The Reborn (38 page)

‘Perfectly,’ said Bill. Having the Principal witness the interview could prove useful.

Dressed in school uniform and wearing no make-up, Sandie looked youthful again. She politely waited for the Principal to take her seat on the leather couch, then sat beside her. Janice was still seated on one of the armchairs, and Bill took the other.

‘How are you, Sandie?’ he asked.

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘How are the studies going?’

She looked taken aback. ‘OK,’ she said cautiously.

‘My daughter, Lisa, wants to be a doctor,’ he continued. ‘She’s trying for Edinburgh. Chemistry’s her problem too.’ A white lie. ‘I see you’ve been given extra access to the Chemistry lab.’

Sandie said nothing.

‘Her middle name’s Caroline, like yours.’ He put the stress on ‘
Caroline
’.

Just a momentary flicker of her eye and a thinning of her lips, but he thought Sandie had picked up on his cue.

‘I see from your school record that you like amateur dramatics. In fact, you look after make-up and costumes for the group. Have any of the school plays featured a clown costume?’

Ms Porter sat up straighter, clearly aware of the change in atmosphere. Her glance darted from him to Sandie and back again.

‘I’m not sure where this is headed, Detective Inspector? I really—’

Sandie interrupted. ‘It’s OK, Ms Porter. I don’t mind.’ She addressed Bill. ‘Chemistry’s going well this term. My teacher thinks I’ll get an A. And no, there isn’t a clown outfit in the wardrobe department. We do mostly Shakespearean productions.’

Bill was impressed. This seventeen-year-old girl was cool and confident enough to think herself safe. He decided it was time to disabuse her of that belief.

‘OK, thanks for clearing that up. The other reason I came here was to bring good news,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘We’ve found Kira’s baby.’

Ms Porter’s mouth fell open in surprise and delight. ‘Really? That’s wonderful. It is . . . OK?’ she added as a worried afterthought.

Bill was watching Sandie. She was even more surprised than Ms Porter, although not, he thought, quite so pleased.

‘She – Daisy – is alive and well, thank God. But you know that already, don’t you, Sandie? You know because you gave the baby to Geri Taylor, just as you had been told to do by Jeff Coulter.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the girl said, looking puzzled. He had to hand it to her, she was an excellent actress. ‘Who are those people?’

‘You wrote to Coulter, and the two of you began a correspondence. Kira had rejected you from the Daisy Chain gang, and you were hurt and angry. You told him all about it.’

Sandie still looked confused, yet anxious to help. ‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t know anyone called Jeff Coulter.’

‘He’s a psychiatric patient at the State Mental Hospital.’

At this, Ms Porter rose from her seat. ‘Detective Inspector, I really think if you are actively questioning Sandie, her parents should be informed.’

Bill took out his warrant card.

‘Very well. Please tell them Sandie is at the station, helping us with our enquiries into the deaths of Kira Reese-Brandon and Melanie Jones.’

51

The lab was out of bounds to Petersson, and Rhona thought she’d made that plain. Yet apparently he was in reception now, asking to see her. Rhona tried to keep her expression neutral, because Chrissy was already curious about the phone call.

‘I’ll be right down,’ she said shortly.

‘A problem?’ Chrissy asked innocently.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

Chrissy wasn’t buying it. ‘It’s that Icelandic guy, isn’t it? Must be keen if he’s coming here looking for you.’

Rhona ignored the remark. Chrissy was like a shark. Let her scent a single drop of blood and she was in for the kill, your story torn apart and digested in seconds.

Rhona preferred to leave the lab alive and in one piece.

‘Can you log the results on the DNA test? Bill wants to know right away if it’s Kira’s child.’

‘Like there was any chance it wasn’t.’

Chrissy was well aware what Rhona was doing. ‘I’ll still be here when you get back,’ she promised as Rhona exited.

Rhona took her time disrobing. She wanted to keep him waiting, to show him how inconvenient it was that he should go against her wishes and turn up at her place of work. They were not supposed to know one another. There should have been no obvious connection between them. Her annoyance mounted as she dressed and collected her things, although she knew deep down that he wouldn’t have come unless it was important.

A small flame of hope fluttered in her chest, despite her determined attempts to snuff it out. When she saw him, she would tell him she wanted nothing more to do with him or his investigation. But hadn’t he suggested – indeed, insisted – on exactly that at their last meeting? And had she not been the one to argue?

She paused at the foot of the stairs and composed herself before opening the door to reception. Petersson was standing with his back to her, wearing a silly puffa jacket that no doubt was all the rage in Iceland but looked overdone for a damp February afternoon in Glasgow. Then he turned and smiled, disarming her.

She hurried over, anxious that he not say her name in any meaningful way. They should appear as professional strangers.

‘Mr Petersson?’ She reached out to shake his hand, as though they had only just met.

His eyes twinkled, but he played along with the charade. She swept him outside, where he immediately zipped up the puffa jacket while Rhona shivered.

‘I have my car,’ she said.

‘So have I.’

There was a short stand-off before she acquiesced. ‘You can drop me back here.’

They walked swiftly to his car and Rhona slid gratefully into its warmth. Once inside, she expected him to tell her why he had come, but instead he started the engine, indicated and took off up University Avenue.

‘Where are we going?’

‘My flat.’

Rhona opened her mouth to insist she had work to do, then closed it again. Petersson was single-minded, not unlike Rhona herself, and there was obviously something he wanted to show or tell her, something requiring one of the various computers in his flat. If she wanted to know what it was, she would have to go along with him.

The flat was pleasantly warm and messy, as though he had abandoned it minutes before. It smelled as though the coffee machine was on.

‘Coffee?’ he asked as he took her coat.

She nodded.

‘Come through to the kitchen.’

The table was strewn with empty mugs, just as it had been last time she’d seen it. In the corner, three flat screens were lit up and covered in data.

He poured her a coffee and without asking added a measure of whisky. She accepted without remonstration and took a mouthful, which took the damp chill from her bones.

He gave her time to savour it before he said, ‘You had a call to your cottage on Skye.’

She almost choked.

‘How the hell did—?’

‘I made a point of knowing all about you before my first approach. I’ve seen your bank accounts. I know what direct debits you pay. I can even quote your mortgage payments on your flat here in Glasgow. The property in Skye took a little longer to discover, as it was owned by your parents and transferred to you after your father died.’

She was furious that he should have been able to access her private life to that degree, but at the same time impressed. Petersson seemed to operate like the law, but without the law’s knowledge or consent.

‘The call to the cottage came from McNab,’ he said.

‘You don’t know that.’ Her voice trembled.

‘It came from the same mobile as the previous call.’

Even Roy hadn’t been able to get that information. Now she knew. ‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ she said.

‘The voice said only one word, “Rhona”, then hung up. I heard it,’ he said.

She felt a flush mount her cheeks.

‘So?’

‘I compared it to a recording of his voice. It was a ninety-five per cent match.’

Shock was ripping through her, seizing her lungs, stopping her heart.

‘Now do you believe he’s alive?’

She came back fighting. ‘No! He died in my arms.’

‘And was revived in the ambulance.’

‘He died on the operating table.’

‘There was no autopsy.’

‘Post-mortem,’ she corrected him. ‘In Scotland it’s called a post-mortem.’

‘No post-mortem in Scotland, and no autopsy in England.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

He ushered her to a seat in front of one of the screens. ‘Then who is this?’ He clicked and a window opened up. It showed a page of a British passport. The details gave the man’s name as William McCartney. He was thirty-six years of age and had been born in Ballymena, County Antrim, Northern Ireland. The photograph was McNab.

She almost laughed. Someone had turned Michael Joseph McNab, a lapsed Catholic, into an Irish Protestant.

‘Someone has stolen his identity.’

She could sense Petersson’s exasperation.

‘Then who did I just speak to, before I came to fetch you?’

She gaped at him.

‘I can prove it,’ he said.

She waited as Petersson dialled the number, her heart barely beating. He handed her the phone, and the moments during which it tried to connect lasted a lifetime. If McNab were to answer, she thought she might die.

The ringing tone carried on. No switch to voicemail, just endless ringing. She lowered the phone and pressed the button to end the call. Petersson looked at her questioningly.

‘You bastard!’

She rose, but he caught her arm and pulled her back down on the seat. ‘Try again.’

Why she did, she had no idea. Perhaps she had already lost her mind. The ringing tone started again, and crazily she imagined it ringing out in his grave, resounding in the wooden coffin, rising through the six feet of damp black earth that covered him.

The noise stopped. Someone had picked up. Rhona held her breath as she listened to the silence.

‘Hello?’ she said, finally.

Nothing. No words, no breathing. Nothing.

She hung there, suspended for what seemed like an eternity.

Then someone began to whistle a tune. It was the opening bars of
The Sash My Father Wore
, a Protestant tune played by every flute player on every Orange Order march in the west of Scotland during what was known as ‘The Marching Season’. Someone was taking the piss. Please God, it was McNab.

‘Stay, I’ll make us something to eat.’

The aftermath of shock had set in and she didn’t know what to think or how to react. It would be easy to let Petersson take charge. Stay here, eat and relax in the warmth. Savour those moments on the phone.

‘I’d rather go home.’

He studied her expression, recognising he was unlikely to change her mind.

‘I’ll drive you to the lab, you can get your car.’

‘No. Just run me home. I’ll pick the car up in the morning.’

They set off in silence, then he asked what she had heard on the phone. When she told him about the whistled tune, he looked perturbed.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Does he know about the passport?’

‘I assume so.’

She laughed then, because she was beginning to believe. If she were wrong, the fall back into the abyss would be more terrible than before.

‘What happens now?’

‘He will contact you again, and we will meet with him. Together, we will catch Kalinin.’

It sounded ludicrous: resurrect a dead man and get him to testify. But wasn’t that what SOCA had planned without them?

Another bout of laughter seized her, and Petersson regarded her with concern.

‘McNab was a Catholic,’ she explained. ‘Lapsed, but a left-footer all the same. They resurrected him as an Ulster Protestant.’

Petersson had no idea why she found that so funny. Eventually she regained her composure.

‘You said you spoke to him earlier, what did you say?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t exactly speak to him. We exchanged some code words.’

‘What code words?’

‘I said “Dead Man Walking”, then my code name. He gave his in return.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I still don’t know for certain it was him.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say his name. ‘He never spoke.’

‘You said he whistled a tune. He must have thought it would mean something to you?’

‘It was a joke of his. He hated the Catholic–Protestant division in the west of Scotland. Always made a point of whistling the wrong tunes in the wrong pubs. It got him into trouble.’

She said goodbye at the door and went up alone. She could tell he’d wanted to come in, perhaps thinking his discovery might be rewarded by sex. Or, to give him more credit, maybe he’d been perturbed by her reaction to the phone call.

The thought of it brought laughter bubbling up inside her again. Was it because the situation was so ridiculous? Or was it joy?

Who else but McNab would make such a call?

52

The teenage girl sitting across the table from Bill could not have looked more innocent. Dressed in school uniform, hair tied neatly back, fresh-faced, Sandie looked as though she would be incapable of squashing a fly without remorse.

But if he was right, this girl had knocked Kira out with chloroform and surgically removed her unborn child, smothered Melanie and stabbed David. It seemed impossible, even ludicrous.

Why then was he so sure it was true?

He recalled Coulter’s intensity, the strange magnetism of the man. Could he have influenced this girl enough to make her carry out such crimes? It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened – young, impressionable women being in thrall to evil men. Charles Manson was a famous example. But as far as he was aware, Sandie had never met Coulter. He had been incarcerated for the past two years. If they had been in contact at all, it was through letters and an occasional phone call. Was that enough?