Easy Kill Read online

  Magnus let his hands drop by his side and waited for the pulse that beat rapidly in the hollow of his neck to slow. Gradually the world of scent receded and his other senses reasserted themselves. Somewhere in the nearby undergrowth, a female blackbird sang, rich and fluting. Magnus felt a sudden and overwhelming sadness, as he contrasted her simple song of life with the violent death that had occurred nearby.

  He spent another hour investigating the surrounding paths, worrying the police officer left to guard the site, with his constant toing and froing. As the summer light began to fade, the Necropolis became a place of shadows, night sounds and scents, just as it had been when the murderer had struck. Before Magnus left, he told the incredulous duty officer he would return around two o’clock in the morning.

  The evening commuter rush was still at its peak when Magnus left the City of the Dead. Weaving through the stationary traffic on his bike brought a chorus of irritated horns, which he ignored. Checking his watch, he found he had half an hour before he was due at the jazz club, so he made for the designated red-light area. As he explored the network of streets, Magnus considered why he’d asked to speak further with Dr MacLeod. It hadn’t been a sudden decision. His observation of her in the strategy meeting had prompted it. As a physicist, he understood her confidence in her science, but he’d also observed how her use of science was married to an intuitive nature. And intuition, as far as Magnus was concerned, was simply psychology in action.

  Descending the steps of the jazz club, Magnus was met by the hum of voices. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he saw an open space in front of a small stage, circled by clusters of tables and chairs. Most of the current occupants were gathered at the bar. Magnus searched the heads and spotted Rhona sitting on a stool next to her assistant, Chrissy. Magnus stood for a moment, observing their interaction, before making his way across. He’d sensed an underlying tension between them, and wanted to avoid a repeat of the awkward moment he’d generated in the lab.

  He wasn’t surprised when Rhona sensed his approach, despite having her back towards him. She turned and gave him a cautious smile.

  ‘Professor Pirie.’

  ‘Magnus,’ he urged.

  ‘Magnus,’ she repeated. ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘It’s my call. After all, I asked to talk to you.’

  ‘Okay,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll have a glass of white wine.’

  Magnus turned to Chrissy, who shook her head. ‘I’m off home.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to drive you away.’

  ‘You haven’t.’ Chrissy slid off the stool. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said to Rhona.

  When the drinks arrived, Magnus asked for a cognac glass, tipped his whisky into it, then handed it to Rhona.

  ‘Tell me what you smell.’

  ‘Is this another of your tests?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  Rhona obliged him with a sniff, then shrugged her shoulders. ‘I smell whisky.’

  ‘This time swirl the liquid around the glass, then move it slowly from right to left under your nose.’

  Rhona threw him a glance suggesting there was a limit to her humouring him, then did as he asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

  ‘Now what do you smell?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Peat and,’ she paused, ‘heather?’

  Magnus grinned. ‘Very good. The peat on Orkney is quite unique. It has very little wood content. Because of the wind, the heather is deep-rooted and resilient. Highland Park aromas reflect where it was made. You have a good nose.’

  Rhona didn’t look convinced. ‘It was a calculated guess.’

  ‘But you did smell those things?’

  Rhona conceded. She was softening, meeting his smile with one of her own.

  ‘That scent on the bra. Did you find out what it was?’

  Rhona shook her head. ‘Not yet. But I did identify the knot he used.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was a slipknot, also known as a simple noose. Very effective and you don’t have to be an expert to tie it.’

  ‘What about the other corpse?’

  ‘The same.’

  Magnus reached down and loosened the lace on his right shoe.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Let’s see who knows how to tie a slipknot.’

  The barman came over to ask if they needed a refill. Magnus handed him the shoelace.

  ‘Tie me a slipknot.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Magnus had proved his point. Out of ten selected people, only one could tie a slipknot.

  ‘Okay,’ Rhona said. ‘Not everyone can tie a slipknot.’

  ‘Could you tell if he was right-or left-handed?’

  ‘You can’t necessarily tell, but the chirality, the usual direction of movement, is generally consistent.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘If I was asked to put a bet on it, I would say the man who tied the knot was left-handed.’

  ‘So a left-handed former cub scout with a distinctive if unrecognisable smell?’

  He had succeeded in making her laugh. It wasn’t something he was in the habit of trying with women. Magnus felt a stirring in his groin and turned towards the bar and his whisky. Flirting with the chief forensic on the case wasn’t wise, but the heightening of all his senses through sexual desire could prove useful.

  An Irish male voice caused him to turn. A dark-haired man stood next to Rhona, his hand resting on the nape of her neck in an intimate manner.

  ‘Sean, this is Professor Magnus Pirie. He’s working on the Necropolis case as an investigative psychologist.’

  Magnus took the offered hand. Sean’s eyes were a keen blue with a smile lurking at the corners. Magnus realised immediately that this was Rhona’s lover, and he envied him a little for that. If this showed on his face, Sean didn’t react.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Sean turned back to Rhona. ‘I’m on at ten. Fancy something to eat first?’

  Magnus realised that good manners might result in Rhona asking him to join them, so he got in before she could answer.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you. I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting.’

  Magnus looked back from the doorway to watch Sean tip Rhona’s chin up and kiss her. The image stimulated the memory of her scent. Not the subtle perfume she wore, but the underlying fragrance of her skin.

  11

  ‘TERRI SAID SHE would come.’

  ‘Might come,’ Nora’s husband reminded her.

  Nora lifted the teapot and topped up her mug to avoid replying. David’s face had assumed a closed look again. Heartbreak did that to you. Sometimes Nora wondered how she and David operated at all, with joy and happiness such a thing of the past.

  She took a mouthful of tea, a functional movement like all the others that made up her day. Reasons to be busy. Too busy to think. Nora pressed a finger to her right temple. Her head was thick from drinking too much wine the previous evening. It had started out with a couple of glasses with dinner. David had had a beer, which had put Nora in dangerous territory. When he’d gone out after the meal, Nora had lingered downstairs, waiting for the phone to ring. By ten she’d drunk the remainder of the bottle. She should have gone upstairs then, but instead of making her drowsy, the alcohol had put her on high alert. She’d found herself focusing on the creak of the wind in the trees outside. She hadn’t wanted to give up on the night. Give up hope that Terri would call or turn up on the doorstep, like she’d done on previous occasions.

  When the phone had finally rung, the sudden noise was like a knife in her aching head. Nora had snatched the receiver from its cradle and, seeing the caller ID, had expected Terri’s voice. But there had been no voice, just a constant swish, like tyres through puddles. Then a thump, then nothing. Nora had immediately dialled Terri’s number, but it rang and rang with no answer. Nora hung up, worried and frustrated.

  She’d told David the story over breakfast. He’d listened patiently enough, then said it w
as time she gave up the pretence that Terri was a normal daughter.

  ‘Terri doesn’t know what the truth is. Not since she became an addict.’

  ‘She’s still Terri underneath,’ Nora had insisted.

  At that point, David’s lips had thinned to an angry line and Nora had known to hold her tongue.

  Nora threw her husband a surreptitious look. Sometimes she thought David suffered more than she did. His silence was the silence of the walking dead. He went through the motions of being alive, but in reality he had died when Terri walked out the door, after their last of many attempts to help her get off drugs. Nora, on the other hand, still clung to hope like a life raft; a phone call once a month, if she was lucky, her daughter’s voice a moment’s oasis in the desert that had become Nora’s life.

  Nora waited until David left for his job at the Marina, then called Terri’s number again. When the result was the same as before, she phoned the provider’s helpline. Despite the man’s professional tone, Nora got the impression he wasn’t interested in teenage daughters who didn’t call home.

  ‘But it was her number. There was a strange background sound, then it went dead,’ Nora explained.

  ‘That can happen if the call button is pressed by accident. The caller doesn’t realise the call is being made.’

  His explanation didn’t satisfy Nora. Her state of high alert stayed with her all morning. She went through the chores like a zombie, her mind churning. In their last conversation, Terri had told Nora she was coming off heroin, this time for good. Nora had heard it all before, but there was something in Terri’s voice that had fed her hope. She’d never told David about that conversation. She hadn’t wanted to see the despair and anger in his eyes, so she’d kept the words to herself, playing them over and over in her head, like a mantra.

  At ten o’clock Nora turned on the radio and listened to the Scottish news. The headline about the body of a young woman found dead in a Glasgow graveyard sent her running to the phone. The hotline number given for the public response was busy and Nora was put on hold for five minutes. By the time someone answered, Nora was so frightened she could hardly speak.

  ‘My daughter’s missing. She was supposed to call last night.’

  A voice asked for her daughter’s name and address.

  ‘Terri Docherty.’ Nora’s face flushed with shame. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know her current address.’

  ‘Terri Docherty?’ the voice repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a moment’s silence, then the voice said, ‘Mrs Docherty, I’m going to transfer you to someone who will take details.’

  Nora went cold. ‘Please God no,’ she whispered to herself.

  ‘I’m passing you over to a police officer now.’

  Nora sank to her knees, still grasping the phone. A man’s voice came on the line.

  ‘Mrs Docherty, this is DS McNab. Tell me about your daughter.’

  Two uniformed officers arrived at midday. Nora was in the garden, staring up at the tree house. Terri had spent all her time up there, after her brother died. Separated by only ten months, Philip and Terri had been like twins, although Philip had always led and Terri had followed. Philip’s death aged sixteen, from a brain haemorrhage had been like an explosion at the heart of their family, its shock waves weakening the foundations that held them together. The doctor had told them to let their daughter deal with her grief in her own way. Terri’s way had been to shut out both her parents, as though the anguish were all her own.

  The two officers accepted Nora’s offer of tea, and she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She wondered how many teas or coffees they were subjected to in any given day and if they merely drank them out of kindness. Nora’s hand trembled as she poured boiling water into the teapot and set mugs, milk and sugar on a tray. Through the open door to the sitting room, her visitors sat awkwardly at either end of the sofa, like a couple who weren’t on speaking terms.

  They waited in silence while Nora went through the ritual of dispensing the tea. The man, who introduced himself as PC Connachie, accepted her offer of a chocolate biscuit. It was the woman, PC Ferguson, who spoke first.

  ‘DS McNab explained that the body found has been identified and it isn’t Terri?’

  Nora nodded.

  ‘We’re here because someone else reported a Terri Docherty missing.’

  Nora’s hand gave an involuntary jerk, spilling drops of hot tea in her lap. She brushed them off and set the mug on the tray. She pondered for a brief moment, whether it might have been David who called the police, then dismissed the idea.

  ‘Do you know a Leanne Quinn?’

  Nora repeated the name. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  The officer passed Nora a copy of a photograph. It had been scanned, then printed out. The colours were vibrant, almost too bright.

  ‘Is this your daughter?’

  Nora stared down at the image of Terri, taken before cheekbones had become the defining feature of her face.

  ‘She doesn’t look like that any more.’ Nora swallowed hard. She rose and fetched a small photo from a nearby desk drawer and handed it to the female PC. ‘My daughter is a heroin addict. This is what she looks like now.’ Nora watched as the constable masked her shock at the contrast between the two images.

  ‘The drug eats them up,’ Nora said quietly.

  ‘When did you last hear from Terri?’ the man asked.

  ‘Nearly a month ago. She said she would be home this weekend.’ Nora explained about the strange phone call.

  ‘A handbag was found this morning on the Kingston Bridge,’ the man said. ‘It had a mobile in it that had been damaged. Leanne Quinn identified the bag as Terri’s.’

  Nora’s hand rose involuntarily to her throat. ‘Oh dear God.’

  They waited until she had control of herself.

  ‘We’re concerned for your daughter’s welfare. We suspect she may have got into a client’s car …’

  ‘A client?’ Nora interrupted him. She watched them exchange glances. ‘Terri was on benefit, and I put three hundred pounds in her account every month to make sure she had enough.’

  It would never have been enough. Not to pay for drugs. Nora had known that all along, though she’d never admitted it, even to herself.

  PC Connachie cleared his throat. ‘According to Leanne Quinn, she and Terri were working as prostitutes.’

  When the officers left, Nora went quickly to the drinks cabinet and poured a large vodka. She swallowed it down before she could change her mind. She didn’t want to get drunk, she just wanted to force her heart to keep beating.

  Prostitute. She couldn’t say the word. Dark images of men jerking against her daughter’s thin, wasted body filled her head.

  ‘My baby. My baby,’ she muttered.

  The vodka hit her stomach and came back up minutes later. Nora barely made it to the kitchen, launching herself at the sink, as the regurgitated alcohol burned its way back up her throat.

  When she felt steadier, she went outside and walked purposefully to the tree house. At the foot of the steps was a bench where you could rest against the trunk. Nora leaned back and clasped her hands to stop them shaking. The most important thing was that Terri was still alive. She had to believe that. The police were worried for Terri’s safety and were looking for her. A photo would be on tonight’s news.

  It was such a small and fragile hope to cling to.

  Nora thought of David. How would he deal with his daughter’s face broadcast to the nation, the details of her heroin addiction exposed? Worst of all, how could David cope with the knowledge that his daughter was a prostitute?

  12

  THE HANDBAG WAS a designer copy. Something you could buy from a stall at the Glasgow Barras for a couple of pounds, made by some poor soul in China for starvation wages. Inside was a wallet, with sixty pounds in four tenners and a twenty note, and about two quid in change. The various side pouches contained a few receipts, mainly for food, a c
ouple of Tesco vouchers, and a snapshot of Leanne Quinn and Terri Docherty, faces squashed together in a photo booth. There was also a picture of a small brown dog, looking inquisitively up at the camera, which looked as though it had been cut from a magazine.

  The mobile phone had been almost completely crushed by the car, which had marked the bag with muddy tyre tracks. It had been given to the Tech department to extract Terri’s address book. Bill scanned the subsequent list. Leanne was there and Terri’s mum. The rest were men’s names, most of them probably nicknames to protect the ‘innocent’.

  Glasgow men were estimated to spend around 6 million a year on prostitution. More graduates bought sex than those who hadn’t had the advantage of a university education. Bill had read all the statistics. None of which made it easier to understand. He had a daughter, the same age as Lucie Webster. The same age as the missing girl. Bill was sickened by a sudden image of his daughter Lisa, lying on the cold earth, her bra tight around her neck, her body punctured and raped by the heel of her shoe. It made his blood run cold.

  ‘Sir?’ DC Clark brought him back to the moment. ‘Leanne Quinn’s here.’

  Leanne scanned the list. As she turned the page, her hand trembled.

  ‘We didn’t talk about the punters much. I don’t know everyone on this.’

  ‘What about Wednesday nights? Did Terri have regulars then?’

  ‘An old guy. He smelt of piss. He called her Marie. Terri said it was his dead wife’s name. She felt sorry for him.’

  ‘What was he called?’

  Leanne pointed halfway down. ‘Geordie.’

  Bill put a cross beside it. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Cee Dee. He has a stall at the Barras. Gives us free CDs and DVDs. Every Wednesday night.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘There was a guy every other week. Terri was really upset the first time he showed up.’

  ‘Why?’