Snapshot (44 page)

‘The Crown intimated that it intends to offer both witness testimony and video evidence to prove that Detective Sergeant Monteith carried out the killings. The case attracted global publicity and it is thought that media from many countries will attend the trial which is expected to last several months.’

‘That’s what they think,’ murmured Rachel.

‘He’s definitely going to plead guilty then?’ Winter asked.

‘So he says. And there’s no reason not to believe him. He’s adamant that’s what he’ll do and he’d gain nothing by changing his mind at the last minute to throw the prosecution. He’s bang to rights and he knows it.’

‘And he’ll cough to the lot of them?’

‘Yep. He’s a mad bastard but he’s sane enough to know that he’s as well being hung for a sheep as a lamb. And he still thinks that he should be getting some kind of reward for getting the scum off the street. He wants every bit of credit that’s going.’

‘That’s just so wrong.’

‘Is it? Maybe it suits everybody.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it does. After all this shit, everything matters.’

The news presenter broke into the conversation again when he mentioned the name Chief Superintendent Alex Shirley.

‘. . . of Strathclyde Police said that his force was fully satisfied with its performance during a “difficult and extremely complex” case.’

The camera cut to Shirley looking suitably grave.

‘This has been a very trying time for Strathclyde Police and for the city of Glasgow,’ he said to camera. ‘Given legal constraints, I am clearly limited as to what I can say on this matter at the current time, however I will say that it is with deep regret and personal sadness that I learn of the confirmation that a serving member of this police force has been charged in connection with this series of killings.

‘Strathclyde Police pursued this case diligently and vigorously. If we had known that it was one of our own that was involved then we would have been no less conscientious in doing so. It was not until after the shooting of John Johnstone that, through good old-fashioned police work, we began to suspect DS Monteith’s involvement. Until that point, we were keeping all our options open.’

Winter turned Rachel round so he could see her face.

‘What the fuck? He’s talking bollocks.’

‘Maybe. He’s smart enough not to say anything that could come back to bite him on the arse later. He’s worded that very carefully and the truth’s probably in what he’s not saying.’

‘Such as?’

She pulled her bottom lip over her top one and shrugged.

‘McKendrick? He knew?’ Winter asked her.

Rachel shrugged again.

‘I don’t know for sure. He’s hardly going to let me in on it, is he?’

I’m surprised you’re letting me in on it, Winter thought to himself.

‘But you think he did? Or might have?’

‘Might have,’ she nodded. ‘The look on his face when I told him it was Monteith wasn’t just someone who was surprised. It was way more than that. And it wasn’t just someone who thought he’d get his bollocks fried because one of his officers had done what Monteith did. He thought I was wrong and wanted to tell me why but he couldn’t. He’d thought it was someone else. I’m guessing he’d thought it was McKendrick.’

‘But how could he have known?’

‘Christ, any number of ways. No offence, Tony, but you found out so it should hardly be beyond the bounds of possibility that a detective super could do the same. Even if he hadn’t found out on his own.’

‘Fucksake.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’

‘So the obvious question is that if he’d thought it was McKendrick . . .’

‘Then the obvious answer . . .’

‘Is that he was singing from the same hymn sheet as Monteith.’

‘Except that he just hummed the tune and didn’t go on to actually kill anyone.’

‘He might as well have done.’

‘But he didn’t,’ she said flatly. ‘And the media and the streets are full of people who think that Monteith didn’t do the worst thing in the world. They think that the people he killed did far worse. My guess is that he will be out in ten years. Probably less.’

Before Winter could answer, the news programme butted in again.

‘And in other news, the funeral took place today of a Scots naval officer who displayed what has been described as “outstanding bravery in defence of his country”.’

‘Leading Hand Ryan McKendrick from Dennistoun in Glasgow was cremated in a ceremony accompanied with full military honours.

‘A lone piper played the lament “Flowers of the Forest” and naval colleagues formed a guard of honour as his coffin was carried into Our Lady of Good Council, and then on to Lambhill Crematorium.

‘Lieutenant Commander David Wallace told the congregation that they had lost a brave and determined young man who had suffered personal family loss but found the strength to act in the interests of others. He said that he could not give precise details of LH McKendrick’s actions for reasons of ongoing national security but said that his family and friends could be assured that he had shown conspicuous courage and decisiveness and was a shining example to other young men and women.

‘Lieutenant Commander Wallace also took the opportunity to announce that LH McKendrick is to be posthumously awarded the Military Cross and that this will be presented to his mother Rosaleen at a ceremony in Buckingham Place later this year.

‘Despite being in obvious distress, Mrs McKendrick also addressed the congregation and told them of her pride in her son. She said that she was finding it very difficult to come to terms with the loss of Ryan so soon after the death of her younger son Kieran but that she found comfort in knowing he had died bravely helping others and was grateful for Ryan’s senior officers in privately sharing the circumstances of his passing.’

Rachel grabbed the remote control and switched the television off, falling back onto the bed, her eyes on the ceiling. Above her, Winter saw the three framed original Metinides prints that she’d bought him. The woman hanging from the tallest tree in Chapultec Park, the man electrocuted on the wires and the beautiful Adela Legaretta Rivas after she was knocked down and killed by the car on the Avenida. The most romantic presents anyone had ever bought him.

‘That was the right thing, wasn’t it?’ she asked him.

‘The right thing? I’m not sure what the right thing is any more but I know it’s right that poor woman doesn’t get any more shit in her life that she doesn’t deserve. If Monteith taking the hit for everything means that she gets a moment of comfort in thinking her boy’s a hero then I can live with that.’

Narey thought for a moment, still examining the contours of the ceiling.

‘I can live with that, too,’ she said at last. ‘But can you live with me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think I mean?’

She reached under the pillow and produced a key.

‘It doesn’t mean you’re moving in and it doesn’t mean I want to broadcast it but it does mean you could let yourself in now and again. If you can live with that.’

Winter smiled.

‘Yeah. I think I can live with that.’

He leaned in towards her but his attempt to kiss her was interrupted by her phone ringing.

‘Ignore it,’ he pleaded.

‘No can do,’ she replied, picking it up and looking at the display screen. ‘Cat Fitzgerald,’ she said with a finger to her lips to indicate he should shut up.

A pang of guilt surged through Winter and he was grabbed by an irrational fear at the forensic scientist phoning Rachel at home. What did she want?

‘Hi, Cat.’

‘Hi, Rachel, sorry to call you so late. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

‘No, you’re fine. What’s up?’

‘I’ve finally got those DNA results for you from the condom we recovered in the Oonagh McCullough case.’

There was something in Fitzpatrick’s voice that bothered Rachel but she couldn’t place it.

‘Okay . . . I’m guessing that there’s something wrong if you’re not leaving this till the morning. Bad news?’

‘Not bad news, Rachel, no. More like very strange news.’

Narey and Corrieri were already in the city mortuary in the Saltmarket, the Arctic chill licking at their skin, waiting for Brendan McCullough to join them to formally identify his daughter. Corrieri’s hands were stuck firmly in the pockets of her overcoat and she shuffled from foot to foot as much to fend off her nerves as to keep warm.

‘The first time is always the worst,’ consoled Narey, sensing the DC’s edginess.

Corrieri was grateful for her words but she wasn’t altogether convinced that she’d ever get used to this bit of the job. The pervasive clinical smell that she took to be disinfectant and perhaps formaldehyde was turning her stomach and she was worried that she’d be unable to hold onto it.

The pair fell quiet again, the only sound being the faint buzz of the fluorescent striplights on the high Victorian ceiling.

The door creaked open behind them and the desk sergeant ushered a tense-looking Brendan McCullough into the room. The man’s eyes immediately flew to the covered body in the centre of the room and the two officers saw his mouth drop open in shock before he firmly closed it again. Oonagh’s father stood, almost to attention, dressed smartly in collar and tie beneath his anorak and stared at the shape that he had been summoned to see.

‘Thanks for coming, Mr McCullough,’ opened Narey. ‘We realize how difficult this must be for you.’

The man didn’t look at her but pursed his lips and sternly nodded.

‘Would you like to take a moment to prepare yourself?’ Narey continued, her eyes on McCullough’s.

‘No. No need,’ he replied briskly. ‘I’m ready.’

As if to prove it, he took two steps forward towards the table and stood still again awaiting for Narey to act.

Narey swapped glances with her DC and got a brief nod from Corrieri suggesting that she was ready too.

The DS went to the end of the table, placing herself to one side and indicating to McCullough to take his place on the other. The man moved forward and with a deep breath positioned himself opposite Narey, with Corrieri at his shoulder.

With her eyes on him, Narey reached down and took hold of the cover and slowly pulled it back to reveal the head and shoulders of Oonagh McCullough.

Her father’s eyes opened wide and a gasp escaped from his lips. After a momentary waver, he stood stock-still but shut his eyes tight.

‘Mr McCullough,’ said Narey firmly, ‘I have to ask you to look.’

After a few seconds, his eyes opened again and for the first time since he entered the room, he turned towards Narey, reproachful at her tone.

‘I am sorry, Mr McCullough,’ she continued, ‘but I
do
have to ask you to look. Is this your daughter?’

The man held her gaze for a few moments longer before switching back to the table. Oonagh’s eyes were closed over and her face stripped of the make-up she’d worn when she was killed in Wellington Lane. Her skin was bloodless pale and the livid purple strangulation marks on her throat stood out angrily.

The father looked at the mortal remains of his daughter, his jaw clenched and seemingly determined to avoid any more sounds of weakness leaking out. He stared at the lifeless form in front of him, almost glaring, resentful that she was dead.

‘Yes,’ he barked loudly, his voice ringing round the mortuary. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, quieter this time. ‘It’s Oonagh.’

Narey nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

‘It’s been a long time since you’ve seen her, Mr McCullough. She will have aged considerably in seven years. Are you sure it’s Oonagh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Her hair was auburn but this girl’s is dyed. And there has been dental damage that has altered her expression . . .’

Narey let the question go unrepeated but it hung in the air between them.

McCullough snapped his head round to her angrily.

‘It’s my daughter!’ he replied sharply. ‘It’s Oonagh. I should know my own daughter.’

‘Indeed,’ Narey agreed softly.

‘Has she changed much, Mr McCullough?’ asked Corrieri at his shoulder. ‘Excessive drug use can have such an effect on a person’s appearance.’

He turned to look at her, his eyebrows knotted in momentary confusion.

‘I don’t really . . . yes, of course she has but it’s Oonagh. It’s Oonagh.’

‘It must have been hard to discover what she’d been doing,’ chipped in Narey. ‘That she’d been working on the street.’

The father’s eyes blazed at her furiously.

‘My wee girl wouldn’t do something like that. She wouldn’t be some kind of cheap whore.’

‘Things happen, Mr McCullough. People change,’ replied Narey.

He stared at her, saying nothing.

‘Oonagh had changed so much,’ she continued. ‘It would be perfectly understandable if someone didn’t recognize her right away.’

‘Especially if it was dark,’ added Corrieri.

Brendan McCullough continued to stare at Narey.

‘Look at her, Mr McCullough,’ Narey told him.

The man glared at the DS, battling her gaze. She saw him gulp hard.

‘Look at her!’ she ordered.

McCullough turned hesitantly to look at his daughter.

‘I remember her in those photographs at your house,’ Narey said behind him. ‘Such a pretty thing. She didn’t need all that make-up she wore, did she? Not really.’

The father shook his head, agreeing.

‘She looks better without it, don’t you think? More like your wee girl.’

‘Yes,’ a faint voice came back at her.

‘That’s why you tried to scrub the make-up off her cheek, wasn’t it?’

‘She was such a sweet girl when she was younger,’ he replied. ‘The best daughter you could imagine. Never got herself into any kind of trouble and was always quick to do something for someone else. She was . . . happy.’

‘It must have been hell for you when she left.’

He smiled sadly.

‘Broke my heart. Her mother’s too. Tore me up inside. My wee girl.’

‘She was always that wee girl in your head all those years, wasn’t she? In the picture in your head she was still sixteen.’