In Place of Death (6 page)

‘I'm just popping in to see Mrs McBriar. I want to pay for the glass and the lampshade. You'll make sure my father is comfortable, won't you?'

Jess nodded as quickly as she could.

‘Good.'

Narey looked into her eyes and nodded back. Message understood.

She knocked briskly on the door of the woman who doubled as the home's owner and manager and entered without waiting for a reply. McBriar looked up from behind her desk, clearly
surprised.

‘Miss Narey. Is something wrong? Can I help you?'

‘Yes you can. I'd like to talk to you about Jess.'

Robert Henaghan. Richard Hendry. Ravindra Hegde. Ryan Hughes. Robert Hillman. Rohak Handoo. Reggie Haynes. The seven adult male missing persons in the UK with the initials RH.
Narey already knew the names off by heart and recounted them over and over as she walked round the mortuary at the Southern General. It wasn't the perfect place to be immediately after a
visit to the nursing home but it was where she needed to be. She needed to work.

Henaghan. Hendry. Hegde. Hughes. Hillman. Handoo. Haynes. It became a verse in her head with a rhythm all of its own, singing to her as she worked her way through the clothing and meagre
belongings of Henaghan, Hendry, Hegde, Hughes, Hillman, Handoo or Haynes.

The first evidence bag contained the navy-blue fleece. Size large. Department store label. Pretty cheap. It was streaked with damp and smelled of death and the tunnel. It was lined and
elasticated with a zip all the way to the neck.

She didn't like the new mortuary much. It was brand-spanking-new, state-of-the-art shiny, with every possible facility required to host mortuary and forensic services under one roof. But
it lacked soul. Maybe that would come with time but for now it left her as cold as the stainless-steel tables with a bank of cameras pointing at each.

Everyone else had gone home for the night and she was alone with the evidence bags, the clothing and the seven. Henaghan. Hendry. Hegde. Hughes. Hillman. Handoo. Haynes.

Ravindra Hegde didn't seem a likely name for a white man with reddish hair. Neither did Rohak Handoo. She wasn't naïve enough to rule them out on that alone but both were also
too short. The rumour was that Hegde had owed money to the wrong people and that he'd never be found. Handoo had had a bust-up with his in-laws but beyond that no one had said anything about
where he might have gone.

Henaghan, Hendry, Hughes and Hillman. Henaghan, Hendry, Hughes and Hillman.

The two-tone blue nylon cagoule had survived better than the fleece. It was a good make, expensive. Large. The label at the neck had been snipped off. Odd thing to do with a designer brand. The
part of the label that remained had the hint of lettering in black felt pen.

Robert Hillman from the Western Isles would be forty-nine now. He had learning difficulties and his elderly parents had started a poster campaign that was carried across the country. It was
thought that maybe he'd fallen into a river or walked into a peat bog and never got out.

Henaghan, Hendry, Hughes and Haynes.

She missed the low red brick of the old City Mortuary near the High Court on the Saltmarket. Sure it was cramped, cold and outdated but it was the real thing. Bricks and mortar. Rough and ready.
Memories and legends. The victims of Bible John and Peter Manuel had been laid out there. It had an atmosphere that you couldn't miss. It had scared her witless the first time she was in
there on her own. The new place couldn't scare her if it tried. Its ghosts were all just children.

Reggie Haynes was of Jamaican parentage and his photographs showed he had a distinctive hooked nose. The age and height would have fitted but nothing else seemed to.

Henaghan, Hendry and Hughes. Henaghan, Hendry and Hughes.

She picked up the bag containing the dead man's disintegrating shoes. The fact that they'd survived as well as they had was testament to their good quality. They were lightweight and
flexible hiking boots, Gore-Tex lined with a tough rubber sole. Expensive. Size nine.

Robert Henaghan had dark hair and was just five foot seven. He'd said goodbye to his wife at breakfast and left to go to his office but never arrived. There had been debts and doubts but
no one ever knew if he'd simply disappeared or if something had happened to him.

The white T-shirt was cheap and mass-produced. Medium. Shop's own label.

She'd gathered her MIT squad together in Pitt Street and tasked them with brainstorming ideas of who the man was and why he'd been killed where he had. The suggestions had come thick
and fast, some more helpful than others. Loner. Geologist. Local historian. Dealer looking for somewhere to hide his stash. Hermit. Schizophrenic. Potholer.

Did any of these tags apply to their man? Was Hendry a geologist, was Hughes or Haynes a hermit? Was Henaghan a risk taker? Did Hillman go willingly with his killer and, if so, why?

All the loose thoughts would be examined, every thread pulled until something unravelled. Hopefully. These would be hard yards. Nothing more than a methodical slog.

Ryan Hughes had been missing since he was seven years old in Swansea. God only knew what height he was or where he had been living. No one even knew if he'd reached eight. For a while, the
broken faces of his parents had become familiar on television, then they too slowly disappeared from view.

Rico Giannandrea was on her MIT squad. Until a few months earlier, they'd both been DSs at Stewart Street and the situation would have been awkward if it had been anyone else. Not Rico
though. If he had to ride shotgun then he'd be the best shotgun in town; there on time, full of bright ideas and positivity. He'd be that way as a DS until he wasn't a DS any
more.

It was Rico who had suggested they might be looking at someone reckless. A risk taker. Maybe someone who'd done something equally stupid before. Maybe something a profiler could work
with.

Why the hell would anyone need three torches? Three of them tucked away inside the nylon backpack along with spare batteries. Had he intended to live down that tunnel for a month? The Swiss Army
knife made sense if he had been hillwalking or camping but why three torches?

The mortuary was silent and cold. Not cold like the old place where it made you shiver on a summer's day. Sterile cold, like the sluiced-down tables and floors you could eat your dinner
off. All she could hear was the faint buzz of electricity and the names that danced through her head.

The squad was sure that the location meant that the killer knew Glasgow well. They guessed that maybe five per cent of people even knew the Molendinar Burn existed. Less than half of those would
know you could get into it or where. She remembered scribbling on her whiteboard.
Local. Knowledgeable.

Richard Hendry was already five foot eleven when he'd disappeared aged seventeen. Chances were he'd grown more than enough to be taller than the man in the tunnel. He'd been in
his last year at school when he failed to return from a night out with friends. The search for him had gone viral, hitting every teenage Facebook page in the land, but he was never seen again.

Rico had been sure that killer and victim had gone into the tunnel together. The chances of the murderer stumbling across him there were minuscule. Yes, he could have followed him but it seemed
much more likely they'd gone down there together. Narey had written on the whiteboard again.
Killer known to victim?

No one knew how many people went missing in Scotland or the UK every year. The best guess was far too many. Some went missing but were never reported, others were reported out but never back in
again. The ones old enough to be thought capable of looking after themselves, they could bugger off and go where they liked. More difficult these days of course when every transaction leaves a
digital trail but still quite possible to do.

She had interviewed too many distraught parents whose grown-up baby had done a disappearing act and had to tell far too many of them that there was nothing she could do. Not until the kid was
harmed or broke the law. If they ended up living under an underpass or begging for change in London then there was a good chance they'd disappear forever.

Henaghan, Hendry, Hegde, Hughes, Hillman, Handoo and Haynes. She wandered round in the room's harsh white light and hummed the tune to herself as she walked and thought.

She'd already decided that an artist's impression of this guy wasn't going to cut it. They were going to need a facial reconstruction. She'd put in a call to a friend,
Professor Kirsten Fairweather at the Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification at Dundee University, to ask if her department would do a 3D reconstruct. Kirsten had been only too happy to help
and was making arrangements to get the process started. It would, of course, take time, and until then there was no choice but to continue to do it old-school.

Dental records were en route for all seven RHs on her list but she knew they were unlikely to match. None of the seven seemed a fit to the man in the tunnel but their names still worked for her,
giving her a beat to work to, the rhythm of the lost.

She left the room and wandered the corridor for a bit, following her thoughts and staring idly into one of the smaller rooms used to counsel bereaved families. It was a halfway house between the
living and the dead, all pastel colours and adjustable lighting. Would there be anyone to come and see the remains of the Molendinar Man? Anyone to say yes, that's my son, my husband?

She turned and retraced her steps, feeling suddenly anxious to be with the evidence bags, to hold the clothes again and see the man that wore them, her thoughts coming together and a puzzle
falling into place.

What did the clothing tell her? A mismatch of sizes and quality. The victim was either a man who just didn't care much about what he wore or didn't have much choice. She knew plenty
of men who didn't give much thought to their wardrobe, Tony for one, but they generally at least wore clothes that fitted them.

The cagoule with the cut-off label had to be second-hand. It looked it too. The rest was cheap but functional. All except the shoes. They'd been bought new and the man hadn't skimped
on the price.

Clothing worn, definitely seen better days. Maybe worn for longer than the time in the tunnel. A fleece
and
a cagoule? It wasn't that cold yet, not unless you were outside a lot.
Good shoes that fitted him but not the pattern.

They'd wondered about him being a farmer, a postman or a road sweeper but there were plenty of reasons other than a job for someone to spend a lot of time outside. Perhaps the lack of a
job.

She had an idea but the torches, all three of them, didn't fit in any way that made sense. Still, at least it was a place to start.

With a final crashing note, the song in her head stopped. Goodbye Henaghan, Hendry, Hegde, Hughes, Hillman, Handoo and Haynes. The man in the tunnel wasn't an RH at all.

Second-hand clothes, worn and dirty. Good footwear an essential. No one to know he'd gone missing. No employer or loved one to call the police. No one can miss you if they don't know
you're there to begin with.

She picked up the evidence bag with the little wooden key ring in it, staring at the initials and seeing them for what they really were. She signed the bag out and slipped it into her coat
pocket, switched off the last of the lights and left the building.

The initials didn't stand for a person's name at all. It was a place. And she was sure she knew where.

When she phoned the operations room the next morning, she couldn't help but sigh inside when it was Fraser Toshney, one of the DCs, who answered. She guessed he'd
have to do.

‘Fraser, meet me in the car park in about ten minutes. Never mind why. We're going to do some visiting. We're going to start at the Rosewood Hotel.'

‘The down-and-outs' place? Really?' He didn't sound best pleased.

‘Yes, really. And after that maybe every shop doorway between here and Dumbarton. And, Fraser? Take that moaning look off your face. Don't think I can't see it.'

‘Yes, Boss.'

Sunday morning

Remy was off work. He'd managed less than half a day collecting trolleys at the store before declaring himself sick. And he was, just not in any way he could explain to
them.

He'd probably always known that his hobby would get him into trouble one day. Going in places he shouldn't. Climbing up things he shouldn't. That's why the word
shouldn't
had been in there. And that's why he'd always done it.

Now he was paying the price. His old man had always said that nothing was free in this world. There was an old coffee table in his dad's front room that he'd ‘got free'
by collecting Kensitas Club coupons that came with his cigarettes and then exchanged at the shop in Cambridge Street. Of course, it wasn't free at all and he paid for it by acquiring
progressive lung disease. Not much of a deal really.

Remy wasn't exactly what you'd call a rebel. No marching to ban the bomb even though he thought they should, no protest against globalization or Starbucks or Nestlé or Disney.
He was more of a quiet rebel, a personal rebel, making his protest against the world by ignoring
No Entry
signs. He didn't need them to tell him what was good for him or bad for him or
whether an old building might fall on his head. It was
his
head.

Maybe loving buildings was his problem. Or loving Glasgow. Or being a bit weird. People might have thought he was odd if they knew he explored derelict hospitals, old schools or abandoned
factories but what the hell would they think if they knew he had found that fucking body?

He couldn't stop thinking about it. Every time he closed his eyes it was there, its face staring back at his. Those empty eye sockets. The chewed cheeks. That poor bugger killed down there
and left to rot. Stuck in that tunnel forever if he hadn't been down there to find him. Now the cops would be examining every bit of him.