Torch (2 page)

‘Your son will
love you.’

She wondered if
he believed that or was saying it to avoid any further
discussion.

‘Love the
mother who gave him away?’

He pulled her
to him, pressing her head to his chest. His heart beat gently in
her ear.

‘It’ll be
okay,’ he murmured.

Sean’s answer
to everything.

‘And if it’s
not?’ she insisted.

There was no
reply as Sean drifted into post coital sleep, his mind already in
Amsterdam.

A knot had
formed in her chest. She shouldn’t have mentioned meeting Liam. Now
if it all went wrong?

She waited
until she heard the soft measured sound of sleep then extracted
herself carefully from beneath Sean’s arm and got up.

Rain splattered
the window so that the lights of Glasgow ran into one another like
a watery kaleidoscope. Her naked shadow stood alone, reflected in
the glass. She mouthed the words, we are born alone and we die
alone, even as something inside her wished Sean had said, ‘You’ll
always have me.’

Chapter 3

When DI Bill
Wilson contacted her early next morning, they had to transfer the
call to the Chemistry Lab where she’d been with Dr Spencer since
first thing.

Spencer was
definite. It was a Class A fire.

‘So, mainly
paper, wood and fabric?’ Rhona suggested.

The forensic
chemist nodded. Rhona wondered if the long granite face would ever
be split by a smile.

‘And no
evidence of hydrocarbons?’

He shook his
head. ‘Only the normal traces from household goods.’

‘In the video,’
Rhona paused, already knowing he would put her down, ‘I thought the
smoke looked black.’

He gave her a
sideways look. ‘You’ve been studying too many American flame
charts.’

‘So how do you
think the fire started?’

‘You’ll have to
discuss that with the fire investigator. As far as I’m concerned
there is nothing chemical to suggest that this was a wilful fire
incident.’

Rhona tried
another tack. ‘We found evidence of alcohol in the remains of the
victim’s jacket, especially round the wrists.’

‘Maybe the guy
couldn’t hold his drink.’

Rhona didn’t
laugh. Spencer never made jokes intentionally.

‘Drugs?’

‘We’re still
running tests, but there’s nothing to suggest there were any on the
premises.’

When Spenser’s
equally dour assistant called her to the phone she found Bill’s
friendly voice a pleasant relief.

‘How’s cheerful
Charlie?’ Bill asked.

Rhona kept her
voice neutral, for the sake of inter-Lab relations. ‘Same as
usual.’

‘And the tests
on the fire debris?’

‘No evidence to
suggest an accelerant was used,’ she told him.

‘The Pathology
report says the victim died of an overdose.’

‘And the
fire?’

‘He dropped a
cigarette and whoosh?’

It didn’t sound
right to her. ‘What about the blisters on his wrists?’

‘Accidental.’

Bill was
baiting her to see what she would come up with.

‘You and I both
know another accidental fire in three months in an area up for
re-development is suspiciously convenient.’

‘We have
nothing to substantiate that at this stage.’

That would be
just what his superior would say.

‘So why did you
phone?’

‘I was coming
to that,’ he paused.

Rhona had
worked with Bill on many cases since she’d arrived in Glasgow after
her stint in the DNA Laboratory in Birmingham. She had thrown
herself into the new job, relishing the responsibility for drawing
the different branches of forensics together. The relationship
between the forensic department and the CID was good because of
Bill.

‘Dave
Gallagher’s had a heart attack,’ he told her.

‘My God. Is he
okay?’

‘He’s out of
danger, but he’ll be off work for six weeks at least,’ he paused.
‘He’s been working on the recent Edinburgh fires. There was another
one last night.’

‘I heard on the
news this morning.’

She waited,
knowing what he would ask.

‘I’m pretty
tied up here, Bill.’

‘I know.’ he
sounded apologetic but resolved. ‘But if there’s a remote chance
there’s a link between their fires and ours... ’

He waited.

‘Okay,’ she
relented. Wilful fire raising at the same time in Scotland’s two
major cities was unlikely to be co-incidence.

‘Great.’ Bill’s
voice had grown cautious. ‘Severino MacRae is the chief fire
investigator. You’ll be working with him.’

The best thing
to come out of Edinburgh is the train to Glasgow, or so say the
citizens of the dear green place. Of course, the pun can be
reversed. Cities, forty-six miles apart, one douce the other
gallus, the dichotomy of the Scottish urban psyche.

Rhona turned
from the train window and shook her head at the offer of coffee
from the trolley. The lemon chicken from the night before was
taking its toll.

She had called
Sean from the station to explain her sudden departure for
Edinburgh.

‘Will you be
back before I leave for Amsterdam?’

‘I don’t think
so.’

‘I’ll give you
a call when I get there.’

‘I’m staying at
Greg’s.’

‘Okay. I’ll see
you in a week then.’

The call had
ended in an awkward silence.

Rhona turned to
the window as the train drew away from Linlithgow Station. Low
December sunlight brushed the imposing walls of Linlithgow Palace
and danced on the choppy waters of the nearby loch. One summer when
she was eight or nine, her father had brought her here for the day.
She’d stood in the big courtyard with its wonderful fountain and
tried to imagine what it was like to be the princess destined to be
Queen of Scots.

She wondered,
not for the first time, what her beloved adoptive parents would
think of her now, had they been alive. They had never known about
Liam. She’d kept her pregnancy a secret. Edward, her lover at the
time wasn’t ready to be a father. She had to finish her degree and
establish her career. Their relationship had been washed away in
the misery and guilt she’d felt after giving up her baby for
adoption. Like her, Liam had had adoptive parents who loved him.
For her it had been enough. But for Liam?

Edinburgh
Waverley was busy with tourists in town for The Biggest Hogmanay
Party in the world. A young guy was selling the Big Issue on the
Waverley steps. Rhona thrust a two pound coin in his hand. He tried
to give her change but she waved it away and he smiled his
thanks.

The east end of
Princes Street was almost devoid of traffic. A little way along she
realised why. The police had cordoned off a section of road and
were directing traffic onto George Street.

When Rhona
reached the cordon she showed the constable on duty her ID then
headed for the incident tent.

Chapter 4

Severino MacRae
reached for the phone on the third ring, an Americanism he’d picked
up at some stupid management course they’d insisted he go on. Never
before the third ring, never after. The habit had stuck.

‘Of course I’m
up,’ Sev threw back the covers. ‘Already been for a jog.’ He lifted
the open whisky bottle from the bedside cabinet with his left hand
and threw some into a nearby glass. ‘It’s better than sex,
Sergeant. You should try it.’ He moved the receiver out of the way.
The alarm clock showed nine. ‘I’ve an appointment at eleven
thirty.’ He held the phone in the crook of his neck while he poured
another shot. ‘Okay I’ll be there. Just tell them to touch nothing.
Got that? Nothing. And Sergeant? Tell MacFarlane not to piss on the
embers or I’ll cut off his dick.’

The bottle was
empty. He threw it in the bin on his way to the shower. There was
always a chance Gillian might come round. He didn’t want her to
think he lived like a pig just because she had left him and taken
their daughter Amy with her.

The water on
his head woke him up enough to remember Gallagher was still in
hospital recovering from his heart attack. Looking at Gallagher’s
colour last night, Sev guessed his colleague would be out of the
game for at least six weeks. So no forensic or at least no
forensic, that had Gallagher’s experience of fires. It was as if
this particular fire raiser knew he had a clear run.

Sev dried
himself and looked for a clean shirt. The hangers in the wardrobe
stared emptily back at him. Shit. He’d left the six new non-iron
shirts from Marks and Spencer in his office. He picked last night’s
off the floor. If he kept his jacket on he might avoid knocking
anyone out.

Before he left,
he phoned Gillian. He knew before he started to speak it was a
hopeless case. There was frost forming on the other end of the
line.

‘What makes you
think I would cancel?’ he tried to sound offended.

Silence.

‘I might be a
bit late that’s all.’ Sev looked at the clock. ‘Look I’ll be there.
Right? Eleven thirty.’

Sev rang off
and headed for the door. The postman had already delivered an
ominous pile of mail. MacRae kicked the half dozen brown envelopes
out of the way and a small white one slipped into view. He picked
it up, thinking the big round writing might be Amy’s. Since Sev’s
ejection from the family home, Amy had taken to sending him small
notes with big illustrations. Mostly they consisted of tales of her
hamster and its various methods of escape. Every time one arrived,
Sev’s guts twisted a little tighter.

The writing
wasn’t Amy’s, and there was no postage stamp. Sev opened the door
and looked out, trying to remember when he’d heard the letter-box
rattle. When he was on the phone to Gillian? The stairwell stared
back at him, silent and empty. Whoever delivered the letter was
long gone.

Sev waited
until he was in the car before he opened it, his mind already
assimilating this latest development in the letter saga. So now the
bastard knew where he lived? Sev examined the last few days. Where
he had gone, when he had come home. The people he’d talked to. Had
he been followed, watched as he muddled his way through what had
become his life since Gillian threw him out? Sev began to unfold
the white paper already knowing what it would say. The texture felt
strange as if something had been spilt on it. He held the paper to
his nose and sniffed.

‘Jesus!’

Thank God
Gillian had thrown him out. If she hadn’t, some crazy bastard would
have been pushing semen encrusted letters through her letter box
instead of his.

The usual
message spewed across the stiffened paper. All the key words were
there. Fire. Bitches. Sex. This one hated women so much he needed
an inferno to get a hard on. And that’s exactly what he had done
last night. Lit one.

Sev parked his
old Saab next to the mortuary van, wondering why the Sergeant
hadn’t mentioned any bodies when he called him, just the extent of
the fire and its prominent position on Princes Street. The building
had been lying empty for months. Rumour had it development was
being held up because the original façade had to be retained. An
expensive investment for somebody.

Detective
Inspector Peter MacFarlane came towards him as Sev climbed out of
the Saab.

MacFarlane
looked in need of a good night’s sleep. The mortuary van might have
been there for him. Sev stepped over the yellow incident
ribbon.

Sev nodded in
the direction of the police tent, constructed over the pavement
that bordered the famous Princes Street Gardens.

‘There was a
body,’ MacFarlane told them as they walked. ‘A young girl. She must
have been nearby when it blew. ’ MacFarlane looked sick.

The mental
picture hadn’t escaped Sev either.

He turned on
the first retch, thinking MacFarlane was emptying his stomach, but
MacFarlane wasn’t the one being sick. To their left a gate led into
the Gardens where a path cut through a bed of roses, a riot of
colour for summer tourists but now in December, bare, pruned and
colourless, except for the blonde head and blue jacket among the
bushes.

‘She took a
look inside the tent while she was waiting for you.’

‘Waiting for
me?’

‘That’s right.’
Sev could hear caution in MacFarlane’s voice. ‘Visiting forensic
from Glasgow.’

Sev didn’t like
the sound of that, not after the latest epistle from the
arsonist.

‘Send her
home,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I said send
her home.’ Sev wasn’t in the mood to go into details. ‘I don’t want
a woman on this case.’

MacFarlane was
getting shirty. ‘You need a forensic. She’s been working on the
Glasgow fires. There may be a link...’

‘I don’t care.
I don’t want a woman,’ Sev said.

‘I thought
sexism was only rife in the Police Force.’

‘Leave it out,
MacFarlane. I have my reasons.’

‘Well now’s
your chance to tell them directly to Dr MacLeod.’

The woman
coming towards him was exactly what Sev didn’t want. Sexy, her
intelligent eyes examining him.

Rhona sat at a
table while MacRae went to get some coffee. Even the furniture in
the café smelt deep fried. She concentrated on breathing as
shallowly as possible. The toilets were right behind her. Close
enough for an emergency.

When MacRae
came back he was carrying a tray with two cups, a pot of coffee and
the full works; bacon, sausage, black pudding, fried bread and a
double portion of eggs. He laid the tray on the table and made a
big show of splashing tomato sauce over everything.

‘Sure you don’t
want some?’

Rhona shook her
head. ‘No thanks I’ve eaten.’

‘It didn’t stay
down long.’ He forked a sausage. ‘You going to do that when we get
inside the building?’ He wagged the burnt sausage in her face then
plunged it in the tomato sauce.