Torch (5 page)

She opened it
and read it. ‘Whoever wrote this doesn’t like you very much.’

‘He likes women
even less.’

Threatening
letters were notoriously difficult to trace. It could take weeks,
months of police time. In most cases the threat never materialised
anyway. Frightening the recipient was usually enough for the letter
writer.

Rhona held the
paper up to the light. Something had been spilt on it. She
sniffed.

‘Semen?’

‘I would say
so.’

Leaving good
evidence lying in a glove compartment with a half drunk bottle of
whisky wasn’t a good idea. She told him so. ‘You should have given
this to Forensic.’

‘I just
have.’

Rhona held her
tongue. She was beginning to learn confrontation didn’t work with
MacRae.

‘I’ll have it
DNA sampled. We might get a match.’

He shook his
head. ‘If he was on file, he wouldn’t have sent it.’

He might be
right. DNA fingerprinting had become common knowledge, thanks to
television. Criminals knew not to leave anything of themselves
behind.

She thought for
a moment. ‘The person who sent this may not be the one lighting the
fires.’

His face was
stubborn. ‘He is.’

‘Just once, you
might be wrong.’

He was adamant.
‘Not this time.’

They drove to
his office in silence. At first glance, Rhona thought, there was no
evidence to suggest the fires in the two cities were connected.
Here, prominent buildings had been set on fire, not run-down
council housing. If the fire-raiser had written that letter, then
there was both a sexual element to his crimes and a desire to
persecute and outwit the fire investigation team i.e. MacRae. She
glanced sideways. MacRae looked like a man under a lot of pressure
and not just from the job. He was edgy, irritable and judging from
the bottle in the glove compartment, drinking too much. He also had
years of experience of fire investigation. She might be skilled in
forensics, but he, like all fire investigators, had worked his way
up from the ranks. He had fought numerous fires. He knew how they
behaved.

MacRae’s office
was on the third floor of the red sandstone building that housed
the headquarters of Lothian and Borders Fire Brigade. The
receptionist smiled at MacRae on entry and gave Rhona the once
over.

‘Any
calls?’

‘DI MacFarlane.
Half an hour ago,’ she told him.

They passed a
display of old fire equipment and climbed the stairs. MacRae’s
office was small, with a desk, a filing cabinet and two easy
chairs, both piled with papers. MacRae lifted a pile and motioned
Rhona to sit down, then disappeared into the back room. On the
desk, alongside three empty coffee cups, stood a photograph of a
pretty dark haired woman and a girl of about six. She was smiling
at the camera, her mother’s hand on her shoulder. Rhona wondered
what had caused the separation and whether MacRae’s drinking and
chauvinistic attitude were the result or the cause.

MacRae called
from the back room.

‘Take a look in
the top drawer of the filing cabinet, under miscellaneous.’

She pulled open
the drawer. There were at a guess, a dozen other letters. If these
had anything to do with this investigation, then MacRae had been
withholding evidence.

He was standing
at the door, bare-chested, with a package in his hand. He tore the
plastic wrapper off the new shirt and shook it loose.

‘Does Gallagher
know about these?’ she asked annoyed.

‘I didn’t want
to be the one responsible for another heart attack.’

‘That’s not
funny.’

‘Who’s
laughing?’

MacRae turned
away and Rhona’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen
such a badly burned body before, at least not one that had
survived. Even the deep tan couldn’t disguise the mass of mottled
tissue that stretched from shoulder to shoulder.

Rhona forced
herself to speak.

‘You should
have given these letters to Forensic,’ she said.

MacRae was
buttoning up the shirt. If he had sensed her reaction to his back,
he chose to ignore it.

‘We had that
conversation, remember? Anyway, they’re not all from the same
bloke.’ He shrugged. ‘People don’t like me prying into their fires.
I might worry the insurance company enough not to pay out. So they
write me letters.’

‘They threaten
you.’

‘Some do.
Others claim to have started the fire or think the fire was a
symbol of God’s wrath.’ He reached for a tie from the back of the
chair. ‘Take the letters with you if you like. They make good
bed-time reading. See if you can pick out the ones from our friend,
the wanker.’

He was putting
on his jacket. ‘MacFarlane said you were staying over. Can I ask
where?’

‘With a
friend.’

‘Male?

‘I don’t
see...’

‘Easy You can
stay with a transvestite poodle for all I care. Provided it has a
loud bark.’

He had come
right up to her. She could smell the pressed cotton of the new
shirt.

‘What do you
mean?’

‘The arsonist
sees us as the enemy. For the moment he’s outwitting us. If he
thinks we’re getting too close...’

She interrupted
him. ‘I’ve only been here a day.’

‘Long
enough.’

He headed for
the door. ‘If you want a lift, we have to go now. I have a date and
I’m late already.’

The traffic was
heavy in the city centre and MacRae dodged through it oblivious to
the angry shouts and blasting horns. Rhona began to wish she had
refused the lift and taken a taxi. She suggested MacRae could drop
her at the west end of Princes Street and she would find her own
way to Greg’s flat.

‘I’ll take you
right to the door after I pick up my date,’ was the curt reply.

Whoever the
woman was, MacRae didn’t want to be late for her. And she felt
sorry for him because he was separated from his wife and
family!

They reached
the house ten minutes later. MacRae sounded the horn and Rhona
caught sight of a figure at the window and then the door opened and
the wee girl in the photograph came running down the path.

The child
waited until MacRae rolled down the window then gave him a good
telling off.

‘You’re late
and mum’s angry.’

MacRae’s wife
was following her daughter.

‘Amy’s been
ready for half an hour,’ she said sharply.

‘It’s okay
Gillian, we’ve got plenty of time. The film doesn’t start till five
thirty.’ He turned to Amy who was settling herself happily in the
back seat. ‘Amy, this is Dr MacLeod. She’s helping me while Mr
Gallagher’s in hospital.’

‘Hello Dr
MacLeod.’

‘Hello
Amy.’

‘You didn’t say
anyone else was going.’

The suggestion
was all too obvious and Rhona jumped in. ‘I’m not going to the
film, Mrs MacRae.’ Rhona hoped she didn’t sound as embarrassed as
she felt. ‘Mr MacRae just offered me a lift back to my flat.’

‘Did he?’

MacRae was
rolling up the window. ‘I’ll have Amy back by eight.’

‘You’d
better.’

The only one
who talked on the way to Greg’s was Amy. She chatted on about
school, her best friend Katie and her pet hamster.

Rhona sat in
seething silence. MacRae had deliberately misled her into thinking
he was meeting a woman when he was collecting his child. Then he
deliberately embarrassed her by making his wife think he was going
out with her. The fact that she knew she was exaggerating the
situation didn’t make any difference. One thing was sure. MacRae
was completely oblivious to other people’s feelings.

The journey
took too long for Rhona and when they got there she had to endure
the expression on MacRae’s face as he looked up at the luxury block
of renovated west end flats.

‘Isn’t this the
street where a flat went for half a million recently?’

‘I have no
idea.’

‘Quite a
catch.’

‘Greg is gay,’
Rhona said and instantly regretted it.

She got out and
shut the door.

‘I’ll see you
tomorrow.’

‘Sure.’

She turned to
go.

‘Are you eating
out?’ The cynical tone had gone.

‘Why?’

‘Stay clear of
the Italian on the corner. It’s overpriced and the food’s crap. And
take your gay friend with you. For safety sake.’

Chapter 7

The flat was
empty but Greg had left the hall light on and there was a note from
him beside the phone.

Make yourself
at home. There’s food in the fridge but if you can’t be bothered
cooking, there’s an Italian on the corner.

Rhona went into
the spare room. She emptied her bag on the bed, grabbed her
dressing gown and shampoo and headed for the shower.

She didn’t hear
the phone at first. When she did, she assumed Greg’s ansaphone
would click on, but it didn’t and the phone went on ringing. She
climbed out of the shower and grabbed a towel.

The line
clicked dead as soon as she said hello. Rhona tried 1471 but the
number had been withheld.

She thought for
a moment, then threw the bolt on the front door and unbolted it
again seconds later. She would not let Severino MacRae unnerve
her.

She was halfway
through drying her hair when the phone rang again. She was there on
the third ring.

‘Who is it?’
she shouted.

‘Hey. Take it
easy.’ It was Chrissy.

‘Sorry. I had
the hairdryer on. It deafens me.’

‘You sound more
like pissed off. Bad day?’

‘I’ve had
better.’

‘The samples
arrived. I sent most of them to Chemistry,’ Chrissy said
accusingly.

‘I’m sending
through a letter...’

‘Not
handwriting analysis?’

Chrissy’s voice
was a mixture of disappointment and cynicism. Handwriting
specialists came a little lower than forensic chemists in Chrissy’s
scheme of things.

‘I want you to
look at it first,’ Rhona said. ‘It’s impregnated with
something.’

Chrissy was
interested now. ‘Blood? Perfume?’

‘Possibly
semen. Can you check it on the DNA database?’

‘Sure. Bit of a
long shot though.’

‘I know. MacRae
had other letters in his filing cabinet that Forensic haven’t seen.
Some of them may be from the same man. I want to read them, before
I send them through. Anything on the Glasgow fire?’

‘Are you
familiar with thallium poisoning?’

‘I’ve seen it
once before. Why?’

‘The victim was
at the doctor’s last week with a crop of symptoms that might have
been caused by thallium poisoning. We’re running some tests. I’ll
have more when you get back. When is that likely to be?’

‘As soon as
possible.’

The restaurant
was too upmarket for Rhona, but once in the door it had been
difficult to retreat. The young man at the desk gave her the once
over, then asked pointedly if there would be one or two persons
eating. When she said one, he raised his eyebrows and escorted her
to a dark corner with a table inches from the kitchen entrance. The
other diners, mostly couples, glanced briefly in her direction then
went back to their conversation.

Rhona wondered
whether reading the forensic magazine she’d brought with her would
make her more conspicuous, then decided it was better than staring
into space. When the waiter arrived she ordered a pasta dish and a
half bottle of house white. She was on her second glass and
absorbed in an article about cocaine residue on American bank notes
when she noticed everyone was staring at the window where MacRae’s
face was pressed against the glass.

Rhona buried
her face in her magazine, praying he hadn’t spotted her.

No such
luck.

MacRae removed
a chair from a nearby table and sat down opposite. ‘I thought I
told you not to eat here.’

Rhona avoided
catching his eye. ‘I don’t think it’s part of the job of the Fire
Investigator to tell the forensic where to eat.’

‘So you don’t
accept advice? Even from a expert?’

The waiter was
offering MacRae a menu. He ignored it. Rhona shook her head and the
waiter gave her a knowing look. Lovers’ tiff, it said.

‘So what’s so
important you came looking for me?’ she was trying to be
reasonable.

MacRae stood
up. ‘I’ll explain on the way.’

‘I can’t
leave.’ She looked up at him in amazement. This was ridiculous. Did
he think he just had to call and she would follow him about like a
pet dog?

‘Why not?’

‘I’m half way
through a bottle of wine.’

He reached for
the bottle. ‘We’ll take it with us.’

‘No.’ She
grabbed it back. ‘I haven’t paid for it yet. Anyway,’ she topped up
her glass, ‘I’ve already ordered.’

‘You’ve
what?’

‘Keep your
voice down.’

‘If you don’t
leave,’ he whispered dramatically, ‘I’ll be forced to tell all
these people about the aubergines.’

‘Don’t be
stupid.’

He shrugged and
stood up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt your meal
but being from the Department of Public Health I feel it only fair
to warn you about the sexual predilections of the current chef of
this establishment, which involve aubergines...’

Rhona lifted
her jacket from the back of the chair, left money on the table for
the astonished waiter and headed for the door.

When MacRae
opened the car, the music was on full blast. He turned it down
before she got in. The chip pokes had gone.

‘My daughter
doesn’t like an untidy car. Takes after her mother in that
respect.’

Rhona ignored
his attempts at conversation and looked pointedly out of the
window. They left the city centre and headed for the Forth. She
refused to ask MacRae where he was taking her, but whatever he
wanted her to see, it had better be good.