Cold Grave (16 page)

‘Pictures of Lily,’ Narey murmured.

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s an old song. By The Who, I think. Sorry, I don’t know what made me think of that.’

‘Before my time,’ Fairweather grinned, her smile slowly disappearing, morphing into a frown. She looked at Narey.

‘Rachel, if you want my help to find out who she was and who did this to her, then I’m in.’

Narey’s eyes closed as she bobbed her head in agreement.

‘I do. I wanted to do all this myself but I’m not sure that’s possible. I do want your help.’

Another lengthy pause hung between them as Fairweather weighed up whether to ask the question Narey’s response begged of her. She decided against it.

‘Okay. It will take a bit of time and we’ll need Central’s permission to get the body exhumed. Marty Croy can help with that and it’s probably best if you meet him. From what I can see from the photographs, it should be a piece of cake.’

‘You’ll be able to put a face to her?’

‘I’m sure of it. There will be an amount of guesswork but it will be fairly accurate. The frustrating thing is that it could have been done back then with the right knowhow. It was what it was back in the nineties. We could and would have done so much more with her today. But, all being well, we still can.’

‘How long will it take?’

Fairweather smiled. ‘When it comes to this kind of thing, the old cliché is right: the difficult we can do right away, the impossible takes a little longer. Assuming we are able to exhume her and the skeleton is in good condition, I’ll be able to give you a sketch by the next day. A 3D model will take a while longer. To be honest, and I’m not sure I care how terrible this sounds, I can’t wait to dig her up and begin to put her together again.’

The professor’s chilling enthusiasm reminded Narey of someone else and she made a mental note to keep the two of them apart. Fairweather was young, blonde, pretty and with a ghoulish interest in death. There was no way she was introducing Professor Kirsty to Tony.

‘Kirsty, given that you’d already gone to the trouble to find out so much about the case, why did you ask me to tell you all about her?’

Fairweather grinned.

‘I wanted to know the stuff that isn’t in here.’ She indicated the files. ‘You know better than I do that case notes only tell you so much.’

‘Like my reasons for being involved?’

‘Yes. I like cold cases, Rachel. They tickle my bones. Partly it’s because I like the idea that the victims aren’t forgotten. The very fact that we get involved shows me that someone cares enough to dig them up. I’m always fascinated by the reason why.’

‘It’s my job,’ Narey replied flatly. ‘That’s reason enough.’

Fairweather smiled and they both knew it was more than that.

‘Okay, fair enough,’ the professor nodded. ‘Let’s get to work. I’ll set up a meeting for you with Marty Croy and hopefully that will be the first step to bringing your Lily back. “Pictures of Lily” — that’s what you said, right? I’ll get those for you.’

It took only two rings before Tony picked up. Rachel was sitting in her Megane on the top floor of the multi-storey car park in Bell Street, shivering while snowflakes were swatted away from her windscreen by groaning wipers.

‘Hi. It’s me.’

‘I know. Display, remember. How did you get on with your professor?’

‘She’s going to do it.’

He could hear the excitement in her voice and was pleased for her. Although he was also increasingly worried she was investing too much of herself in this and he hated to think how she’d be if it didn’t pan out as she hoped. Still, they both needed her to know that he was on her side about it.

‘Great. That’s brilliant news, Rach. How long does she reckon she will need to do it?’

‘It all depends on how long it will take for her to convince Central to get their arses into gear. After that it hopefully won’t be more than a matter of days.’

‘What was she like?’

Rachel hesitated.

‘She was fine. Nice. It’s snowing a bloody blizzard up here. What’s the weather like back in civilisation?’

‘Freezing but not snowing at the moment.’

‘Good. Have you managed to find the other emails between Paton and Irving?’

‘Give me a chance! I’m not sure where the hell to start but it’s do-able in theory. The emails still exist somewhere out there in cyberspace. We just need to find out where.’

‘Find them for me? Please?’

‘I’ll try. When are you coming back down the road?’

‘Right now. What are you up to?’

‘Just sitting in my office waiting for a call so I can get away from this bloody filing. I’m bored off my tits.’

She laughed at him down the end of the phone.

‘Sitting there praying for a nice car crash or a stabbing?’

‘No,’ he answered defensively. ‘Well, yes. A bit.’

‘Sick fucker,’ she laughed again and then she was gone.

She was right though. If there was a choice between admin or photographing the fallout from Glasgow’s endless affection for violence, then it was a no-brainer. The truth was that he’d have chosen it over most things. As if on cue, the office door burst open and Paul Burke stuck his head round the door.

‘All right? Shift your arse. We’ve got a job.’

‘Something interesting?’

‘Suicide.’

Winter groaned. Suicides were far and away his least favourite subject matter. The fact that they intended their own demise took all the fun out of it for him.

‘Well, if you don’t want it, fair enough,’ Burke told him. ‘Two Soups will be more than happy to have me doing the photos and we all know how much you hate that.’

Campbell Baxter never wanted Winter on any job but that wasn’t what Burke was getting at — there was something else here. The grin playing round the edges of Burke’s mouth told Winter that he was at it. And there was also a glint in the man’s eye that suggested he was excited about this job, whatever it was. Burke was probably the only one on the forensic team whose appetite for gore came anywhere near to matching Winter’s.

‘So what aren’t you telling me, Burkey?’

Burke grinned even wider.

‘It’s a belter.’

The hairs on the back of Winter’s neck instantly stood up.

‘Better than the samurai guy?’

‘Way better.’

‘What is it?’

‘Someone stepped out in front of an express train at Cambuslang station. Body parts spread to the winds. Interested now?’

Winter was out of his chair and pulling on his coat in one swift movement. He was halfway to the door and past Burke before the forensic even had time to laugh.

‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then, shall I?’

‘Take it as anything you want,’ Winter shouted back at him over his shoulder. ‘But get a move on.’

Burke filled him in on what had happened as they drove to Cambuslang. The station had gained a reputation for jumpers over the years and a lot of drivers hated going through it. The express would belt through the platform at top speed and if someone were crazy enough to step in front of a train, then they’d be wiped out immediately.

It was the certainty of death that attracted them to it. A thousand tonnes of metal hitting twelve stones of flesh, tissue and brittle bone at nearly a hundred miles an hour wasn’t much of a contest. Sometimes the train would do such a number on the body that forensic teams were called in just to prove it had actually happened. Traumatised drivers would tell of someone stepping in front of their train but there would be no physical sign of it having taken place. The body could instantly be vaporised on the windscreen, leaving nothing but trace elements that could be washed away by a shower of rain.

That was all assuming that the jumper got it right.

Death didn’t become such a certainty if you stepped in front of the wrong train. If it was a slow train, then that could mean broken bones, paraplegia, brain injuries; any number of things that stopped short of death, worse than death. So, it became apparent the would-be jumpers did their homework first, stalking out station platforms, getting to know which trains stopped and which didn’t, memorising the express timetables and also the goods diesels that thundered through without even blinking at the platform. They promised the sweet certainty of an instantaneous demise.

There could be halfway houses though. If the jumper stepped out a fraction too soon, then they fell under the wheels and ended up cut in two — or three. But the real kicker was when they stepped out a fraction too late, perhaps held back by fear or a last-second change of heart. Then the train might catch them a glancing blow, albeit a thousand tonne — hundred miles an hour glance that could be very messy indeed. Then people standing on station platforms had been known to have been showered in blood, bone and entrails as the jumper was ripped to bits.

Stations like Linlithgow on the Glasgow — Edinburgh line had seen their share of jumpers over the years. It was a busy platform, with commuter crowds to provide camouflage for the desperate, yet at the same time express trains battered through without a care in the world. Cambuslang, in the east end of the city, fitted the profile on the West Coast Main Line. Not the way out of Central Station towards London though, as you couldn’t be sure that the express had built up a proper head of steam; instead you would wait on the westbound platform for it to make its return journey, ready to catch it before it puts its brakes on ahead of Dalmarnock. You’re not in a hurry if you’ve got nowhere to go.

Winter and Burke didn’t say much on the drive over from Pitt Street. Once Burke had filled him in on what had happened, they both lapsed into a brooding silence, their minds full of possibilities. Although they both had an appetite for what lay ahead, Burke’s was professional while Winter’s was obsessional. Burke would enjoy the unusual, visceral nature of the case; Winter would positively feast upon it.

As soon as they got on to Main Street in Cambuslang, the quiet organised chaos of the newly formed crime scene loomed large before them and they could see officers directing traffic and a few white-suited worker bees already busying themselves with the business of death.

Winter’s itch flared and he found himself hoping the carnage was every bit as bad as Burke had promised. The forensic pulled into the first available space, not having to worry about the double yellows because of the badge displayed on his windscreen. The pair tumbled out of the car and Winter hurriedly grabbed his camera bag from the boot.

As they ducked under the tape, Winter looked to his left and saw a woman standing, ashen-faced, a shopping bag in her hand, fifty yards or so away. She seemed to be rooted still in shock and the hairs on Winter’s neck tingled as he looked at her and wondered what she’d seen. He wanted to stand and stare at her but Burke called him on and in seconds they were running down the stairs to the station concourse, landing on the grim brick reality of Cambuslang station, all blackened stone and dreary concrete — a depressing sight at the best of times.

An anxious huddle of people, maybe a dozen of them, were standing against a wall, corralled there by two uniformed police officers, one of them taking notes at the front of the line. Winter could see the emotions on the would-be commuters’ faces ranged from disbelief to nervous excitement. A burly figure in a white coverall was waving his arms around theatrically, gesturing angrily at those near him to get a move on. Campbell Baxter’s actions were those of a man under pressure. He turned at the sound of Winter and Burke coming down the stairs, a glare immediately attaching itself to his face.

‘About time,’ he snapped at them. ‘Get yourselves covered up. Winter, do what you have to do but get it done quickly. There’s work to be done so I can get these people out of here.’

As ever, Two Soups had little regard for Winter’s photography skills and, as ever, Winter would pay him no heed and take as much time as he felt necessary. It was an arrangement only one of them was happy with.

‘Where’s the train?’ Winter asked him, regretting the stupidity of the question as soon as it was out of his mouth.

‘Glasgow Central,’ Baxter told him condescendingly. ‘It was halfway there before anyone knew anything about it. It can’t stop on a sixpence, you know. It will be examined, and photographed, there.’

Baxter caught the look of annoyance that crossed Winter’s face.

‘Oh, don’t worry, Mr Winter,’ Two Soups replied tersely. ‘There’s more than enough here to be keeping you busy. We haven’t found all of him yet. Speak to the sergeant. He’ll point you in the right direction. Well… directions.’

Sergeant Willie Scott was old school, the kind of copper who had been round the block twice and hadn’t been surprised by any of it the first time round. He nodded his head at Winter as he saw him approach, giving off nothing more than an air of mild bemusement at what was going on around him.

‘Awrite, son? I hope you’ve got plenty of film in that camera of yours. This poor bastard is in more bits than ten jigsaw sets.’

‘We don’t use film,’ Winter started to tell him. ‘It’s all digi—’

‘I know, son,’ Scott wearily interrupted him. ‘I’m not completely fucking stupid. Right, here’s the script. The guy was thought to be in his forties, stepped in front of the big choo choo train and was smashed to smithereens. We think his torso was blown away but there’s a hand way down the far end of the platform and something that might be a bit of shoulder near it. There’s pieces of him up on the main street too. We haven’t got a head and maybe we won’t get one. That do you?’

Winter nodded, trying not to give away the surge of adrenalin that was coursing through him. The general view of him among the cops was probably strange enough without making it worse. He turned and headed for the end of the platform where the suicide guy’s hand was.

The platform end was unguarded and Winter could hear the echo of his own feet as he approached, their beat marching in time to the pounding of his heart. There it was, right enough, a hand cut clean off just above the wrist. Whatever shirt or jacket had been worn by the arm it was attached to had gone. The hand was already deadly pale. The colour, or lack of it, reminded Winter of the woman outside the railway station and he craved to see what she had seen.