Torch (7 page)

‘I would
suggest a little over fifteen. The breasts are small and not, I
think, fully formed. We’ll be able to tell from the hair samples
but I’m fairly sure she hadn’t reached late teens.’

‘Jaz, the boy
who took her dog, said she had no family.’ It hardly seemed
possible that a fifteen-year-old girl could be sleeping rough on
the streets of their capital city and no one had reported her
missing.

Dr MacKenzie’s
tone was tart. ‘I take it there are no homeless girls on the
streets of Glasgow?’

‘They don’t
usually make their living playing the penny whistle,’ Rhona
said.

‘This one may
not have either if the semen is anything to go by.’

‘I’d like to
check your DNA findings against a seminal fluid sample we have
already.’

‘Of course.

Rhona was glad
to leave the sterile atmosphere of the Pathology Lab and breathe in
Edinburgh’s pollution instead. She stood on the steps outside,
clearing her head of the scent of death. The police car was waiting
at the kerb. She would pick up her things and head back to Glasgow.
The message from her lab via MacFarlane had simply stated she was
needed.

She thought
briefly about calling the hospital to check on Amy then decided
against it. If Gillian was there, it might make things worse.
Judging by Gillian’s reaction the previous night, it was time for
MacRae to choose between his family and his work.

When or if she
returned to Edinburgh, the chances were she would find herself
working with someone other than Severino MacRae. Rhona was
surprised by her sudden feeling of disappointment and quickly
dismissed it. She didn’t like working with MacRae and he didn’t
like working with her. It would be easier for both of them if the
investigation passed to someone else. But if the warning on the
windscreen was for real?

In the weak
December sunshine, the Gardens looked back innocently at her.
Gathering Hogmanay tourists thronged the north side of Princes
Street, in and out of the souvenir shops, stopping to take pictures
of the castle. Traffic was flowing again, the tent was down. To her
left the shattered building was a hive of activity. The scaffolding
was up and a team at work inside. A white suit emerged as the
police car passed, face encased in a cartridge respirator. MacRae
wasn’t taking any chances. Buildings like these were often lined
with asbestos. Sifting through the debris disturbed this. Then
there were the noxious gases trapped under deposits which might be
released during excavation.

The car rolled
down the ramp into Waverley station.

‘Mr MacRae said
he’ll call you later,’ the driver told her.

‘I didn’t tell
Mr MacRae I had to go back to Glasgow,’ she said, puzzled.

‘He asked me to
give you this.’

The driver
handed Rhona a brown envelope, ‘for the Lady Scientist’ scrawled
roughly across the front.

Rhona settled
herself in a window seat. The train was quiet. It wasn’t a peak
time for travelling between the two cities. She placed the envelope
face up on the table in front of her and for once the title ‘Lady’
didn’t irritate her. She wondered what effect the contents of the
envelope would have.

After returning
from the hospital, she’d read through the bundle of letters from
MacRae’s filing cabinet. When Greg arrived back around two she was
still up. She’d separated the letters into two piles. The larger
pile consisted of general complaints and acts of God. The four on
the right she thought were from the wanker, as MacRae called him.
The front door opening and the sound of muffled laughter from the
hall had broken into her thoughts. Greg stuck his head round her
bedroom door, his eyes hazy with drink.

‘Didn’t think
you’d be awake. I’ve brought someone back with me. Hope you don’t
mind?’

‘Of course
not.’

‘We won’t make
a noise,’ he promised.

He was true to
his word. Either the walls were soundproof or it was the quietest
lovemaking on the planet. Rhona turned up the stereo to stop
herself thinking about sex.

It was the
sight and smell of death that did it. Rhona had experienced it many
times before. People had to prove themselves alive to shake off the
presence of death.

She picked up
the four separate letters and laid them one by one across the
bed.

The fire
aroused the arsonist. Made him feel alive, when nothing else could.
But this wasn’t a roll on the rug in front of a log fire. His fires
had caused devastation on a grand scale and now death.

The traffic had
dwindled to an occasional hum. Rhona rose and stood at the window
wishing Sean would call her. She desperately wanted to hear his
voice. No. She wanted his weight on her, his breath in her hair.
She wanted the smell of sex to wipe out the scent of death.

Below her the
street was deserted save for a man and his dog. The figure paused
and looked up and Rhona strained to make out the face in the orange
glow of the street light. The dog lifted its leg and marked the
lamp post, then with a small yelp urged its master on.

Chapter
11

‘What the hell
is going on MacFarlane?’

‘Take it easy
Sev. We’re on it. All known punks...’

MacFarlane
didn’t get to finish. Severino threw the electric razor on the
desk. Shaving hadn’t made him look any better. Bed and sleep were
both an illusive dream.

‘Cut the crap.
You and I both know who did it.’

‘We don’t know
for certain,’ MacFarlane tried.

‘Correction.
This arrived this morning.’ Severino threw an envelope across the
desk. ‘The bastard knows everything about me and our lady forensic.
Gillian’s talking about taking Amy north to her mother’s. As far
away from me as possible.’

MacFarlane
said: ‘I’m sorry.’

Severino paused
before the next barb. It wasn’t MacFarlane’s fault. He was doing
his best. But it wasn’t enough. If it were just himself it would be
different. But not Amy.

‘Look. I
investigate fires. I’m not responsible for finding the people who
set them. That’s your job.’

‘If he hits
during the street party we have to be ready for him.’

Severino stared
at the quiet persistence of the man.

‘You’re talking
to the wrong man MacFarlane,’ he said firmly. ‘You want fire
prevention.’

The DI wasn’t
giving up. ‘There will be a lot of people about.’

MacFarlane was
putting words to the pictures in Sev’s own head.

‘Cancel the
celebrations. You would cancel for a terrorist threat. Edinburgh’s
become fireworks city. It thinks it’s fucking Disney Land.’

‘You know we
can’t do that. Not on what we have.’ MacFarlane looked apologetic.
‘The three days are a sell-out. Sky’s covering the whole
event.’

Severino
shrugged his shoulders.

‘Suit yourself.
It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘But you know
how he thinks.’ MacFarlane was like a dog with a bone.

‘In case you
haven’t noticed,’ Sev said, ‘I always get there after the
event.’

‘But he’s never
warned us before.’

Sev ran his
hand through his hair. It didn’t help his brain. He had gone over
the same idea a hundred times. It still didn’t fit.

‘Has it never
occurred to you that’s what’s wrong?’

In the distance
the castle dominated the skyline, Union Jack fluttering in the
breeze. Her Majesty’s garrison in Scotland. If the bastard had his
mind set on the city centre, the castle might be the only safe
place this weekend.

‘While we all
run round trying to figure out if, where and when during the
Hogmanay party he’s going to perform,’ he went on grimly, ‘the
bastard will be somewhere else.’

‘We have to
take that chance.’

Sev turned, his
face decided.

‘No. You have
to take that chance.’ He picked up a buff folder. ‘Here’s my
report.’ He shoved it in MacFarlane’s face. ‘The last four fires in
the city centre have been started deliberately, I believe by the
same person or persons. All the details are there.’

Sev headed for
the door.

‘Where are you
going?’ MacFarlane sounded resigned.

‘For a drink,
home and bed. In that order.’

His jacket was
behind the door. MacRae pulled it off the hook and slung it over
his shoulder. He turned back. He wanted to be sure of one thing
before he left.

‘She got the
message?’

‘She was on the
12 o’clock to Glasgow. I’ll make sure she doesn’t come back.’

‘Thanks.’

MacFarlane
looked resigned: ‘She’ll be safer in Glasgow.’

‘We’d all be
safer in Glasgow.’

Chapter
12

Sev didn’t look
up when Jaz entered the bar. Instead he drained his whisky glass
and waved it for a refill. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone,
least of all him.

When he left
the office, he’d headed for the centre of town rather than the
flat. There was no need to visit the fire scene again. He had
signed off this one. He’d kept his promise to Gillian. But it
wasn’t Gillian’s frightened demands the night before that had made
up his mind. It was standing in the ward looking at Amy’s pale
face, the dark deep shadows for eyes. His wee girl. She was okay,
they told him. She was being kept in overnight only as a
precaution. It hadn’t made him feel any better.

Sev let the
whisky slide down his throat and bite at his chest. It numbed his
thoughts but it didn’t take them away. When he’d arrived at the
building this morning, the team had known about what had happened
at Gillian’s. He could tell by the faces, the dropped looks, the
caution in the voices. He ignored it all, gave his orders and
they’d got started, glad not to have to say anything. The team
would systematically comb the debris, bit by bit, just as he had
told them. They were probably wasting their time. And while they
were analysing the last job, the arsonist would be planning his
next.

Jaz was
standing behind him. He heard the scuffle of the dog’s claws on the
floor as it sat at the boy’s command.

‘Hey.’

Sev turned.
‘Hey.’ He rubbed the dog’s ears and it licked his hand.

‘Buy you a
drink?’

‘No
thanks.’

‘Not your drug
eh?’

Jaz ignored the
taunt and asked the question Sev didn’t want to hear.

‘Have you found
the man that killed Karen?’

‘You’re talking
to the wrong man,’ he heard himself say. ‘You want DI MacFarlane of
Lothian and Borders Police.’

‘He hurt your
little girl.’

Sev grabbed the
boy by the jacket. Jaz didn’t resist, his face bunched up, his back
pressed against the counter; he just looked at Sev, his eyes
accusing.

‘Who told you
that?’ Sev tightened his grip. Behind him the dog growled.

The anger
drained from Sev as quickly as it had come. He loosened his hold
and Jaz stumbled free.

Sev picked up
his glass, his hand shaking. He was losing it, he realised
dispassionately. An image of Amy’s face in that hospital bed kept
swamping his mind. The thought that she could have been badly
burned or worst still lying in a coffin, made him sick with
fear.

‘Go away,’ he
said without turning.

But the boy was
like MacFarlane, a stubborn bugger.

‘Don’t you want
to nail the bastard?’ Jaz said.

‘I’ll nail him
with my evidence,’ he said quietly.

‘You have to
catch him first.’

The guy was
like a fly buzzing round his head. Swatting him hadn’t worked. What
now? Sev looked Jaz up and down. The ponytail, the combat gear, the
big boots, the determined face.

‘I know who he
is.’

‘What?’

‘A mate of
mine, Mary Queen of Scots. She hangs about the Gardens with two old
guys, The Bruce and The Wallace...’

That was all he
needed. The demented drunken ravings of resurrected Scottish
heroes. Sev stopped the boy mid-sentence.

‘Alchies.’ He
waved at the barman for a refill.

Jaz slid his
eyes pointedly to the glass. Sev got the message.

Jaz went on:
‘This guy told Mary to move from her squat last Friday night or
he’d torch her. He came back when she was asleep and set her hair
alight. The Wallace and The Bruce heard her screaming. The hospital
kept her in for a week and she didn’t get any drink...’

‘I can
sympathise with that.’

The boy ignored
the cynical remark. ‘She’s been on the bevy ever since,’ he went
on. ‘She’s shit scared the guy’ll come back and get her.’

‘Maybe this guy
just doesn’t like smelly old alchies squatting in his
building.’

‘He isn’t the
owner.’

Sev knew he
should stop listening now. Tell the boy to take his story to
MacFarlane, keep out of it, but the story was planting itself in
his brain, burrowing down.

‘So where’s
this building then?’ he asked finally.

‘I wrote down
the address.’ Jaz pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and
flattened it on the counter.

Below the
address was a pencil drawing of a face.

‘What’s
this?’

‘Mary described
the guy, so I drew him.’ The boy’s voice was anxious.

Sev examined
the drawing. It caught a likeness, he would know him again. ‘You
are a wee smart arse.’

The boy looked
pleased. ‘He’s about heights with me. Twenties. She says he smells
nice.’

Sev looked him
up and down. ‘Not on the streets then?’

‘You don’t
smell so good yourself.’ Jaz was giving as good as he got.

‘I’ve been up
all night.’

‘At least
you’ve got a bed to go to.’

Sev nodded at
the picture. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘If you
like.’

He folded the
sketch and put it in his pocket, then put some money on the counter
for his drinks. The boy was watching him. Sev suddenly remembered
what the pathologist had said when he phoned about the post mortem.
The dead girl had been living on fresh air.