‘Full moon window? What’s he on about?’ interrupted McNab.
‘He thinks the killer commits his violent acts during a full moon,’ Bill answered. ‘Go on.’
She outlined what Magnus had said about the Pickton murders, the suggestion of snuff material online. ‘Magnus believes our killer has changed his MO.’ Rhona paused. ‘He thinks the auction is a direct challenge to us. That we have very little time left before Terri dies.’
Superintendent Sutherland’s voice was icy. ‘What exactly are you saying, Dr MacLeod?’
‘Magnus made a bid in the auction.’
THE STUNNED SILENCE
following Rhona’s revelation was short-lived. Sutherland’s barked orders sent McNab to the Tech department, then demanded Bill locate Professor Pirie immediately and bring him to Sutherland’s office. The fact it was he who’d set Magnus loose on the investigation, without prior consultation with the officer in charge, had been conveniently forgotten.
Bill protested. ‘Magnus is no fool. If he’s right, then playing the killer at his own game might be the only way to find Terri.’
Sutherland didn’t look convinced. ‘Send someone to Cardross. Find out what the hell is going on there.’
Bill waited until Sutherland had banged the door behind him.
‘What exactly did Magnus say?’
Rhona repeated the conversation in as much detail as she could recall.
‘Was there a response to his bid?’
‘No. Or if there was, he didn’t tell me. We had a few words, then he clammed up – so he could have got a reply and not told me.’
‘Okay. Leave it with me. I need you to go to Cardross and check out your seaweed theory.’
Rhona called and left a message for Chrissy, telling her she would be in later. The lab book would bring Chrissy up to date with what an examination on the boots had produced. Rhona made a point of relaying Bill’s final request. If there was anything in the trace examinations that might link Terri to Cathy’s killer, he wanted to know right away.
Bill had organised transport but failed to tell Rhona the identity of her allotted driver. McNab hooted the horn as she entered the garage.
‘I thought you were off to IT?’
‘The boss issued his own orders, as is his prerogative.’
As far as Bill was aware, any ‘relationship difficulties’ between Rhona and McNab had been resolved. Since their Nigerian trip together, things had certainly changed, but McNab was always a man to watch.
‘So you and the Prof get on well?’ he probed as he steered them through the city-centre traffic.
Rhona didn’t answer. McNab was fond of digging, particularly in her relationships. As a man scorned, he felt entitled. It was best not to encourage him.
McNab eventually gave up on his attempts to wind her up and concentrated on the road. Meanwhile, Rhona tried calling Magnus’s home and mobile numbers. When there was no response to either, she left a message and a text. Finally she called the Psychology Department at Strathclyde University. When she
asked to be put through to Professor Pirie, Rhona was told what she already knew, Magnus was currently on secondment to Strathclyde Police.
McNab listened to her flurry of messages, gauging her concern by the tone of her voice.
‘The Green River murders,’ he said, when she finally put the mobile away.
‘What?’
‘The American equivalent of the Canadian case. Gary Leon Ridgeway killed forty-eight prostitutes and threw them in Green River, Washington State, or buried them nearby. When they finally got him on DNA evidence, twenty years after he started killing, he took the police on a tour of the graves. He’d visited them regularly over the years apparently. Gave him a kick remembering what he had done to his victims.’
‘You’ve been doing your homework.’
‘I’ve been looking at past cases that sound similar. The Prof said he thought the killer had been back at the Necropolis even when we were there – exhibiting similar behaviour to Ridgeway. In his statement, Ridgeway said he killed prostitutes because he hated them, he didn’t want to pay for sex, and because he knew nobody cared when they went missing. He could kill as many as he wanted without getting caught.’
‘We care,’ Rhona said firmly, ‘and DNA caught Ridgeway in the end.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘Atlantic City USA last year. Three bodies of prostitutes found under the boardwalk. A month apart.
And no I haven’t checked if they died on a full moon,’ he gave her one of his winning smiles. ‘But similar MO, probably strangled, and with their own bras. That’s not all. Only one per cent of serial killers insert something into the body after death.’
‘And?’
‘Each of the women had the heel of their right stiletto inserted in their vaginal cavity.’
Rhona’s voice betrayed her excitement at the possible connection. ‘Can you get a copy of the case notes?’
McNab looked pleased with himself. ‘My colleague stateside emailed me the material last night.’
Magnus had reiterated what they all knew – the killer must have a history building up to the first kill. The world was a small place. New York to Prestwick by plane in seven hours.
‘Are the forensic results included?’
‘Should be in there. I’ve forwarded the whole thing to Bill and Janice, but why don’t we take a look together after we finish at Cardross?’
Rhona tried to read McNab’s expression – difficult as he kept his eyes firmly on the road.
‘Okay.’
They were entering Dumbarton. The massive volcanic crag with its rooftop castle dominated the horizon. From school history Rhona knew this had once been the capital of the Kingdom of Strathclyde. Dumbarton castle was a Scottish Royal Fortress as were Edinburgh and Stirling. If Prince Charles ever took over as king, he’d have to come to Dumbarton Castle to accept the keys. A sudden downpour greeted their
arrival on the main street. The wipers had no chance against the deluge of water, so McNab pulled over.
‘Good job we weren’t in the culvert,’ McNab said.
‘What happened about that?’
‘This was forecast so they put it on hold. I’m waiting for a plan of the entire culvert and access manholes. A team is up at the loch taking a look at the outfall.’
They watched the curtain of water descend on the windscreen, obscuring everything.
‘Just like Nigeria,’ McNab reminded her.
When the rain subsided, he drew out again. Minutes later they were in Cardross.
‘
NO HARBOUR, THEN
,’ Rhona concluded.
They’d been up and down the main street, found a church, a pub, and a sign pointing the way to the local golf course, but no indication of a harbour.
‘Let’s see if we can get closer to the water.’
McNab took the next left, which led through a small housing development then over a railway crossing, finally reaching the water’s edge. The road continued as a single track, skirted the shore and ended a few yards further on, at the closed gate of a lumber yard.
‘Looks like this is it,’ McNab said.
At first glance it was obvious why the nearest harbour was further west at Rhu. The tide was out, exposing a blanket of seaweed that stretched into the distance, suggesting shallow water.
On the other side of the river, Rhona could see the two cream-coloured towers of the new flats on the Greenock foreshore. The older Gibshill housing scheme, known locally as the Gibbie, climbed the hill behind. The view was definitely more impressive from the opposite side.
Rhona got out and extracted her wellies and forensic case from the boot.
McNab joined her, sniffing the air. ‘Pongs a bit.’
‘
Fucus ceranoides
, smelly seaweed to you.’
‘I’ll check out the lumber yard and railway station, then do a bit of house-to-house.’ McNab glanced at the threatening sky. ‘I’ll leave you the car, just in case.’
Rhona decided to start in front of the lumber yard and walk eastwards towards the railway station, taking samples on her way. For the first half-hour she was alone apart from the circling seagulls. No vehicles approached the yard using the nearby track and she assumed there must be a bigger entrance on the other side. She saw a couple of cars arrive to meet an incoming train, but no one out walking their dogs along the grey grit beach scattered with broken concrete.
There was still no sign of McNab when she came level with the station. A train pulled in and a few passengers disembarked and headed towards the main street, leaving her alone again. As she retraced her steps, Rhona was struck by how secluded the spot was. A car parked here at night would be hidden, its lights shielded by the ten-foot privet hedge bordering the nearest garden.
By the time McNab reappeared, Rhona had taken refuge in the car and called in to check how things were at the lab. Chrissy had sounded excited.
‘The remainder of the soil you gave me to sieve? I found something else.’
‘Another hair?’
‘A paint flake.’
Paint was very specific, in the case of cars even down to make, model and year. As evidence of association, it
could prove invaluable. They chatted on for a few minutes, Rhona promising to be back soon, then she spotted McNab approaching in the driver’s mirror and rang off.
McNab threw open the door with gusto.
‘You found out something?’
‘The privet hedge owner, Mr Evans, reports a car down here on Sunday night. He suspected late-night drinking by local youths and took down the registration number.’
‘Thank God for good citizens.’
McNab rang in and asked Janice to check the number. She gave him an update on his request for train services.
‘Cathy could have got here by train,’ he told Rhona. ‘They run every half an hour until 11.24 p.m., even on a Sunday.’
Rhona was working out a possible scenario in her head. Cathy arriving here by train, meeting a car by the shore.
‘Did Mr Evans hear anything?’
‘Apparently the stereo was very loud, which is what alerted him to the car being here in the first place.’
If Cathy tried to get away in the dark, maybe she stumbled into the water. That would account for the boots. Maybe she was shot right here on this beach?
‘I think we should take another look at the shoreline,’ Rhona said.
They concentrated on the area above the high-water mark, walking it side by side. An hour later they gave up.
‘Too much rain.’
McNab was right. It was useless.
‘Okay, let’s head for Rhu,’ he suggested. ‘According to Mr Evans, lots of Glasgow sailors berth there. Members of the cruising club apparently sail all over the globe, not only in Scottish waters.’
The marina lay just west of the town of Helensburgh. It followed the same pattern as Inverkip, all facilities available on site, including boat and engine repair. They checked in at reception, causing a flurry of interest. Visits from the police appeared to be rare in Rhu. Rhona wondered how soon it would be before the whole marina and village knew of their arrival, despite McNab’s request that it be kept low-key.
They split up again, Rhona to sample and McNab to ask questions. He sought her out a short while later to deliver Commodore Lang’s offer of coffee in his office overlooking the harbour. Lang turned out to be a surgeon who’d spent most of his career in Glasgow and was now retired and living in Rhu.
‘A reasonable proportion of our members are Glasgow based,’ he said, answering a question from McNab. ‘Or work in the city. This is the only marina on the north of the estuary, which makes it quite popular.’
McNab’s request for members’ contact details caused Lang some concern. ‘Of course, if you think it’s necessary.’
‘Just one of our many lines of enquiry,’ McNab reassured him. ‘Does the information include photographs?’
Lang nodded. ‘Everyone is issued with an ID card. Goes with the times, I’m afraid.’
‘You don’t happen to have any Americans on your books?’
Commodore Lang looked surprised. ‘In the days of Polaris in the Holy Loch we had quite a few,’ he smiled in fond memory. ‘The submarines have moved up Gare Loch to Faslane, but the Americans have gone, I’m afraid. Apart from an occasional sailing visitor.’
The commodore promised to email them a copy of the members’ database, to include ID photos. McNab asked Lang to keep the request confidential until he heard from them again, keeping his expression neutral so as not to alarm him.
The commodore looked relieved. ‘We’re a law-abiding bunch here.’
‘You don’t happen to know a Charles Beattie who runs a sailing club for kids across at the Kip Marina?’ McNab’s parting shot brought a smile to the commodore’s face.
‘I certainly do. Charlie often brings his juniors over to compete in our dinghy section.’
BILL ESCAPED TO
his office and shut the door. He needed time to think. That was the problem with a murder hunt, all effort and activity and no time for contemplation. He sat in the old leather swivel seat that had been his predecessor’s. DI Jock Martin had taken him under his wing when he’d entered CID. Jock had died of a heart attack at sixty, shortly after his retirement. When Bill visited him in hospital, Jocky told him his heart had beat too long and fast when he was in the job. He’d worn it out.
Bill’s own heart had raced a few times recently. Both at home and at work. Like most people, he paid little attention to the muscle that beat in his chest. Never noticed it until the rhythm changed, which had been happening a lot recently, like this morning when he’d listened to Cathy’s call from beyond the grave.
The thought crossed his mind that someone had seen him with Cathy at the Barras. And that someone had told Minty. Until now, he hadn’t associated Minty with the Necropolis murders. Had Lucie been the only one to die, Minty would have been centre frame. But Bill’s gut told him Minty was involved somehow in
Cathy’s death. How Cardross fitted into the picture, he had no idea.
His run in with the Super after the morning’s meeting hadn’t helped Bill’s mood. Sutherland didn’t voice it outright, but it was clear he thought the DI wasn’t on top of the job. Choosing not to argue his case seemed to make matters worse. The notion he should excuse himself because of worry over Margaret was anathema to Bill. His wife had never failed to do her job, despite worrying about him for twenty years.