The Meating Room (7 page)

‘Define nothing.’

‘Nothing to connect McCulloch with Magner.’

Gilchrist almost stopped. ‘Nothing
at all?
Are you saying they never spoke to each other?’

‘I’m saying they never
phoned
each other.’

‘Keep looking, Stan. There must be something.’ He killed the connection and ran inside.

Gilchrist found Cooper in the post-mortem room, leaning over a hollow carcass – the lump of flesh that had once been the living, breathing body of Amy McCulloch. Two smaller bodies lay on gurneys locked on to the sinks, ready for their own PM examinations. The PM room could handle only three bodies at a time, so Brian McCulloch’s corpse would still be in cold storage, the forensic examination of his murdered family having taken priority.

The sight of the smallest body – Siobhan’s – had Gilchrist’s throat constricting. Life was far too short for fathers to fall out with daughters, so he resolved to phone Maureen, tell her he’d had a change of heart. He would swing by her flat, take her out, answer all her questions about the McCulloch massacre, maybe even show her some crime-scene photographs. He was in Greaves’s bad books anyway, so what difference would it make? He was about to make the call when he caught Cooper signalling to him to come to her office. Once there, he thought Cooper looked tired, as if the morbid task of confirming causes of death for an entire family was too much to bear, even for a pathologist. Or maybe too much bed and not enough sleep had finally caught up with her.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

She raked a hand through her hair, then tossed it. No sexual innuendo in sight. ‘I’d put time of death between three and six yesterday afternoon,’ she said.

‘After the girls got home from school?’

Cooper nodded. ‘Initial blood results on the girls show high levels of benzodiazepine. Not enough to kill them, but it would have put them into a state of unconsciousness. I suspect they were then simply smothered. I’ll be more certain once I’ve examined them.’

All of the date-rape drugs – Rohypnol, GHB, Dormicum, Hypnovel – contained benzodiazepine. Cheap, easy to find, easy to administer. Slip one into a drink and the girls would simply have fallen asleep.

‘What about the mother?’

‘No benzodiazepine,’ she said. ‘Different story entirely.’

‘Alcohol?’

‘Not sufficient to suggest she was anywhere near incapable of defending herself.’

Gilchrist thought for a moment. ‘Did he want her to feel pain?’

‘Even if he did, I don’t think she would have lasted long.’

‘Maybe he was in a hurry.’

Gilchrist had a mental image of Magner’s Aston Martin speeding from Fife to Stirling to establish his alibi. But could anyone really walk into a conference and act normal after doing
this?
– smothering the girls, and beheading, gutting, skinning their mother, then killing their father to make it look like suicide?

‘So far, I’ve identified five knife wounds in the chest, all apparently from the same blade. Any one of them would have been fatal. Considerable force was used,’ she added. ‘One of the wounds was deep enough to nick the spinal cord.’

Gilchrist grimaced as a cold frisson coursed through him. ‘So . . . strong man, not woman?’

‘That would be my guess.’ Cooper looked away for a long moment, as if her mind were elsewhere. Then she faced him again. ‘Almost all of her internal organs have been removed.’

‘Almost?’
he heard himself say.

‘The kidneys have not been touched. They’re retroperitoneal, so would need to be taken out separately.’

Gilchrist felt his breath leave him. An unhealthy spasm gripped his chest. Head, skin, guts, fingernails, toenails, and now most of the internal organs. He sucked in air for all he was worth. What drove someone to kill another human being, then violate their corpse in such a cruel fashion? If the force used to kill Amy McCulloch had been sufficient for one of the knife blows to pierce her body all the way through to the spinal cord, the killer must have exhibited monumental fury.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Cooper admitted.

‘No,’ was all Gilchrist could think to say.

‘You thought he might have done it before?’

‘I haven’t heard back from Jackie yet,’ he said, ‘so she’s likely found no other cases with a similar MO. Which means it’s new, and I’m wrong.’ He frowned. ‘What about surgical competence? Whoever removed the . . . the . . . must have had some idea what he was doing, don’t you think?’

She shook her head, blue eyes creasing at the edges – tiredness from next to no sleep last night or horror from the job today, he could not say. ‘If your purpose is simply to remove the internal organs for the hell of it,’ she said, ‘then no surgical skill is necessary. A saw to cut the ribcage, a rib spreader to hold it open while you cut through the oesophagus, trachea and rectum, then lift the whole lot out in one. Lungs, too.’

Gilchrist felt the bile rising. ‘And
was
a saw used?’

‘It was.’

‘And the ribcage clamped open?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any medical expertise evident at all?’ he asked.

‘The walls of the abdominal and pelvic cavities are scarred in places. So it was a bit ham-fisted. I’d say the killer has some postmortem experience, but no medical training.’

‘But if he
is
a medical professional, he might have scarred the cavities deliberately to make it look like an amateur job.’

‘True,’ she said. ‘So, what are you suggesting?’

Gilchrist rubbed his temples. His mind was buzzing. He had no idea what he was suggesting.

The phone on Cooper’s desk shattered the silence. They both stared at it for four rings, then she reached over and picked up the handset. ‘Yes?’

Gilchrist caught the metallic resonance of a man’s voice, but when Cooper’s gaze darted his way he took it as a silent request for privacy. He walked to the door and was turning the handle when he heard Cooper replacing the handset.

‘That was Mr Cooper,’ she said.

‘You didn’t have much to say to him.’

‘I ran out of things to say to him years ago.’

Silent, Gilchrist waited.

Cooper returned his gaze for what seemed like minutes, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Andy.’

Since her comment in Tentsmuir Forest that morning, he had been expecting her to bring their relationship to an end. After all, she was still married, and now her husband had returned from his overseas and out-of-town philandering to
demand his conjugal rights,
as she had so bluntly put it. Still, he’d hoped for one more evening, maybe another weekend, maybe even two.

‘I understand,’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand at all.’

He returned her hard look. He seemed to be good at saying nothing.

‘I’m sorry for getting you involved.’ She closed her eyes slowly and her lips tightened to warn him that she might be about to say something she would regret.

He stepped towards her, touched her arm.

She opened her eyes and he caught the faintest sparkle of tears. But two quick blinks and they were gone.

‘Do you love him?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I used to think I did. But I see now that I was only in love with what I thought he could provide: security, companionship, intellectual compatibility. God, how wrong was I?’ She seemed to recover. ‘And I’m starting to find out just how spiteful he can be.’

‘Ah,’ said Gilchrist, worried about what was coming next.

He was not disappointed. ‘He knows about you,’ she said.

‘I’m sure he does. We talk on the phone—’

‘Don’t minimise me, for God’s sake. Christ, I hate it when you do that.’

He decided not to retaliate.

‘He knows about you and me. He knows about
us
.’

‘He
suspects—
’

‘No, Andy. He
knows.’

Gilchrist waited a couple of beats. ‘Does that worry you?’

She looked stunned. ‘You’re missing the point.’

He most certainly was.

‘Mr Cooper has thrown down the gauntlet.’

‘Pistols at dawn?’

She cast him a nasty glance that warned him to be careful. ‘He phoned to remind me that he is an important man. And that an important man should be seen in the company of a professional woman – not one who is reputed to be putting it about town like the local slut. I think those were his exact words.’

‘Reputed?’

‘He’s had us followed, Andy.’

‘Ah,’ he said, sensing the manifestation of something unpleasant.

‘He has photographs of us together.’

‘Doing
what,
exactly?’ He smiled at her. ‘Unless he has an X-ray camera that can photograph through stone walls, then all he has are photographs of DCI Gilchrist of Fife Constabulary talking to Dr Cooper in her professional capacity as—’

‘Oh, come on, Andy. I stayed over at yours
last night.’

‘Well, there is that, of course.’

Something seemed to shift within her, and she almost smiled. ‘Aren’t you worried about losing your job?’

‘Two consenting adults showing an interest in each other and developing a mutually respectful relationship that does not interfere in any shape or form with their professional responsibilities is hardly grounds for a sacking.’

‘Even with Chief Super Greaves in the sacking seat?’

‘You know about that, do you?’

‘That you’re not his favourite DCI?’

‘Ah, well, there you go.’

She shoved her hands through her hair, tilted her head back and shook it. If he did not know better, he would have said they were back on track.

‘Why don’t you just leave him?’ he asked.

Her blue eyes danced with his, then she said, ‘I’d better get on.’ She brushed past him and gripped the door handle. ‘I’ll try to get the PM report to you by this evening.’

He shook his head. ‘The day will be done by the time I debrief His Lordship Greaves. Tomorrow’s fine.’ Then, realising he had forgotten to ask earlier, ‘Any benzodiazepine in Brian McCulloch’s toxicology results?’

She nodded. ‘He had no intention of being saved.’

‘So you still think it’s suicide?’

‘I think you’re asking the wrong person. Isn’t that your job?’ She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned back to the door.

‘This might not be an appropriate time,’ he said.

She froze, her hand on the handle.

He hated himself for asking, hoped he did not sound desperate. ‘By the time Greaves is finished with me, I’ll be ready for a pint,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come along? We can talk about Mr Cooper, if you like.’

She gave his words some thought. ‘Yes, you’re correct.’

He felt a flutter of hope.

‘It’s not an appropriate time.’

Then she turned and left him to fester in his self-inflicted misgivings.

As Gilchrist pushed through The Central’s double swing doors, he was hit by the chaotic hubbub of a Scottish Friday night in full swing. The end of the working week – if you were not a DCI with a triple murder and another suspicious death to solve – was typically heralded by alcohol being quaffed as if in fear of a global shortage the following day, maybe even the following hour.

Students, rich and poor; couples, young and old and in between; red-faced caddies, wind-blasted after a day on the golf courses; groups of tourists, many from overseas, looking stunned by the sight or deafened by the noise – it was difficult to tell – filled the seats or swarmed in thirsty groups around the rectangular bar.

Gilchrist had always been intrigued by the name – The Central. Was it because of the pub’s location on Market Street, which was more or less in the centre of St Andrews, or because the bar itself – behind which bartenders glided past each other in the tight aisles with the skilled grace of dancers – was situated in the centre of the room? The conundrum usually lasted a pint or two before it faded to nothing.

Gilchrist located Stan seated in a corner booth with Mhairi, Jessie and Jackie, and signalled to the barman for a beer. Either the others had left early or Gilchrist was arriving late. He glanced at his watch – 8.20 – and decided the latter.

With a pint of Deuchars IPA in hand he waded through the crowd. ‘Room for one more to squeeze in?’ he asked.

Jackie looked up in surprise, her eyes wide behind her blackrimmed specs. Then she reached for her crutches resting against the wall.

‘I’ve got them,’ Gilchrist said, and held them steady as he worked his way past and sat next to Mhairi. ‘And never a drop was spilled,’ he said, then took a mouthful that turned into a gulp.

‘Thirsty, boss?’

Gilchrist returned what was left of his pint to the table. ‘Was I ready for that or what?’

‘So, how’d you get on with Greaves?’ Jessie asked.

Gilchrist nodded at his beer. ‘Can’t you tell? He told me to work the teams twenty-four/seven until we solved the case. I reminded him of his budget and our overtime rate.’

‘Ouch.’

‘The word apoplectic springs to mind.’ Another gulp had his pint close to the bottom. ‘Anyone fancy another?’ he asked.

‘Heh, slow down there, big boy,’ Jessie said. ‘Are you on a promise or what? Talking of which, where is Veronica Lake, anyway?’

Gilchrist pretended not to hear her, and caught the barman’s eye again. He circled the group with his hand, and mouthed,
Same again
. ‘I’m getting a receipt for these, which I’ll present to Greaves. That should test his heart valves for him.’

Stan reached for his pint. ‘In that case, I’ll have another two.’

Jackie laughed and tried to follow the quip with one of her own, but her stutter beat her every time, so she ended up just clapping her hands.

‘Right, Stan,’ said Gilchrist. He did not intend to stay long. He had a busy day – and probably another week or more – ahead of him, and he wanted to hear their thoughts on progress so far. ‘What’s Janice like?’

Stan raised his eyebrows. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb, if you get my drift.’

‘Yeah, but is she boinking Magner?’ Jessie asked.

‘Well, she denied it. Said she’d heard the rumour within the company and was in the process of taking legal advice.’