLeod was the only woman who had ever come close to knowing him, and not just in the biblical sense.

  ‘It’s Freya Devine,’ he said, seeing no point in hiding the fact from Rhona.

  She smiled and he thought it was from pleasure on his behalf. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘I went to see her last night.’ His confession rolled on like a Catholic who’d just found a long-sought-for priest.

  She nodded, although he detected her thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘So why am I here?’ he ventured.

  She caught his look. ‘It isn’t about your love life or about . . . the other matter.’

  McNab registered relief.

  ‘What is it then?’

  28

  Her intuition had been right.

  The results were in for the first samples she’d dispatched last night before heading for Edinburgh. Of the five she’d sent, four had registered against the Scottish Database as a no show, which meant the men involved had not been convicted of a crime north of the border. The fifth result was rather unexpected.

  Rhona handed McNab the printout. ‘This one found a match, but the details have been withheld. From me, at least.’

  McNab scrutinized the paper. ‘Has this ever happened to a search you’ve done before?’

  ‘No, but I did have forensic evidence removed from the lab fridge once. A dismembered foot found on a beach in Skye. The Ministry of Defence decided they preferred to deal with it themselves.’

  ‘The MOD interfered with your investigation?’

  ‘They took it over in the interests of national security.’

  It was a long and sorry tale, which had happened before she and McNab had met, but the memory of the mishandling of the case and its aftermath still rankled.

  McNab was studying her. ‘You think this is something similar?’ he said.

  ‘I think that someone in a position of authority doesn’t want this particular person to be openly identified as part of the investigation.’

  She watched as McNab processed what that might mean, something Rhona had done already. Just because your details were currently on the database didn’t mean you were guilty of a crime. You may have given a DNA sample voluntarily in an investigation for the purposes of elimination, just as Maurice had done last night.

  It might be that the case you were attached to hadn’t yet reached a conclusion. Under Scots law, your details would be removed from the Scottish Database once the case was decided, or you were not charged with an offence. They only remained there if you were found guilty. There was one exception to this, which involved sexual offences, where a suspect, not convicted, would have their details retained for three years.

  English law was different. Once on the database you stayed there, even if innocent of any crime. All profiles on the Scottish DNA Database (except volunteers for intelligence-led screenings) were exported to the National DNA Database, which gave all police forces throughout the UK the ability to search for profile and crime-scene matches. But once you were removed from the Scottish Database, you then had to be removed from NDNA.

  McNab was well aware of all of this, so Rhona didn’t remind him. The true consequence for the investigation of being denied access to the details of the match, he got immediately.

  ‘If Magnus is right and we do have a group of nine, then having a lead on one of them could take us to the other eight,’ McNab said.

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘We can’t let this go unchallenged.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘So?’

  Rhona took a moment to savour the fact that McNab was asking for her advice. Her first instinct when she’d viewed the printout had been not to show it to McNab. The old McNab would have acted first and thought about the consequences later, but this wasn’t the old McNab.

  ‘I think you should take this to the boss,’ Rhona said.

  All leads should be followed and all possibilities eliminated – that was the rule of an investigation. Bill had said exactly that when he’d sought an interview with Superintendent Sutherland to ask why details of the search match had been denied to the submitting forensic scientist, Dr MacLeod.

  Now that he had been granted leave to state his case, Bill continued, ‘DS McNab’s work with Professor Pirie leads us to believe the nine men may form a group. Identify one and we may be able to identify them all.’

  Sutherland interrupted before Bill could continue.

  ‘The person you refer to is not a suspect, and their connection with the case will be dealt with at a higher level.’

  Bill felt his anger rising. ‘Who is this special case?’

  ‘You don’t need to know,’ Sutherland said curtly.

  ‘If you want me to explain why this is necessary to my team, I need to know who we’re shielding and why.’

  Sutherland considered this, then appeared to come to a decision.

  ‘The owner of one of the DNA samples presented himself to a senior officer as soon as the case hit the news. He met the victim briefly, some months ago. I repeat, he is not a suspect.’

  ‘That’s for me to decide,’ Bill retorted.

  ‘On the contrary, Inspector, it is for me to decide.’ Sutherland’s tone had turned icy.

  So the identity of someone currently on the database had to be kept secret. Those who worked in crime enforcement and were therefore likely to visit crime scenes had their DNA recorded for elimination purposes. In fact, so did anyone visiting a crime scene in an official capacity. His was on there, as was McNab’s and Rhona’s.

  Bill took a calculated guess. ‘He’s one of ours.’

  When Sutherland didn’t respond, Bill tried a few possibilities. ‘A serving police officer? Someone working undercover? Or just someone very important?’

  The only evidence that he might have hit home was a blink at the final suggestion on his list. Hardly evidence that would hold up in court, but intriguing nonetheless.

  Sutherland suddenly gave full attention to some papers on his desk. ‘Thank you, Detective Inspector, that will be all.’

  Summarily dismissed, Bill took his leave, accepting he’d met a dead end. Besides, he had other ways of discovering the truth. He didn’t command a room full of eager detectives for nothing.

  The thought briefly occurred that Sutherland’s earlier concern about McNab’s role in the investigation had been occasioned by this development. McNab had a reputation for ferreting out information which many of those in positions of power would prefer to keep out of the public eye.

  Politics and policing – a shit sandwich, but one that was served up all too frequently in his opinion.

  Bill glanced at his watch. It was time to talk to the troops.

  29

  The nightmare had been sudden, vivid and frighteningly realistic.

  The green-eyed girl’s intonations as she tightened the cord that bound them together. His determined thrusts and the resulting ecstasy which became the sole reason for his being.

  Then the hand stuffed something into her mouth, silencing her words.

  But whose hand?

  Then she was choking, the green eyes bulging with fear,
as he fell into the sweet abyss of climax, where nothing and no one mattered more than his own release.

  Mark had woken at that point, launching himself upright, bathed in sweat, gasping for air, his heart banging painfully against his ribs.

  Jesus.

  He’d taken a deep breath and willed his heart to slow. When it hadn’t, he’d risen and gone through to the kitchen. Throwing open the freezer door, he’d upended an open bag of ice on the kitchen surface, sending cubes slithering to the floor.

  Grabbing some, he’d shoved them in his mouth. The instant and shattering cold had stunned him, but he’d known it would work. Apparently there was a nerve in the roof of your mouth. If you froze it, your heart slowed. He’d learned the trick from his mother, although her galloping and erratic heartbeat was a symptom of her illness and owed nothing to over-indulgence in coke and alcohol.

  Or to guilt-ridden nightmares.

  As his heart had finally begun to slow, the tight pain in his chest had loosened its grip. Mark had turned and spat the remains of the ice in the sink.

  I’m doing too much coke. That’s the reason.

  He’d opened the balcony doors and stepped outside. In the distance, the imposing shadow of Arthur’s Seat had been a blot on a midnight horizon. Up in the penthouse flat, he’d always considered himself on a par with the rock, with the scattered lights of Edinburgh spread out below him.

  Which was why he’d bought the flat.

  Thinking of buying the flat had immediately brought his father to mind, because a large chunk of the deposit had come from him, and Mark hadn’t wanted to think about that.

  He’d turned from the view then, and gone back inside. As he’d closed the patio doors he’d tried to relive his earlier success with Jeff. Jeff had definitely been contained for the moment. If Mark went to the police, Jeff’s presence that night would also be revealed. And no upwardly mobile young lawyer would want to be associated with a suspect in a murder enquiry.

  At that point Mark had congratulated himself. He’d been so convincing with Jeff, he’d almost believed it himself. Until an internal voice had reminded him yet again . . .

  You did have sex with the girl and she died while you were in that flat.

  On re-entering, he’d picked up his mobile from the coffee table and had noted an unread text from Emilie and, worse, a voicemail from his father.

  The text he’d left unopened. The voicemail was another matter.

  His heart speeding up again, Mark had listened to voicemail service.

  The call had come in at eleven, shortly after he’d passed out on the bed.

  ‘I want to speak to you, Mark,’ the cultured Edinburgh voice said. ‘Come to my club at eight, tomorrow night.’

  Mark had dropped the mobile at this point as though it was red hot.

  Shit! Why did his father want to see him? What had he done wrong now?

  Then a terrible thought had struck. Had his father seen the CCTV footage? Had he recognized his only son?

  Jesus fuck.

  He’d immediately started thinking of a list of possible excuses not to go. None of which, he knew, would be accepted. What his father wanted, his father got.

  He will know something’s wrong. He will know I’m lying.

  A High Court judge for twenty years, his father could spot a liar with ease.

  The rest of the night had brought little sleep, but he had made it into work at the bank this morning, although there wasn’t much actual work being done.

  Mark tried to take his mind off the meeting with his father and concentrate on the task in hand. The presentation was due to be given tomorrow and he’d prepared less than a third of it.

  Who the fuck cares?

  I’ll care when I have to stand up in a room full of people and talk about it.

  When his attempt to focus didn’t work, Mark considered a trip to the Gents for a line of coke. Maybe half a line would be enough to get his enthusiasm going. If he finished the presentation by the end of the day, he could meet his father with a feeling of success.

  The truth was, the only way he could face his father tonight was via a line of coke coupled with a very stiff drink, and if he did indulge his father would know. He’d seen too many drugged-up individuals in the dock. Sent many of them down. Including murderers.

  I’m not a murderer. I had sex with a girl I met in a bar. It was consensual. In fact, she was the one in charge. I woke to find she wasn’t in the bed. I vomited and, embarrassed by this, I went home.

  He’d spent the hours awake last night rehearsing his confession. Always missing out the trip through to that room and the image of the girl hanging on the hook behind the swaying dolls.

  Mark froze at the memory. Jesus, he couldn’t go on like this. It was screwing with his brain.

  Maybe I should go to the police? Tell them I was the guy on CCTV. Explain what happened. After all, my father is a High Court judge. That has to count for something?

  His mobile pinged, bringing his mind back from that terrifying scenario.

  Mark checked the screen to find a photo message from a number he didn’t recognize. His first thought was to delete it, but curiosity won instead.

  When it opened he stared at the screen for a moment, unsure what he was looking at. It was like one of those puzzle pictures taken at a strange angle to confuse you. Then he made out the plaited red cord. Just as he realized what it was, the image began to move, revealing it as a video clip. It only lasted seconds, but Mark knew the male in the clip was him and the female most definitely the dead girl, bound together in a heart-stopping embrace until . . .

  A hand – his hand? – stuffed a cloth in her mouth.

  Mark made a dash for the Gents, causing consternation among his colleagues. Entering a cubicle, he immediately rid his stomach of a part-digested lunch of chicken and salad wrap.

  A cold sweat swiftly followed. He pulled himself to his feet and flushed the toilet with an unsteady hand. His nightmare was fast becoming a reality. Someone else had been in that flat, in that room, while he was with the girl. They’d even filmed him fucking her. Had filmed him stuffing something into her mouth.

  So it was true. He had made her choke.

  Mark couldn’t face that thought, or the one that followed on from it. Not without help. He felt in his pocket for the coke and shook out a line on the cistern.

  He would say he was feeling ill. A stomach bug. Go home. Try and think this through. He stood, hands gripping the cistern, waiting for the coke to take effect. Then he heard someone enter and Campbell, the guy on the next desk to him, shouted, ‘You okay in there, Mark?’

  ‘Not so good, mate. A stomach bug, I think.’

  ‘Go home. I’ll tell the boss what happened.’

  Mark thanked him. He would leave work, but he wasn’t sure if he would go home. If the third person that night knew his mobile number, chances were they knew his address too.

  Ten minutes ago, he’d thought he was in deep shit.

  Now, Mark acknowledged, it was much worse than that.

  30

  The two young men waiting in Room 1 stopped their argument immediately she entered, unaware that she’d been listening to it through the door.

  The one with dark auburn hair she knew to be Leila’s brother without an introduction. The similarity in eye and hair colour was striking. Leila had been beautiful, her brother equally handsome. According to McNab, there was only ten months between them, Leila being the elder. An only child herself, Rhona had no experience of the closeness of siblings, but imagined that with less than a year between them, the brother and sister must have felt like twins. Yet according to McNab, Danny had claimed that he and his sister weren’t close.

  The argument raging as she’d approached the room had suggested the two men were at odds over Leila’s death. How exactly, Rhona wasn’t able to make out, except for the fact that they both blamed each other.

  As Rhona introduced herself, she was acutely aware of Danny’s appraisin
g glance. Barry kept his eyes averted.

  ‘So you’re a doctor?’ Danny said with a smile.

  ‘Of science,’ Rhona replied.

  ‘Still, a bit too important to be taking swabs?’

  Rhona let that one go and asked him to open his mouth. From the corner of her eye she noted that Barry looked decidedly worried about what she was doing. Danny on the other hand was gallusness personified. He even gave her a wink as she circled the inside of his mouth with the swab.

  When it came to Barry, she saw fear in his eyes, but then again McNab had run a drawing past him which suggested his DNA might have already been found at the scene of crime. If this sample was a match to the semen found inside the doll, then Barry was one of the nine.

  ‘So,’ said Danny as she prepared to leave, ‘will I see you again, Dr MacLeod?’

  Rhona met his challenging look with one of her own.

  ‘Unlikely, unless it’s in court.’

  Danny didn’t like that answer. A cloud suddenly covered those handsome green eyes.

  He immediately came back at her with, ‘Why would I be in court?’

  ‘To see your sister’s killer brought to justice.’

  ‘If you lot ever fucking find him.’

  Rhona wanted to say, ‘We’ll find him, all right,’ but chose not to, which she decided irked him even more.

  DS Clark and McNab were waiting outside for her.

  ‘Well?’ McNab said.

  ‘Barry’s worried about the swab, Danny not so much,’ she told him.

  ‘Looked like Danny was chatting you up.’

  ‘He is very handsome,’ Rhona said, with a glance at Janice.

  ‘And knows it,’ Janice agreed.

  McNab intervened. ‘If you have the hots for Danny, I’d better do his interview.’

  ‘Barry’s not bad either. He definitely works out,’ Janice said.

  McNab looked from one woman to the other.

  ‘You’re shitting me.’

  ‘Took you a while to work that one out, Detective,’ Rhona said as she departed.

  Back at the lab she found Chrissy eager to tell her the news regarding McNab’s love life. Rhona decided not to burst her bubble by revealing that she knew already. Her plan failed, as she suspected it might. Chrissy McInsh had an eye for a lie.