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  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘We can’t go on skin tone alone, but judging by the length and breadth, I would estimate this torso to be older than the missing boy. The only way to be sure is for Dr MacLeod to confirm with DNA.’

  Bill refused to think of the victim as a torso. He was a boy. And he had decided to call him Abel. The name of Adam’s son, killed by his older brother, Cain. The first murder in the Hebrew Bible and the Qur’an.

  Bill didn’t know whether to be jubilant or distraught at the likelihood that it wasn’t Stephen. Odds were, after this amount of time, a missing child, especially one as young as Stephen, was dead. If Abel wasn’t Stephen, they had another dead child on their hands.

  11

  TWO HUNDRED CELLS. The equivalent of holding a pen for thirty seconds. That was all it took to generate a DNA profile.

  But samples collected at the crime scene had to be free from contamination. It didn’t matter how good the laboratory was, how good the DNA facilities were. If the samples were compromised or of poor quality, the evidence was suspect.

  She had used Carole’s blood to profile her DNA. For Abel it had to be tissue. If Carole was Abel’s mother then her DNA strands would show up in his.

  The comparison printout told Rhona what she wanted to see. Abel had genotype 3,2. He had inherited the two-type repeat on his chromosome from his father. His mother had gifted him three repeats in his chromosome pattern. But Carole Devlin didn’t have that pattern to give him. The torso they’d pulled from the Kelvin wasn’t Carole’s son.

  She had run the semen-produced DNA profile of the perpetrator through the NDNAD. The murderer wasn’t in the national database. She also had a DNA profile for Stephen with the help of some clothes from Carole’s flat and a toothbrush. That way she had ruled out the possibility that the man who killed Carole was Stephen’s natural father.

  So much information and yet still they knew nothing. Two women and a boy dead, another boy missing. The cross on the bodies of Carole and Abel suggested a common attacker, or at least a common theme to the attacks.

  Which led to the bones.

  Rhona pulled up a photo of the crossed bones onto her computer screen. She had passed the originals found in the garden to Judy Brown, the anthropologist at GUARD. Finding their origins wouldn’t be the problem. What they meant, if anything, in the context of the crime might prove more difficult.

  She drafted a short email to Sam and attached the photo. Maybe his Nigerian mother could throw some light on their significance.

  It was pitch-black outside. Time had rushed by unnoticed in a flurry of forensic activity. Day two of the enquiry at an end and they were nowhere nearer finding Stephen.

  When Rhona heard the door open, McNab was the last person she expected to see.

  He glanced up at the wall clock. ‘Thought you’d still be working.’

  He spoke as though he knew her intimately. The idea rattled her. She waited in silence for him to explain why he was here, conscious that her heart had upped its beat.

  ‘I wanted to know if the body was Stephen’s.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  He gave a relieved shrug, then looked ashamed. ‘That just means we have another dead kid.’

  Rhona tried to recall what it was about McNab that had made her invite him into her bed. Laughter was one of the reasons. When she was with him she laughed a lot, about work, the politics of the police force, life in general. Sex was hot, long lasting and satisfying. Being with him was like being on holiday, then the holiday ended and she came back to reality.

  The silence between them was growing more uneasy with every second. She wanted to break it, but didn’t know how. He looked increasingly uncomfortable and she felt bad because of it. That was the trouble with women. They always wanted to make people happy. You can’t make an old lover into a friend, particularly if you dumped him.

  He noticed the image of the bones on the computer screen and came forward for a better look. To step away would have looked silly. Rhona stayed where she was.

  A scent stays in the memory longer than any other sense. It can trigger flashbacks, where visual images would not. Victims of violent crime know that more than anyone. An attacker’s scent never goes away. It lies coiled in the subconscious, a snake waiting to strike. A rush of emotions swept through Rhona, sexual attraction followed closely by something resembling fear. For a split second she wondered if this was what abused women felt about the men who both loved and hurt them. Attraction and revulsion inextricably woven together.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  By the expression on his face, she had rattled McNab as much as he had her.

  ‘In need of a stiff drink and some food, that’s all.’

  It was the wrong answer. He would offer to take her for a drink and she would have to refuse. The professional veneer they were operating under would crack and they might have to talk about what was really going on.

  ‘I won’t offer to buy you one,’ he joked.

  He looked sorry and she suddenly realised he was trying to be normal with her. Trying harder than she was.

  ‘There’s no law against the CSM buying the Chief Forensic a drink.’

  This was how it had to be played. Easy. As though nothing had happened between them, nor ever would.

  A weight lifted off his shoulders and he smiled.

  ‘Okay . . . you’ve persuaded me.’

  They walked down University Avenue an arm’s length apart. The jazz club didn’t serve food, but Rhona chose to go there anyway. Eating with McNab was too friendly. A drink in a busy bar populated by colleagues felt safer.

  Sam wasn’t behind the bar or at the piano. His replacement answered her enquiry with a knowing look. ‘His night off. Meeting his girl.’

  Rhona was relieved Chrissy wasn’t there making eyes at her over McNab’s shoulder, nursing opinions to be served up later, cold and unpalatable. Only Sandra sat at the bar with her colleague Simon. They were en route to the Western Infirmary lecture theatre for their Tuesday night dose of forensic medicine. They were halfway through the nine-month course. Rhona had given the DNA lecture just after the Christmas break.

  ‘What is it tonight, then?’

  ‘Forensic Odontology,’ Sandra told her.

  ‘Paisley, the biting capital of the world.’

  ‘I take it it’s the same stories every year?’

  ‘They only repeat the good ones.’

  Rhona watched them leave, conscious now that she was alone with McNab. The barman had brought her usual glass of wine and McNab’s beer order. The barman’s brief enquiry about Sean was difficult to answer. Sean had sent only one text since he left for Dublin, to say he’d arrived safely and would call. Whatever was happening there wasn’t something he wanted to talk about and she had been too preoccupied to dwell on it. Sean’s family were his own affair. He’d volunteered nothing about them and she hadn’t forced the issue.

  ‘He’s not sure when he’ll be back.’ That was truthful enough.

  McNab waited for the barman to move away before he said, ‘There was a similar case in 2001. A black boy’s torso was pulled out of the Thames. D’you remember?’

  It had been high profile for a while, making the national newspapers. The investigating team had tracked the child via his bone mineral content to the Yoruba plateau in Nigeria. Despite extensive enquiries there, no mother had come forward to claim she’d lost a child. But there had been a connection to Glasgow. A Nigerian woman had been taken into custody and questioned. Nothing came of it, as far as Rhona knew.

  ‘Could be just a coincidence,’ she suggested.

  ‘Or another piece of the same jigsaw.’

  They discussed a recent newspaper article that had estimated there were at least three hundred thousand people living illegally in Britain, evading the immigration authorities for years. Many of them had kids now. During the ‘Adam’ enquiry in London, schools had reported black kids missing from their classrooms. Missing bec
ause their families moved on, or missing like Adam and Abel?

  ‘The DI’s in touch with the Met,’ McNab told her. ‘Maybe they can throw some light on our case.’

  Rhona’s glass was empty. McNab offered her a refill, but she declined. ‘I have to get home.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She slipped off the stool. ‘See you at the meeting tomorrow.’

  It was what any colleague would say.

  ‘See you.’

  She was conscious of his eyes on her back as she walked to the stairs. Outside she took a deep gulp of Glasgow air. It tasted sweet despite the fumes. The first meeting alone with McNab was over. The next, should it happen, would be easier, the one after easier still. But she wished Sean was at the flat waiting for her. She wanted to drown McNab’s scent in Sean’s.

  Rhona called in at the pasta shop and bought fresh pasta and tomato sauce. Mr Margiotta suggested a suitable bottle of red wine to go with it and she acquiesced. Sean was the wine connoisseur. Normally she didn’t have to choose.

  The meeting with McNab had disturbed her, bringing back uncomfortable memories. He had been one of the reasons she’d avoided forming another relationship.

  Sean had changed that. She wasn’t sure what love was, yet he had used that word before he left for Dublin. Part of her wished he hadn’t said it, knowing they had crossed a line.

  Despite the echoing emptiness of the flat, she felt relieved to be there. She locked and bolted the front door in a sudden need for security. In her first few moments in the hall without the soft miaowing of Chance, she made the momentous decision to replace him. She would search out a cat rescue home and find one as soon as possible. A flat without a cat wasn’t a home.

  She opened the wine to let it breathe and went to shower. The heavy drumming water left her breathless. She bent her head, letting the needles beat her shoulders, easing the tenseness that sent cramps up her neck. Had Sean been there, he would have noticed her raised shoulders and massaged them. His strong thumbs stroking the muscles into relaxation.

  From the kitchen window she contemplated the statue of the Virgin Mary in the convent garden behind. Forever serene, bathed in her spotlight.

  I am the way, the truth and the light, Jesus said.

  Religion wasn’t part of her life, but she understood what all detectives knew. A man who could rape and kill had invented an evil narrative for his life where empathy played no part. The more ferocious the assault, the greater the likelihood of a pre-existing relationship between the victim and their attacker. The viciousness of the assault on Carole Devlin suggested she knew her murderer.

  The physical evidence didn’t lie. That’s what she had been taught. But the way the criminal embraced the crime and the way he chose to commit it was also evidence. The murderer had left psychological traces, ambiguous and subtle, but important none the less.

  After eating she set up her laptop and located as much information as she could on the Metropolitan Police’s investigation into the death of the boy they’d called Adam. What was available online was confined to newspaper reports. Interesting but sketchy. She would have to rely on Bill to give the relevant aspects of the story tomorrow, at the next strategy meeting.

  The wine sent her to sleep in front of the gas fire, her dreams haunted by the vision of a child weeping in a dark cold place. The doorbell shattered the nightmare and she sat up startled, unsure where she was and what had woken her. The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. She stood up stupid with sleep and went to the door.

  ‘Rhona. It’s me. Take off the bolt.’ Sean’s voice was urgent.

  He stood with the small holdall beside him, his eyes smudged with fatigue, bristle darkening his chin.

  He gave her a relieved half smile. ‘Can I come in?’

  She stood to one side and let him pass.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have called, but there hasn’t been a minute.’

  ‘Your father . . .’ she began.

  He pushed the door shut and slid the bolt. The muscles on the back of his neck were bunched as though the action needed great effort. ‘Come here.’

  He pulled her to him, his mouth fastening on hers, his body crushed against her. He smelt of whisky and sweat.

  He groaned and a shudder passed through his body.

  She reached down and clasped him, urging him into action.

  His movements were swift and frantic as though he were fighting for his life. She met each thrust with her own, exorcising her own inner demons.

  Afterwards he mumbled an apology into her hair. ‘I was desperate.’

  She cradled his head in her hands and touched his lips lightly with her own. ‘So was I.’

  They looked down at the discarded clothes and laughed.

  ‘Come on.’

  He fetched the duvet and they sat cuddled beneath it in front of the fire. His skin glistened in the light. She licked a trickle of sweat that ran down the hollow in his chest.

  Later, in bed, he talked about his father’s death.

  ‘The funeral’s on Friday. I have to go back.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  He looked puzzled as though the thought had never occurred to him. ‘I don’t know. It would be hard for you. The family . . .’

  ‘Don’t know about me?’

  ‘Oh they know about you. It’s just they’d have you for breakfast along with the bacon and soda bread.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘The Irish are a breed apart,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that.’

  He acknowledged her attempt at humour.

  ‘Me mam’s heartbroken.’ He shook his head as if in disbelief.

  He had lapsed into colloquial Irish. Rhona liked the sound. It made his voice into a sort of music.

  ‘Da was an ole bastard. A drunk with a silver tongue and a fuck of a temper. Mam tied a string across the stairs once. Hoped he would fall and break his neck. The perfect murder.’

  She was shocked. ‘You’re joking?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was eight at the time. He was on one of his binges. I saw her do it. But she took it away before he came downstairs.’

  ‘God!’

  ‘God didn’t come into it, or else he would have tied the string across the stairs himself and given us all peace.’

  It was like a funny story someone would tell in a pub after a few drinks. Only it wasn’t really funny.

  Rhona examined the deep blue eyes. ‘You’re not like him.’

  ‘No I’m not. He fathered eight children and I have none.’

  There was a note of sadness in his voice. In the midst of pain he always cracked a joke. This time was no different.

  ‘But he and I have the same sex drive.’

  Rhona lay close, her arm about him, breathing him in as he dropped into a deep sleep, McNab’s scent gone from her memory.

  12

  THE WATER BEAT his face in steady drips. Stephen opened his mouth and let it dribble over his parched tongue. The oily taste met the back of his throat and he gagged, rolling sideways, coughing and spluttering. Some sick came up and he spat it out.

  This is what it’s like to be buried alive.

  The thought frightened him so much his bladder released and pee ran hot through his shorts and down his leg.

  The sharp smell of it made him think of his gran. She didn’t cry when she had an accident. He wasn’t going to either. He closed his eyes tightly and the tears ran outwards, into his hair. He imagined Gran winking at him and popping a raspberry jelly baby in his mouth. ‘Go on, then. Give us a song. That one I like.’

  Stephen began in a small piping voice like a bird’s.

  One more step along the world I go,

  One more step along the world I go,

  From the old things to the new

  Keep me travelling along with you . . .

  He faltered at the sound of footsteps in the tunnel. His body began to shake uncontrollably.

>   Someone was coming.

  Day 3

  Wednesday

  13

  SEAN WAS STILL in the deep sleep of the previous night. In the morning light the bruised patches under his eyes were more obvious, as was the smell of whisky. He’d been drinking whisky in an almost continuous flow since he’d left. ‘It makes talking easier,’ he’d said. ‘Everyone talks about a death in Ireland. Too much and too often.’

  She made some strong coffee and drank it while she dressed. Day three of the investigation. Stephen had been missing for thirty-six hours. Time was crucial in a missing child case. Twelve hours was the magic number and they were well past that. Yet she carried on believing that he was still alive. Gut feeling or misguided hope? Rhona couldn’t tell which.

  The lab was empty and silent. Too early even for Chrissy. If she worked quickly there was a chance she would have something on the shorts found on the torso for the strategy meeting at ten o’clock.

  The shorts were dark blue with what looked like a foreign label, partially cut off. They had dried in dirty smears from their time in the river and on the muddy bank. She spread them out on the counter. Using a magnifying glass she went over every square centimetre of material, locating stains that proved to be blood, urine, faeces and semen.

  She set aside a sample of each of these for testing then looked more closely at the back of the shorts. The material was smudged with ground-in dirt. She removed a small portion of material and examined it under the microscope. The particles looked like a mix of mineral and organic. Unless the mix was unique it would be of little help unless they could match it to similar material on a suspect. And they didn’t have a suspect.

  Now she carefully turned the pockets inside out and concentrated on the seams. Even submerged in water, something might remain lodged there. Her heart quickened as she distinguished what looked like plant hairs or trichomes. She removed them and slid them under the microscope. There were two types of trichomes, fine and coarse. What plant did they belong to?