database. She also had a DNA profile for Stephen with the help of some clothes from Carole’s flat and a toothbrush. That way she had ruledout the possibility that the man who killed Carole was Stephen’s natural father.
So much information and yet still they knew nothing. Two women and a boy dead, another boy missing. The cross on the bodies of Carole and Abel suggested a common attacker, or at least a common theme to the attacks.
Which led to the bones.
Rhona pulled up a photo of the crossed bones onto her computer screen. She had passed the originals found in the garden to Judy Brown, the anthropologist at GUARD. Finding their origins wouldn’t be the problem. What they meant, if anything, in the context of the crime might prove more difficult.
She drafted a short email to Sam and attached the photo. Maybe his Nigerian mother could throw some light on their significance.
It was pitch-black outside. Time had rushed by unnoticed in a flurry of forensic activity. Day two of the enquiry at an end and they were nowhere nearer finding Stephen.
When Rhona heard the door open, McNab was the last person she expected to see.
He glanced up at the wall clock. ‘Thought you’d still be working.’
He spoke as though he knew her intimately. The idea rattled her. She waited in silence for him to explain why he was here, conscious that her heart had upped its beat.
‘I wanted to know if the body was Stephen’s.’
‘It isn’t.’
He gave a relieved shrug, then looked ashamed. ‘That just means we have another dead kid.’
Rhona tried to recall what it was about McNab that had made her invite him into her bed. Laughter was one of the reasons. When she was with him she laughed a lot, about work, the politics of the police force, life in general. Sex was hot, long lasting and satisfying. Being with him was like being on holiday, then the holiday ended and she came back to reality.
The silence between them was growing more uneasy with every second. She wanted to break it, but didn’t know how. He looked increasingly uncomfortable and she felt bad because of it. That was the trouble with women. They always wanted to make people happy. You can’t make an old lover into a friend, particularly if you dumped him.
He noticed the image of the bones on the computer screen and came forward for a better look. To step away would have looked silly. Rhona stayed where she was.
A scent stays in the memory longer than any other sense. It can trigger flashbacks, where visual images would not. Victims of violent crime know that more than anyone. An attacker’s scent never goes away. It lies coiled in the subconscious, a snake waiting to strike. A rush of emotions swept through Rhona, sexual attraction followed closely by something resembling fear. For a split second she wondered if this was what abused women felt about the men who both loved and hurt them. Attraction and revulsion inextricably woven together.
‘Are you okay?’
By the expression on his face, she had rattled McNab as much as he had her.
‘In need of a stiff drink and some food, that’s all.’
It was the wrong answer. He would offer to take her for a drink and she would have to refuse. The professional veneer they were operating under would crack and they might have to talk about what was really going on.
‘I won’t offer to buy you one,’ he joked.
He looked sorry and she suddenly realised he was trying to be normal with her. Trying harder than she was.
‘There’s no law against the CSM buying the Chief Forensic a drink.’
This was how it had to be played. Easy. As though nothing had happened between them, nor ever would.
A weight lifted off his shoulders and he smiled.
‘Okay . . . you’ve persuaded me.’
They walked down University Avenue an arm’s length apart. The jazz club didn’t serve food, but Rhona chose to go there anyway. Eating with McNab was too friendly. A drink in a busy bar populated by colleagues felt safer.
Sam wasn’t
So much information and yet still they knew nothing. Two women and a boy dead, another boy missing. The cross on the bodies of Carole and Abel suggested a common attacker, or at least a common theme to the attacks.
Which led to the bones.
Rhona pulled up a photo of the crossed bones onto her computer screen. She had passed the originals found in the garden to Judy Brown, the anthropologist at GUARD. Finding their origins wouldn’t be the problem. What they meant, if anything, in the context of the crime might prove more difficult.
She drafted a short email to Sam and attached the photo. Maybe his Nigerian mother could throw some light on their significance.
It was pitch-black outside. Time had rushed by unnoticed in a flurry of forensic activity. Day two of the enquiry at an end and they were nowhere nearer finding Stephen.
When Rhona heard the door open, McNab was the last person she expected to see.
He glanced up at the wall clock. ‘Thought you’d still be working.’
He spoke as though he knew her intimately. The idea rattled her. She waited in silence for him to explain why he was here, conscious that her heart had upped its beat.
‘I wanted to know if the body was Stephen’s.’
‘It isn’t.’
He gave a relieved shrug, then looked ashamed. ‘That just means we have another dead kid.’
Rhona tried to recall what it was about McNab that had made her invite him into her bed. Laughter was one of the reasons. When she was with him she laughed a lot, about work, the politics of the police force, life in general. Sex was hot, long lasting and satisfying. Being with him was like being on holiday, then the holiday ended and she came back to reality.
The silence between them was growing more uneasy with every second. She wanted to break it, but didn’t know how. He looked increasingly uncomfortable and she felt bad because of it. That was the trouble with women. They always wanted to make people happy. You can’t make an old lover into a friend, particularly if you dumped him.
He noticed the image of the bones on the computer screen and came forward for a better look. To step away would have looked silly. Rhona stayed where she was.
A scent stays in the memory longer than any other sense. It can trigger flashbacks, where visual images would not. Victims of violent crime know that more than anyone. An attacker’s scent never goes away. It lies coiled in the subconscious, a snake waiting to strike. A rush of emotions swept through Rhona, sexual attraction followed closely by something resembling fear. For a split second she wondered if this was what abused women felt about the men who both loved and hurt them. Attraction and revulsion inextricably woven together.
‘Are you okay?’
By the expression on his face, she had rattled McNab as much as he had her.
‘In need of a stiff drink and some food, that’s all.’
It was the wrong answer. He would offer to take her for a drink and she would have to refuse. The professional veneer they were operating under would crack and they might have to talk about what was really going on.
‘I won’t offer to buy you one,’ he joked.
He looked sorry and she suddenly realised he was trying to be normal with her. Trying harder than she was.
‘There’s no law against the CSM buying the Chief Forensic a drink.’
This was how it had to be played. Easy. As though nothing had happened between them, nor ever would.
A weight lifted off his shoulders and he smiled.
‘Okay . . . you’ve persuaded me.’
They walked down University Avenue an arm’s length apart. The jazz club didn’t serve food, but Rhona chose to go there anyway. Eating with McNab was too friendly. A drink in a busy bar populated by colleagues felt safer.
Sam wasn’t
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