The Reborn (3 page)

Rhona didn’t ask for details. She would see for herself soon enough. She made her way over to a black tent fronted by a ticket booth, where a curtain had been pulled back to allow entry. The place smelt of diesel from the generators and damp, trodden grass. A narrow corridor lit by an orange light led to a second curtain, also tied back.

The first image that greeted her inside was herself, kitted out in a boiler suit, resembling a white balloon. The ludicrous reflection was more disquieting than amusing.

Blazing arc lights and metal treads set out on the wooden flooring led her towards the rear of the tented structure. The route was indirect and she had to pass various distorted images of herself before eventually being confronted by a likeness of Dr Sissons, his height diminished, his lower half so squat that his torso was only inches from the floor.

‘Disturbing, isn’t it?’

She wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the crime scene or his counterpart in the mirror. He stepped aside to give her a full view.

The victim was lying on her back, a loose dress drawn above her waist to expose her stomach, or what was left of it. Beside the body lay the whitish coil of an umbilical cord still attached to the plump reddish mass of a placenta. Rhona was still processing the implications of this when Sissons confirmed it.

‘Her assailant cut out a foetus.’

Rhona was shocked. She was used to scenes of violent death, but that didn’t mean she was immune to them. Most Glasgow killings were the result either of drunken violence or turf wars. Rogue males attacking other rogue males with results that filled accident and emergency departments with hideous regularity, giving surgeons plenty of practice in sewing together the victims of Glasgow’s knife culture.

But she had never seen a knife wielded in such a way before.

She scanned the floor of the tent, but Sissons shook his head. ‘Whoever did this took it with them.’

‘Was it mature enough to be viable?’

‘Judging by the size of the placenta, I’d say yes.’

Rhona breathed deeply and tried to distance herself from the horror of the scene. There was nothing she could do for the victim now apart from carry out her job properly.

‘Did the removal of the baby kill her?’

‘I don’t see any other wounds. She probably bled out.’ He indicated a small white mask that lay next to the head. ‘Looks like she was knocked out with something first. Smells like stain remover.’

‘Chloroform?’

‘Probably.’

‘I don’t recall any foetal thefts being recorded in the UK, only in the USA.’

‘Given time, what happens there happens here.’

Sissons’s job was to certify death, so he was ready to leave. ‘The PF’s been, so you’ve got the place to yourself.’

Under Scots law, the Procurator Fiscal determined whether the death was suspicious. Here, his presence would have been a formality. You couldn’t die accidentally from a forced Caesarean section.

Sissons said goodbye and left her to her own devices. His clipped voice and hankering after a gong often irritated Rhona, but she had to admit he was a consummate professional.

She would attend the post-mortem, as would the DI in charge of the case, together with a second pathologist for corroboration – a requirement where a death was deemed suspicious.

Scots law was big on corroboration. The boys on the beat were always moaning about it. There had to be two of you before lifting and charging a suspect, so – unlike in England – you had no chance of pulling someone in, however guilty, if you were on your own.

She wondered who the officer in charge on the ground might be. Most likely it would be Bill’s replacement, DI Geoffrey Slater; McNab’s nemesis, he was still hanging around like a bad smell.

Still, that was not her main consideration at the moment. She wasn’t planning to disturb anything but it would be better if the loci had been fully recorded before she set to work. As if on cue she heard footsteps and Roy Hunter’s multiple reflections appeared in advance of the man himself. He answered her unspoken question.

‘We’ve taken photos and a spherical recording already, so no worries there.’

‘That was fast.’

‘We aim to please, especially when the investigating officer is DI Slater.’

They exchanged a meaningful look.

‘Is he planning to open up the back of the tent?’

Once she had taken samples from the body and its immediate surroundings, it would be useful to have clear access from the back for the other SOCOs.

‘When you’re finished.’

‘Who discovered her?’

‘The boyfriend, apparently. He says she went to buy candyfloss and never reappeared, so he went looking for her. When he discovered she’d bought a ticket for the mirrors he came in to check if she was still in here. He found her shoe first.’

‘Where?’

‘In the next aisle.’

Rhona imagined the boy’s concern when he found the shoe, turning to horror when he came across the remains of his girlfriend. Assuming he wasn’t the one to kill her in the first place.

‘I don’t like places like this.’ Roy gave the nearest mirror a wary glance.

‘You didn’t enjoy the fairground when you were a kid?’

‘The rides were OK, but I didn’t fancy the ghost train or the mirrors. Too creepy.’

‘
Something Wicked This Way Comes
,’ said Rhona.

He frowned quizzically. ‘Wasn’t that the name of a show at the Tramway recently?’

‘Ray Bradbury wrote the book. A carnival comes to town, bringing evil with it.’

‘Art imitating life.’

‘You couldn’t make up what we have to deal with every day,’ she said.

‘Too right,’ he replied. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’

He left the tent and she set to work. Her job was to retrieve what forensic evidence she could from the body
in situ
. Before she began, she took time to study the scene. First impressions were important. She’d caught the faint sweet scent of the chloroform mask on approach. Now she took time to absorb the details of the victim; its exact position, the injuries and the resultant pattern of blood spattering. Roy had captured all of this, both as static photographs and in a moving 360-degree image, but there was no real substitute for actually being here.

The general public often misunderstood the role of forensic science in solving a crime, thinking it was to provide observations based on the results of tests. Unfortunately some DIs, like Slater, thought the same. The truth was, forensic science was about solving a problem, which depended on asking the right question. That’s why she and Bill had worked so well together; he had listened to the questions she’d asked.

The majority of the blood lay pooled beneath the body, but luminol indicated low spattering on the canvas wall and evidence of spraying on the nearby convex mirror, which increased the likelihood that the perpetrator had traces of blood on them, however microscopic.

Chloroform would have rendered the victim unconscious, but if she’d been aware of her attacker before he applied the mask, she would probably have called for help or tried to fight him off.

The funfair was quiet now, but earlier Rhona had been able to hear it from the flat. Pulsating music, throbbing generators and plenty of screaming from the nearby rides would have drowned out any cries for help. Even so, the operation would have had to be swift, in case anyone else entered the tent.

As far as she was aware, a normal Caesarean section took around five to ten minutes for someone who knew what they were doing and who was interested in the welfare of the mother. Here, it looked as though the only concern had been the swift removal of the foetus.

The girl’s pants and tights had been pulled down to her knees. In normal circumstances that would indicate a sexual motive for the attack, but in this case, it could simply have been done to bare the abdomen.

Rhona directed an ultraviolet light on the lower torso and its surrounds. The fluorescent glow indicated either semen or urine. She applied dampened blotting paper to the girl’s inner thigh, then sprayed it with a solution of reactants. There was no colour change, so no seminal fluid was present.

She tried to recall what she’d read about foetal theft. A rare occurrence, it was also unusual for a violent crime in that it was generally carried out by women. The idea of a woman doing this to a young girl was extraordinary.

She took a blood sample from the umbilical cord before moving on to the victim, where she dealt with the head first, carefully swabbing the mouth and ears, registering no marks or bruising on the face or neck area. When she’d finished, she bagged the head and moved on to the hands. If the girl had tried to fight off her attacker, her hands would hold evidence of that.

She used the magnifier and was rewarded by two strands of coloured hair or fibre caught under the nail of the middle digit on the right hand. She bagged the fibres, then carefully scraped under each nail, before turning the hand over. She was surprised to find marks on the palm written in what looked like black crayon.

She took a series of images of the scribble, then used a swab to sample the material used to write it.

She repeated the same procedure with the left hand, cleaning under the nails before turning it over. There was writing on the left palm too, but it wasn’t the same:

She held the left hand up to the full glare of the arc light and caught a glimpse of its reflected image in a nearby mirror. Although distorted by the glass, it now looked like a word.

Rhona took a small mirror from her forensic case and held it up to the palm. The scrawl was a word and the word looked like ‘chain’. Whoever had written it had done it in mirror writing.

Excited by the discovery, she checked the right hand. This time she thought the backwards writing said ‘daisy’. Someone had written ‘daisy chain’ backwards on the girl’s hands. The writing wasn’t smudged, which suggested it had been done either post-mortem – by the killer – or not long before she died.

Rhona bagged both hands, then began to tape the exposed skin on the remainder of the body, using numbered transparent plastic adhesive-coated strips, adhering them to a clear acetate surface, then sealing them in a clean polythene bag. When she’d finished, she moved on to the clothes.

Over her loose-fitting dress the girl wore a soft suede jacket, fringed and festooned with zips. Rhona checked the label. Gucci. So it hadn’t come cheap. She examined the other items of clothing. All high quality. The dead girl had come from a family with money if she could afford designer wear.

Rhona set about removing the clothing. If the body was moved from the site with the clothing intact, the bloodstaining evidence on it might be compromised in transit. When she’d finished doing this, she double-checked the area for a handbag. Roy hadn’t mentioned one, but maybe he’d videoed its position, then handed it over as evidence. None of the jacket pockets held a mobile. If there had been one, it had already been removed.

She now concentrated on examining the wound. The perpetrator had had to cut through various layers – the outer skin, then muscle, then the uterine layer. A midline longitudinal incision had been made using a sharp blade, judging by its edges, giving plenty of space to extract the contents of the womb.

Babies born by Caesarean usually had to have amniotic fluid sucked from their nose and mouth before they could breathe. If the attacker wanted the child to live, then there was a chance they’d done that and spat the fluid out in the vicinity, along with some incriminating saliva.

Once she was finished with the immediate surrounds, she focused on the closest mirror. Convex in shape, it reflected light outwards, rendering everything smaller and covering a wider field of view than a normal plane mirror. Rhona was suddenly aware of her own reflection repeated around the room, a score of versions, all deformed in some way or another.

The sound of footsteps on the treads brought her head round. Now it was DI Slater who was multiplied twenty-fold. Not a pretty sight. He was short and heavily built, with the face of a boxer who’d taken a lot of hits. What he didn’t have in looks, he made up for in cunning. When he’d been brought in to cover Bill’s suspension period, Slater and McNab had been instantly at odds. The pair went back a long way; when they were partnered as rookie cops, McNab had found Slater self-serving, more intent on making himself look good than on getting the right result. And it had worked. Slater had reached DI level, while McNab stayed a DS and got killed saving someone’s life.