Final Cut Page 5

  She’d caught the smell first, rancid and nauseating, then, on moving closer, watched as a buzzing cloud of flies had risen at her approach to settle again moments later on what looked like the corpse of a cat. Repulsed and fascinated at the same time, Rhona had stepped nearer. The greyish body had been indented with the force of their stones. Scattered tufts of fur had lain strewn around in the blackened remains of its blood. Then Rhona had noticed that the dead cat was actually heaving with life. Squirming mounds of maggots had been feeding in the open wounds, exposing the underlying skeleton.

  So this is what a cat is below the fur, she’d thought. This is what we are, too. Bone and flesh covered with skin.

  She’d gone back every day, observing the various stages of decomposition until there was nothing left but a whitened skeleton. It was then she’d spotted the ligature. The thin wire had been wound so tightly that the noose was half the circumference of the neck. The cat hadn’t been run over and thrown there from the road. Someone had deliberately strangled it.

  Now Rhona looked down at the small skeleton slowly taking form under her hands. Establishing how the cat had been killed had been easy. Establishing who this child was and how he or she had died would be far more difficult.

  There were many gender differences between male and female skeletons. The clearest indicators were found in the pelvis and the skull. In females the pelvis was flatter and more rounded, proportionally larger to allow a baby’s head to pass through. Women usually had narrower ribcages, smaller teeth, less angular mandibles. Their brow ridges were less pronounced, their chins less square and the small bump at the back of the skull less prominent.

  All of this helped identify gender, but only when dealing with an adolescent or adult skeleton. Bone morphology couldn’t sex this age group either. The truth was, she had no idea whether the dead child was a girl or a boy.

  If she had been asked to hazard a guess, she would have said female. There were two reasons: first, she had come across no evidence of clothing and suspected the body had been naked when dumped, suggesting a sexual motive; and second, statistically speaking, more little girls were abducted, assaulted and murdered than boys.

  Rhona wrote up her report, seated next to the remains. Her work with the skeleton was over. A forensic anthropologist would need to examine it as an expert witness. Rhona’s next task was to carefully examine the wood mulch and soil to try to establish how long the child’s body had lain in its woodland grave.

  10

  The woman was attempting to give him detailed instructions on how to find Fern Cottage but McNab’s pounding head, the result of too many whiskies the previous evening, was refusing to take it all in.

  He cut her short. ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘OK,’ she said dubiously. ‘If you get lost, give me a call.’

  McNab managed the road south out of Glasgow no problem. It was when he entered the wilderness (as he thought of it) that it threatened to go pear shaped.

  How many roads can a man walk down, before he admits he’s lost? When he and Rhona had been together she’d liked to tease him about his reluctance to ask for directions. McNab briefly lingered on the memory of that time before reminding himself that he’d ceased to obsess about Dr MacLeod. Even as he silently repeated this mantra, McNab knew the empty whisky bottle from the previous night was evidence to the contrary.

  The car crested yet another hill and McNab looked out on more white fields dotted with desultory sheep grazing on turnips. He decided he’d rather live in Glasgow any day. At least there you only had to worry about getting lost in the one-way system.

  Five minutes later he reluctantly reached for his mobile. The number rang for a few moments before she answered.

  ‘Tell me what you’re looking at.’

  ‘White fields and sheep.’

  ‘You’ll have to be more precise. Imagine you’re at a crime scene.’

  ‘You mean where one sheep murdered another over a turnip?’

  She laughed. It was a nice sound.

  ‘Can you see any windmills?’

  He examined the skyline and spotted a blade due east. He told her so.

  ‘OK, you need to turn round and come back for about a mile. You’ll see a narrow entrance on your left. There’s no sign, but if you’re in the right place you should look back and see two turbines on the brow of the hill.’

  They were the same directions he hadn’t listened to earlier.

  ‘The cottage is half a mile down that track. It has a blue door and the fire’s on, so there will be smoke from the chimney.’

  He came on it minutes later. Even to McNab’s jaundiced eye, the setting looked beautiful.

  Mrs Watson was at the door as he drew up.

  ‘You found us, then?’ she said as he climbed out of the car.

  ‘No problem.’ He grinned ruefully.

  There was a squeal of pleasure as Emma came clattering down the narrow staircase behind her mother.

  ‘Michael!’ She grabbed his hand. ‘I’ve something to show you.’

  ‘I think Detective Sergeant McNab needs a coffee first.’ Mrs Watson looked to him for confirmation.

  McNab suspected she’d observed the evidence of his hangover and felt slightly uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ll wait for you in my room,’ Emma told him firmly, before heading back upstairs.

  Her mother led him along a narrow hall and into a small sitting room, where a wood fire burned and a real Christmas tree stood in the corner.

  ‘It’s nice out here,’ he admitted grudgingly.

  ‘We like it.’

  ‘You used to live in Glasgow?’

  ‘The accent’s a giveaway?’

  ‘You can take the girl out of Glasgow …’

  ‘We used to live in the West End. I take it country life doesn’t appeal?’

  ‘No one to arrest. I’d have to retire.’

  She disappeared into a small kitchen off the sitting room. McNab caught glimpses of her as she moved about; filling a kettle, switching it on. He saw her lay out mugs, sugar and milk on a tray. While he waited, he wondered why he was here.

  The child had sent him an email. He hadn’t picked it up right away, because he was spending so much time at the deposition site. In the email, Emma had stated she thought there were two bodies because she could hear two voices. McNab suspected this was nonsense, particularly since Rhona had found the wind harp, but although it didn’t follow protocol, he felt he had to talk to the kid about it. She had taken a shine to him, that much was obvious, and useful under the circumstances.

  There was another reason, of course. Everyone knew he’d messed up on the Gravedigger case. Anything he did on this one had to be an improvement. The girl was a little strange, but he was afraid of missing something vital if he didn’t go the extra mile and question her about what she professed to know.

  Mrs Watson reappeared and laid the tray down on a coffee table. She was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, her long brown hair caught up in a clip. She looked pretty and much more relaxed than when they’d first met. She handed him his coffee.

  ‘I never got the chance to thank you properly for finding my daughter.’

  McNab decided it would be churlish to argue, even though it was the dogs which had found her.

  ‘Emma talks about you a lot. About wanting to help you find the … other one.’ She couldn’t disguise the mixture of worry and embarrassment on her face.

  ‘It’s OK,’ McNab reassured her. ‘I told you to contact me if Emma remembered anything else about that night.’

  ‘I keep hoping it will stop, this obsession.’

  ‘Maybe if I talk to her, it will.’

  She didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Mrs Watson …’

  ‘I’m not married, DS McNab,’ she snapped. ‘Please call me Claire.’

  McNab had clearly touched a sore spot. ‘OK, Claire, but only if you call me Michael.’

  She nodded, relaxing a little.


  ‘So, can I talk to Emma now?’

  The girl was sitting cross-legged on her bed. The room was in shadow, the weak winter sunlight barely lifting it out of darkness.

  Claire switched on the light, breaking Emma’s trance-like state. She looked round at them.

  ‘Hi, Emma.’

  Her solemn face broke into a smile and she bounced off the bed.

  ‘Michael. Have you found him yet?’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘The other one.’

  ‘I came to talk to you about that.’

  She glanced at her mother, then back at him. McNab wondered how much the girl was aware of Claire’s fear.

  ‘Why don’t we take a walk in the snow?’ He surprised himself with the suggestion, but he suddenly wanted to talk to the child on her own. ‘Is that OK?’

  Claire looked puzzled but nodded her agreement.

  Downstairs, Emma chatted animatedly as she pulled on a hooded coat and wellington boots. Her mother handed her a pair of mittens.

  Outside it was cold and crisp, the sky a pale blue. Emma led McNab to a stile leading into a snowy field. He thought briefly of his city shoes before following. They crunched through the snow in companionable silence.

  She led him to the bank of a river, where they spent ten minutes throwing stones at the frozen eddies on the far side. Emma wasn’t a bad shot for a nine-year-old girl. McNab told her so.

  ‘Nick taught me how to throw stones.’

  He was momentarily nonplussed. The girl had to have a father, but since Claire had said she wasn’t married McNab had assumed there was no man in the picture.

  ‘Your dad? I bet he was worried when he heard about the crash.’

  ‘Nick isn’t my dad.’

  McNab decided not to enter the minefield of single-parent relationships. He broached the subject of the skull instead.

  ‘It looks like there was only one body hidden beneath the brushwood, Emma.’ He did his best to sound certain.

  She picked up another stone and threw it. It bounced on the thicker ice and plopped into the water.

  McNab carried on. ‘We found a wind harp in a nearby tree. It makes a sort of music when the wind blows. I expect that’s what you heard that night.’

  The child’s face was impassive.

  ‘I think you should try and forget what happened. Look forward to Christmas.’

  She turned and gave him a searching look. ‘Then why can I still hear his voice?’

  He was beginning to feel out of his depth. If the kid was hearing voices she should be talking to a psychologist, not a detective.

  ‘When something frightening happens, it can make you imagine things.’ It sounded like something his own mother would have said to him. Something he wouldn’t have believed.

  ‘I’ve asked him to tell me where he is, but he won’t.’

  McNab examined her small, pinched face. Jesus, no wonder Claire was so concerned.

  ‘Mum doesn’t believe me. I thought you would.’ Emma looked sad. ‘I want to go home now.’

  Claire must have been watching for them, because the door opened as they approached. She looked enquiringly at him.

  ‘We went to the river and threw some stones. Emma was very good at it.’

  ‘I’m going upstairs, Mum.’ Emma had already discarded her coat and boots.

  ‘OK, I’ll call you when lunch is ready.’

  McNab waited until the child had disappeared before he spoke.

  ‘I told her about the wind harp, and that there’s only one body.’

  ‘She didn’t believe you, did she?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Shock does strange things to people. Give it a few more days. Let her keep writing to me, if it helps. I think Christmas will soon take over.’ He hoped he was right.

  On the return journey, he pondered the relationship between Claire and her daughter. It reminded him of his own childhood. Brought up by his mother, he had never known his father. He’d been born illegitimate, back when it had mattered. He’d been ashamed. Hid the fact by telling tall tales of his soldier father, always away on duty. He’d cut a photograph of a soldier from a magazine, a young man with dark auburn hair like his own. He was handsome and smiling, the dad McNab wanted. For a while he’d believed him to be real, and the soldier’s imagined bravery had made him brave. Brave enough to face the bullies and their taunts.

  The discovery of the skull had made Emma the centre of attention. Maybe she didn’t want that to end.

  11

  DI Lane of the Complaints and Discipline Department didn’t like the job he’d been given, and McNab didn’t blame him. A complaint against a senior officer was a serious matter, especially when it was scum like Henderson who had made it.

  Lane laid out the photographs of Henderson’s injuries, taken by the duty officer that fateful morning when McNab and DI Wilson had confronted Henderson in the interview room.

  Looking at a photo of the man’s bruised balls made McNab wish he’d kicked him even harder. If he’d had a knife in his hand when the bastard had talked filth about Bill’s daughter, McNab would have sliced them off.

  ‘I kicked him under the table.’

  ‘That’s not what DI Wilson says. He says he pulled rank on you to interview Henderson after he’d been ordered by Superintendent Sutherland not to do so. When Henderson bad-mouthed his daughter, he lost his temper and attacked him.’

  ‘That’s not the way I remember it.’

  DI Lane shuffled the photos together and put them back in the folder. If a criminal assault had occurred, then the case would have to go before the Procurator Fiscal. It would be the Fiscal who would decide whether the case should go on to the Sheriff Court. If the DCS decided it was a breakdown in procedure rather than assault, it would go down the police disciplinary route. McNab was well aware DI Wilson was trying to protect him from the fallout of their interview with Henderson, but he wouldn’t let his boss take the blame for what he’d done in that room. Given the opportunity, he would do it again.

  ‘What does Henderson say?’

  ‘He says DI Wilson kicked him.’

  ‘The bastard!’ Anger darkened McNab’s face. ‘He knows it was me. He’s just trying to get at the DI. Christ, the guy sexually assaulted Bill’s daughter.’

  Lane frowned sympathetically.

  McNab got himself under control. Surely if he stuck to his story they couldn’t prosecute the DI? ‘So where do we go from here?’

  Lane was already on his feet. ‘I pass everything to the DCS and he decides.’ This was Lane’s get-out clause. He carried out the investigation, but he didn’t have to make the final decision.

  ‘How long?’ McNab was already thinking about going directly to the super to give his version of events.

  Lane shrugged, indicating that he had no idea.

  ‘You realise Henderson’s trying to stitch the boss up?’

  Lane didn’t respond.

  ‘I kicked the bastard and would do it again if I had the chance. You can tell the DCS I said that.’

  McNab thought frantically that it didn’t matter what he said. It didn’t matter that he was the one telling the truth. The fact that Henderson backed up DI Wilson’s version of events meant that his boss would pay the price for McNab’s anger. As though he hadn’t paid enough already.

  When he emerged from the room, Clark was waiting for him. She read his expression and gave him a compassionate look.

  ‘The strategy meeting’s just started. The boss said to go in.’

  Rhona paused in her delivery to allow McNab and DC Clark to take their seats at the back. McNab didn’t look happy. Bill had picked up on it too. The two men exchanged glances before Bill indicated that Rhona should continue.

  They were tackling the cold case first. On the screen was the video footage of the deposition site. Rhona explained how the various levels of decomposing wood had been removed and a child’s skeleton located.

  ‘It’s not possible to tell the sex of the skelet
on, but I can say that it is a child and that there is only one. If I was to hazard a guess, I would advise looking for minors who disappeared around ten years ago, but I hope to be more exact once I’ve studied the material in detail.’

  After confirming that the remains had been sent to a forensic anthropologist for study and digital facial reconstruction, Rhona handed over to McNab to give his version of events.

  He repeated the story of a young girl going missing from a car crash and the dogs locating her unhurt in the nearby woods. The fact that she’d been found sitting under a tree, nursing a human skull. The story had been circulating in the office, but this was the first time most of the team had heard it in its entirety.

  ‘She found the skull on the ground?’ Bill asked.

  McNab shook his head. ‘She says she took it from beneath the brushwood Dr MacLeod spoke about.’

  ‘How did she know it was there?’

  ‘She says she heard it calling to her.’ McNab paused as disbelieving murmurs broke out. A stern look from Bill resulted in quiet, allowing him to continue.

  ‘She was quite adamant about that, sir. She said the sound led her there. Dr MacLeod later pointed out that a construction in a nearby tree, called a wind harp, may have produced the noise the girl heard.’

  Bill digested this. ‘We’re in contact with the girl’s family?’

  ‘I visited Emma this morning at the request of the mother, Claire. The child is showing signs of distress since the event. She claims she can hear the voice of another victim. A boy. But she doesn’t know where he’s buried.’

  The murmurs grew louder. Bill called for silence.

  ‘OK, I want as much background as you can find on the Watson family. If the kid comes up with anything else, I want to know about it. It’s pretty unorthodox, but it’s all we’ve got.’