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  ‘The death wasn’t premeditated then?’ Rhona asked.

  ‘There’s some evidence to suggest the boy has been involved in such an activity before. Earlier bruises in the same area, though less pronounced. There was probably a pad placed between the ligature and the neck.’

  ‘But not this time?’

  ‘No. This time, the ligature was tightened to unconsciousness and beyond and whatever the boy agreed to do, I can’t believe he wanted to die.’

  ‘And the mutilation?’

  ‘After death definitely and probably by biting. The gash on the penis is elliptical. I took the liberty of calling in the Odontology Unit. Hope that’s okay?’

  Dr Sissons liked to believe there was rivalry between the various forensic departments. Even if there was, Rhona wasn’t going to encourage him.

  ‘I located saliva on the nipples and the shoulder,’ she said.

  ‘Good. There was also semen on the anal swab. What about the curtain?’

  ‘We’re working on that. It looks as though it’s been used more than once. We’ll take our time and go over all of it. There might be fibres or old blood,’ Rhona said. ‘Oh, and I combed two head hairs from the pubic region.’

  ‘Not the boy’s?’

  ‘I’ve still to check, but one’s dark, so it’s unlikely, Rhona paused. ‘I take it you don’t know who the boy is yet?’

  ‘No. The post mortem suggests he was in his late teens, say between sixteen and twenty. Good health, although he’s had his appendix removed. No evidence of drug abuse. Non smoker. Well nourished. Your forensic biologists are enjoying the dubious pleasure of examining his stomach contents, so we’ll know soon what he’d been eating before he died. With a bit of luck it will be curry and the police can start checking all the Glasgow curry houses to see if they recognise him. And Dr MacLeod?’ Dr Sissons voice was thoughtful.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You aren’t missing a member of your family are you? The boy bore an uncanny resemblance to you.’

  Rhona assured him that as far as she knew, her family was fully accounted for and rang off.

  Rhona lifted her head from the microscope. A smirr of rain was touching the window, but here and there the sun was breaking through the cloudy skies. The park below the laboratory was quiet, just a few mums and kids at the swings and a couple walking, arm in arm. As she watched, the boy stopped beside a clump of trees, bent down and picked a bluebell and handed it to the girl. They began to kiss.

  Six months before, Rhona had stepped over another yellow tape just where the couple were standing now. It had turned out to be a student from the University, murdered on his way home from a dance at the Student’s Union. Last night’s murder, she thought, made four in one year. All young men.

  The first two had been violent assaults with no evidence of sexual activity, but the one in the park had been different. It had all the hallmarks of queer bashing. The student was gay and was in a known cruising area. His chest and arms were covered with kick marks and his head had been caved in by a blunt instrument, which was never found. Rhona’s team had scoured the area for traces of the killer - or killers. It had been useless. Heavy overnight rain had washed the place clean of clues.

  One thing connected that murder to this one. The victim had been wearing a thin leather neck band with a Celtic cross on it. At the post mortem the pathologist had found bruising round the neck, synonymous with the neck band being pulled during the assault. What if tightening the neck band had been part of a violent sexual assault?

  When Sean found out what her job was, he had laughingly called her Lady Death. Rhona didn’t care. She loved her work. She loved the functions and the structures and the painstaking carefulness of it all. She had forsaken medicine because she found it too depressing. So many sick people and, if she was honest, so little she could do to help them. Forensic Science was different. Here she could help, as long as she was prepared to look for the truth. That was the fascination. The truth hid from her, until she found just the right question to ask. At the end of the day, it wasn’t what had happened but why it had happened that held the truth.

  Maybe that’s why we couldn’t find the killer, she thought. Maybe we got the ‘why’ bit of the jigsaw wrong.

  Rhona wiped her breath from the window pane. The couple had moved off towards the Art Gallery and were climbing the steps to get under the ornate portico, out of the rain. Rhona went back to the microscope, not wanting to think about the Art Gallery. Not since last Friday when she’d taken her lunch there and spotted the familiar long blue raincoat and dark hair.

  She tried to concentrate on the next slide, ignoring the knot in her stomach.

  ‘Fancy coming out for some lunch?’ Chrissy was standing in the doorway.

  Rhona shook her head.

  ‘Right. I’ll bring you back a sandwich then.’ Chrissy wasn’t asking. She was telling. It was like having your mother working for you.

  Rhona leaned forward and watched Chrissy emerge below. A bloke on the other side of the street crossed over to meet her, his shaved head bowed and his hands in his pockets. It looked as if Chrissy was giving him a right mouthful. He would be either the latest in a long line of boyfriends, she thought, or else one of Chrissy’s brothers here to borrow money from the only member of the family who was in a job, a legitimate one anyway.

  Bill Wilson phoned her halfway through the afternoon and asked her how things were going. She told him what she’d told Dr Sissons.

  ‘I’m working on the hairs just now’, she said. ‘It’ll take us a while to examine the cover thoroughly, but you can have the whisky glasses back’, she added, ‘I’ve finished with them.’

  ‘Thanks, although I don’t hold out much hope of finding our suspect’s prints on file.’ Bill sounded resigned. ‘By the way, the story’s splashed all over the evening paper.’

  ‘Right.’

  She heard a short ‘Mmm’ of displeasure.‘If anyone pesters you for info?’

  ‘I don’t have any. Oh and Bill,’ she stopped him before the phone went down. ‘Were you right?’ she asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The English connection.’

  ‘We haven’t found out who the boy was or where he came from. But you can read that in the Evening Post. They always know more than us anyway.’

  Rhona stopped work at five o’clock. Her eyes were tired from peering down the microscope and the lunchtime sandwich had long since been eaten. Chrissy had left at four, pleading a ‘domestic’ to sort out. One look at Chrissy’s face convinced Rhona not to ask any questions.

  Now, all she wanted was something substantial to eat and a long hot soak in the bath. She started to tidy the lab, methodically filing away her notes and locking the filing cabinet. She stored the samples and switched on the ansaphone.

  Outside, the rain had moved off north towards the Campsie Hills. The sky had cleared to a dull blue. She was a twenty minute walk from the flat and as long as the evening was fine there was no point in taking a bus. It would just sit at the traffic lights anyway. She headed for Byres Road.

  She knew Sean would have already bought something for tea but she stopped at the pasta shop anyway. Mr Margiotta welcomed her with his usual patter and persuaded her to try the spinach and ricotta cannelloni, adding an extra dollop of tomato and basil sauce for good measure.

  ‘Love food,’ he promised with a wicked grin.

  Just what she didn’t need.

  Rhona allowed herself five minutes to decide what she was going to do, before she put her key in the lock. Part of her wished she could just forget what she’d seen in the Art Gallery, but it was like a forensic clue and she couldn’t let it go. Like one of those semen samples. She had to know whose it was.

  When she opened the door of the flat she was greeted by the rich scent of garlic and olive oil.

  ‘Hi,’ Sean called from the kitchen. He was chopping vegetables next to the cooker. He turned and smiled at her, wiping his hands on a tea towel. �
��You look tired,’ he said. ‘Coffee? A drink?’

  ‘A bath.’

  He came towards her and she forced herself to smile.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  She wanted to be in the bathroom alone with the door locked, but Sean led her in, turned on the taps and began to undress her, his big hands never fumbling. He dropped the blouse and skirt to the floor, turned her, unclipped her bra and slipped his hands round to catch her breasts. He held them gently for a moment before he rolled down her tights and pants and freed her legs. Behind Rhona the water pounded into the tub, hot and cold, like her thoughts. He sat on the chair and pulled her onto his knee, stroking the back of her neck with one hand while his other tested the water. When it was right, he turned off the taps.

  ‘Get in. It’s fine.’ She stepped into the water like an obedient child. ‘I’ll give you a shout when tea’s ready.’ He left the door open when he went out. She leaned over to shut it properly.

  ‘Don’t lock it!’ he called. I’ll bring you in a glass of wine.’

  Rhona sat down defeated, leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Sean came in twice. First with the wine as promised and again with the bottle to refill her glass. Rhona kept her eyes closed the second time, although he knelt beside the bath so that she could feel his warm breath on her face. Then the water parted with her knees, hitting the sides of the bath in a wave of emotion, as he ran his hand slowly up her thigh.

  This was what it was like, she thought. To be primed. Made ready. Sean was good at that. She pushed herself up and opened her eyes.

  ‘Okay now?’ He was smiling at her, the dark blue eyes full of confidence.

  She stood up and he handed her a towel and then the dressing gown. ‘Don’t bother getting dressed,’ he said.

  Sean liked women. He was comfortable in their company. But most of all he liked to take them to bed. He played his saxophone with the same sensual concentration he gave to sex. He would cradle it, stroke it, press the right buttons and blow into it until it squealed with pleasure. Recently Rhona had noticed a difference. She had begun to suspect that Sean was not playing her any more, he was playing with her, an entirely different thing.

  ‘Good?’ Sean said.

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘I put the pasta in the fridge. It’ll do for tomorrow night.’

  Sean played a regular gig in a club in the centre of town every Friday night. The Ultimate Jazz Club was dark and intimate. On Fridays it was always packed. The gig started at ten o’clock and didn’t finish till two. Sean often stayed there jamming until sunrise. Rhona had loved to watch him play, his knowing hands squeezing emotion out of the golden instrument. She would sit there, just like the night they met. He’d been booked to play at a police function at the club. At the interval he’d come over to her table and asked if he could talk to her. He was so straightforward, she couldn’t refuse. Besides, she’d been having erotic thoughts about him all evening. She stayed on till late, as the band wound down, playing soft soul music while the crowd drifted off. After he’d packed up his gear, they’d left together and they’d been together ever since.

  I can’t go back to the club, she thought. Not now I know.

  They had reached the coffee stage. Sean was up, whistling as he rattled cups and spooned the freshly ground coffee into the machine.

  ‘I went to the Art Gallery on Friday,’ Rhona heard herself say in a detached voice.

  Sean didn’t answer at first and she wondered whether he had been listening. Often when he whistled he was miles away, planning a tune in his head. Not this time. This time he heard her.

  He brought the cafetière over to the table and poured the coffee. He was whistling again, bringing the notes to a proper end before he spoke.

  ‘Ordinary people go to art galleries here. I like that. It reminds me of Dublin.’

  His voice was unperturbed and soothing. He was not going to be drawn into a sparring match. They lapsed into silence. Rhona fingered her cup.

  ‘You were in the Gallery on Friday,’ she said.

  ‘I was.’

  (Was that a question or an answer?)

  ‘You were with a woman,’ she said.

  ‘I was.’

  He took a sip of coffee then placed his cup gently back on the saucer. He did everything like that, his big hands moving in firm gentle ways.

  ‘Who was she?’ Rhona tried to make her voice as if she didn’t care.

  Sean studied her carefully, his eyes catching hers.

  ‘A woman I know who likes art galleries,’ he said.

  ‘Like me.’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘not like you.’ He ran his fingers through his hair.

  I’ve got to him, she thought. She waited for him to say something else then interrupted him when he tried.

  ‘Rhona…’

  ‘Are you fucking her?’

  ‘Fucking her?’ He repeated the words so lightly they no longer seemed important. ‘It doesn’t matter if I am.’

  ‘It matters to me,’ she said angrily.

  He didn’t answer. In the distance Rhona heard a church clock chime. She counted eight before he spoke.

  ‘That’s because you make it matter,’ he said quietly.

  Sean was never outright angry. When he was ruffled or irritated he always gave the impression he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Sometimes Rhona wished he would argue with her, let it out. But he never did and she was always left yapping at his heels like a terrier.

  ‘If I tell you I’m not, will you believe me?’ he said.

  She had known this would happen.

  ‘Listen,’ he reached over the table and lifted her chin and made her look at him. ‘I will not cook for her or play for her or stroke the back of her neck when she’s tired,’ and he ran his hand tenderly down the curve of her face.

  They left the table without clearing it and moved through to the living room. Sean lit the gas fire and closed the curtains. He sat on the couch and made a place for her in the crook of his arm. Rhona allowed herself to slip close against him, laying her head on his chest; already thinking of what her life would be like without him.

  When the phone rang, Sean was the one who got up and answered it.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said. ‘A man. Didn’t give his name.’ Sean’s face betrayed nothing.

  She took the receiver and Sean left the room. From the bedroom she heard a trickle of notes.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Rhona? It’s Edward. Edward Stewart.’ The repetition was unnecessary. As if Rhona wouldn’t know that voice anywhere, at any time.

  He’s talking to me like a client, Rhona thought. There was the sound of a throat being cleared.

  ‘Would it be possible to speak to you about some business?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rhona, this is difficult for me…’

  Things were always difficult for him, never for anyone else. ‘Fuck off Edward,’ she said and began to put the phone down.

  ‘Rhona, wait, please. It’s important.’

  There was something in his voice that stopped her from hanging up.

  ‘Could we meet?’ he was asking.

  Rhona heard herself agree.

  ‘Tomorrow. Half ten?’

  Edward was confident again as he said goodbye. He’s got what he wanted, she thought. What sort of business could he possibly want to discuss? Business, as in his law firm, or business as in the by-election he’s hoping to win next month? And why now? she asked herself. We haven’t spoken in three years, and then only across a bench in court. He hadn’t been pleased when her evidence put his client away. Edward didn’t like losing.

  Sean was still playing his saxophone but now he’d moved to a tune that Rhona had come to think of as theirs. The tune he’d been playing, he said, when he fell in love with her.

  She knew he meant it now as a peace offering.

  Sean wouldn’t ask her who the man on the phone was. He wouldn’t ask her if s
he’d slept with him in the past or was sleeping with him in the present. He wouldn’t ask because it wouldn’t make any difference to the way he felt about her.

  Rhona only wished she could feel the same.

  Chapter 4

  There were times when Bill Wilson thought he had been in the police force too long. Such negative thoughts usually surfaced when Margaret, his wife, told him off for talking to their two teenage children ‘like you’re interrogating them’, or when (like last night) he’d told an unmarked police car to follow his daughter, Lisa home from a club. It was ironic, really. After this latest murder he should have asked the patrol to follow his son Robbie home instead. Either child would hit the roof, if they found out. Having a policeman father had never been easy. When Lisa complained he was over protective, he could only say, ‘I’m a man. I know how men think.’

  It was part of his job to climb into sick minds. If his family had been able to see what he was thinking half the time, Bill suspected they would have packed up and left him years ago.

  When he’d told Rhona MacLeod that he thought the latest victim was a regular rent boy, though higher class than usual, he’d been wrong. The boy wasn’t known in the Glasgow rent scene at all and it was beginning to look as if he couldn’t have been a runaway. If he had been on the game, it couldn’t have been for long.

  Just long enough to end up dead.

  Bill lifted the mug and took a mouthful of the cold liquid. Most people would have baulked at the taste, but he liked his coffee cold. He ran the sweet liquid round his mouth and stared at the photograph on his desk. Most photo shots taken in booths were done for a laugh. Two or three faces pressed together in a moment of hilarity, eyes reddened by the flash.

  This photograph wasn’t like that. As Bill lifted it from the table and cradled it in his hand he remembered the Sergeant’s comment on the likeness to Dr MacLeod.

  The boy had positioned himself carefully for the camera. He was smartly dressed in a buttoned up shirt with a small collar and a dark blue jacket. His thick and curly hair had refused to be tamed for the picture and it flopped over his eyes, making him look very vulnerable. And there was no mistaking it. The set of the jaw, the neat nose, those eyes. The resemblance to Rhona was inescapable.