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Beyond the creaking walls of her prison, she could hear the rustle of leaves and the movement of branches in the wind. It was a cruel parody of the few holidays she had enjoyed as a child, before drugs had reduced her mother to a silent, shadowy creature. They had borrowed a tent and trekked out with friends or family to sleep in a field and toast marshmallows for a night or two in the summer. It had been all her mother could ever afford, and it was uncomfortable – usually freezing cold – but Lorna had loved it. So much adventure could be found just by stepping beyond the walls of their tiny flat, even if they did have to pee behind trees and wash in a cold stream each morning.
Pins and needles prickled her skin from inactivity as she flexed her legs. With ankles tied fast to the table legs, the best she could do was slowly clench then relax each muscle to get some blood flowing. Her breasts throbbed. It was two in the morning then. Like a farmyard cockerel, baby Tansy awoke hungry at the same time each night. This would have been the moment when Lorna would have plucked the baby gently from her cot, quickly enough so that the crying didn’t wake the other mothers who were grabbing precious hours of sleep, and held her to a breast. Tansy’s warm snuffling as she grabbed Lorna’s hair would have been worth the lack of rest. For a moment, she could actually smell her baby. Milk, talcum powder, a fresh Babygro after her bath, and the slight acidity of a nappy as yet unchanged after six hours’ wear. Lorna was determined not to cry for her. If she started crying, then it was as good as an admission that she would never hold her girl again. And she would. She would escape, get help, and find her way back to the mother and baby unit. If she could get clean of drugs and persuade a judge not to take her baby from her, then she could do this. The bastard who had abducted her had no idea what he was up against.
Tansy – her pride and joy – had also been her Achilles heel. The man had seemed harmless enough, following her through the lanes from the unit to the shops, whistling and texting on his phone. As he’d got nearer to her, he’d said a cheery good morning, stopping to peer into the pram and exclaim at the bonniness of the wee girl. Lorna had been delighted. No matter how many times she heard it, a compliment about the baby was affirmation that finally she had done something right. Her first selfless act, she often thought. She had given life to another human, and giving up her vices for the baby had made it even sweeter.
There had been bad times before that. Smoking the odd joint at school had matured into taking the occasional ecstasy tablet at a party. Those ecstasy tablets had introduced her to cocaine, and that had seemed so grown up and glamorous, and God knew it really did make you feel good. But there were bigger highs out there. More explosive ups and more mellow downs, with nothing in between but floating and colours and warmth. She had taken heroin for the first time while she was coming down from crack. It had seemed almost harmless, just smoking it. She had never taken a drug that had controlled her, and she managed to convince herself for a few ignorant weeks that heroin wouldn’t either. Her mother had done nothing about it. After all, it was her boyfriend who had sold her the crack in the first place, and one of his colleagues who had promoted her into the narcotics big league. Addiction was swift, and a casual modern-day tragedy had followed. Drugs were expensive. Her need for them ruled her world and rendered her unfit for work. The lack of money had been met with suggestions that she could offer her body to her dealers and others for cash, favours and freebies. And the need to forget that she was effectively prostituting herself had required ever-increasing doses of drugs. Then she had fallen pregnant. It was give up the drugs or give up the baby. There were no other options. Lorna wished the decision had been easier than it was. She would have been more proud of herself if she could claim a revelation, and a magical new start. Fortunately for her, the lure of motherhood and the sense of a growing bond with the wriggling, churning thing inside her won out. Methadone was easier than cold turkey, and not getting screwed every night to pay for her drugs was a positive blessing. Tansy had literally saved her life.
Which was why, when the happy, whistling man had held a knife to the baby’s throat as they’d walked together down a side street, she hadn’t had to think twice about saving her baby’s life in return. She had climbed into his vehicle, followed his instructions to clip on handcuffs and watched as he pushed the pram into the nearest alleyway to await a kind passer-by who would figure out that something was wrong. Lorna stared up at the moon. Her baby was safe. The man hadn’t wanted Tansy. Someone would have found her and returned her to the unit where she was now being looked after. The bargain had not been unfair. Looking back, she wondered why she hadn’t screamed and run, protested and fought him. The truth was that she would have done anything – anything at all – to have secured her baby’s safety, and heroics had been just another risk. Seeing the blade pressed into the chubby flesh beneath her baby’s face had been enough to drain the fight from her. It had been enough to make her realise that whatever was coming – rape, mutilation, death – was preferable to the prospect of living with the memory of her baby dying in her arms.
Lorna tugged a few more times at the restraints around her wrists. There wasn’t even enough movement to try scraping the twine against the edge of the table beneath her. She would wait. That was all there was to it. If nothing else, she could be grateful that she’d remained unhurt throughout the process of being kidnapped. Her early decision to remain compliant had meant that not so much as a fist had been raised. No one had responded to her screams and her kidnapper hadn’t bothered silencing her. Wherever she was, it wasn’t in the middle of civilisation. Having blindfolded her and led her over a gravel path, twigs brushing her face, he had opened a door and pushed her into an outbuilding.
‘Take your clothes off, then lie on the table on your back,’ the man had directed her.
Lorna had the perverse benefit of being unafraid of rape. Men had used her body in ways she tried not to think about any more. One more wasn’t going to add to her nightmares. If that was the worst of it, then she would celebrate. If the sick fuck wanted to tie her up first, and keep her in the cold outdoors for a while, then she could take that, too. She would keep her nerve and stay strong. Come hell or high-water, she would be reunited with her baby. Lorna slept again.
When she awoke it was fully daylight. The additional hours of cold had left her muscles cramping hard. She started at her toes, tightening and loosening her muscles until there was no more she could do for relief. When the door opened, she had almost convinced herself that the man wasn’t coming back for her, and that she would die of hunger and thirst in the middle of nowhere. She knew better than to speak first. Better to wait and see what he wanted from her.
‘You have to eat and drink,’ he said, pushing a mouldy pillow beneath her head to prop her up enough that the cup of milk he held to her lips didn’t spill. He was patient as she sipped. No drops ran down her chin. When she’d finished, he took a chunk of bread from a plate. Ripping off small sections, he held them to her mouth and watched as she chewed and swallowed. He said nothing, staring at her face as she pretended not to notice. Eventually it was all gone.
‘My name’s Lorna,’ she said quietly.
‘I know,’ the man replied as he took the plate and cup away.
‘I’m a bit cold,’ Lorna said. ‘Could I have another blanket, please?’
‘The cold’s good for your skin,’ he said. ‘I have something else here for that, too.’
She raised her head from the pillow and watched him pull a bottle from beneath his coat. Spilling a dollop of cream onto his palm, he slipped his hand beneath the blanket. She waited for it. Better over sooner rather than later she thought, waiting for the violation. His hand found her stomach and began smearing on the cold gloop. Lorna shivered but knew better than to complain.
‘What’s it for?’ Lorna asked.
‘Just following orders,’ he replied, spreading the liquid down over her abdomen to the tops of her thighs. He pulled his hand out and squirted more onto his palm. This time he ran his hand under her back, lifting her a little with his free hand, beginning in the middle of her back and rubbing it in until his hand was dry.
‘Whose orders?’ Lorna asked, making sure her voice was low and compliant. So far he wasn’t showing any signs of aggression and she wanted to keep it that way.
‘You’re a bad girl,’ he said, slowly pulling the blanket down from her neck to reveal her nakedness beneath.
This was it, then, Lorna thought. This was what he wanted. No point being shy. She might only get one opportunity to get out.
‘I can be bad for you, if that’s what you want,’ Lorna said. ‘You can keep me tied up, or let me go. I won’t run. I know what men like. Let me show you.’
His face seized into a scowl, and for a second Lorna saw the snarl of teeth.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘You’re not even bothering to pretend. At least you don’t lie about it. Perhaps that’s better. Even here, on your back, all trussed up, you still want it, don’t you?’ He leaned down to breathe hot words into her ear. ‘Whores always want it. They never stop. Does it itch? Does it burn? It will. You’ll always be a bad girl while you’re alive.’
Lorna froze. The misjudgment sat heavy in her stomach like a mountain of cold pasta. She thought fast.
‘I was just scared,’ she said. ‘I was saying what I thought you wanted to hear. I’m not like that, really. I have a young baby – you saw her – and I love her so much. I’m a good mother. I take proper care of her.’
‘Are you married to her father?’ the man asked. ‘Has the baby been baptised? Do you even know who the father is?’
A sob caught in the back of Lorna’s throat.
‘How many men did you have to fornicate with before one of their seeds took in your filthy belly?’ he asked.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Lorna said, fighting the rising sense of panic that was drawing a black veil over everything around her. ‘I had a difficult life. Things went wrong. I made some bad choices but I’ve made it all better. If you let me go, I can go back to my baby. I can be good for her. I’ll be good for her forever.’
‘You’re a bad girl,’ the man said, holding a quivering hand over her pubic hair. ‘A bad girl who let anyone and everyone into this.’ He slapped down hard and Lorna cried out, still raw from the stitching after labour.
‘Please don’t,’ she sobbed. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I want to see my daughter again.’
‘Do you not think she deserves better than you, slut?’ he asked, pulling the belt from his trousers, red in the face and panting.
‘I know she does,’ Lorna cried out. ‘I know she does and I try so hard every day to be the best I can. I’m begging you, let me go back to my baby.’
‘I’m going to let you go back to her,’ he said. ‘When this is over, I’ll take you back. When you’re clean. When you’re saved.’
Lorna saw the truth in his eyes. Her bravado had been pointless. She knew what hatred looked like. It was the black full stop in each of a man’s eyes. Once again, she filled the air with the desolation of her screams.
Chapter Ten
Callanach handed Dr Spurr a bottle of Oban single malt and sighed. ‘Don’t you ever wish you’d chosen a different career, Jonty?’
‘The dead would miss me, I fear. It takes a number of years to properly understand how to strike up a conversation with them. It’s the last thing my trainees learn. These are not just bodies; they are untold stories,’ the pathologist said. ‘Thanks for the whisky. What’s the occasion?’
‘You’re away from home and I thought you could use the comfort. This isn’t the easiest case. And … I’m worried about Ava. I know she can handle herself, but she’s taking it particularly hard. I’d like to move the investigation forward as quickly as I can. Is there anything more you can tell me about the doll?’
‘Quite a lot, actually,’ Jonty said. ‘Come through. I was in the process of writing up my report, so I’ll take you through it as I go.’
They walked into the lab, pulling on gloves. ‘Regarding the other young woman who’s been taken, Jonty, we’ve made no progress overnight. You’ve seen more of these cases than me, and I worked enough of them with Interpol. How long do you think she has? Zoey Cole survived a week.’
‘The relentlessly ticking clock. I always hear it as the number of heartbeats we have left until we die. If it’s good news you’re after, you’ve come to the wrong man. I appreciate the single malt, although I think we might want to drink it together. The doll has provided additional information, none of which favours Lorna’s situation.’ He pointed towards a tray where various piles of materials had been left accessible. Both skin sections from the doll were laid out flat. Next to that was a mound of cut-up cloth. Finally there were two clear evidence bags. Callanach could see hair in the first, but nothing in the second. ‘I spent yesterday conducting tests on the skin sections after you left. It has a strange texture, so much so that I broke the golden rule and handled part of it without my gloves on. That was the only way I could be sure, but the skin feels hardened. A medicated ointment had been applied to encourage the skin to thicken. It’s used for people who have various conditions and it would have made cutting the skin easier, and less prone to tearing.’
‘That’s quite some level of preparation,’ Callanach said.
‘Which indicates that the kidnapper knew exactly what he or she had in mind well before taking Zoey. It took research and care. Not only that, but they knew that Zoey would need to be kept restrained for a minimum amount of time, requiring a place where she couldn’t be discovered easily or accidentally.’
‘Now they have Lorna, too.’ Callanach crossed his arms. ‘You think she’s headed for the same treatment. That means we have just six days to find her.’
‘Five days, given that it’s nearly 5.30 p.m. now. And there’s more,’ Jonty said. ‘This pile of cut-up rags was used to stuff the doll. It’s cotton and contains a clothing label. Here.’ He picked up a bag, inside which Callanach could see a small, silky label proclaiming a high street brand name and that the item had been a size 8.
‘The killer cut up some of Zoey’s clothes to stuff the doll with?’ Callanach asked.
‘I’m certain of it. We’re testing for skin cells and DNA, but it makes sense. There are strips from a shirt and what is probably underwear. The shirt strips match the description of the clothes Zoey was wearing when she left the shelter,’ Jonty said.
‘What’s in the other bags?’ Callanach asked.
‘This one,’ Jonty held up a bag containing blunt snippets of brown hair, ‘is hair from Zoey’s head. We’ve matched it up with a section where you can see recent cuts. It was stuck onto the doll’s head very crudely with superglue, a standard brand available from any supermarket, but it wasn’t very effective. The doll’s skin wasn’t a good surface – too many oils and the medicated cream prevented the hair from really bonding. Much of the hair had fallen off into the pram.’
Callanach took another look at the skin sections, taking a closer look at the side where a face had been drawn. ‘The eyes drawn on here are the same colour as Zoey’s, and the mouth is small with thin lips, even with these weird vertical stitches over them,’ he said. ‘The killer literally tried to recreate her, right down to the details.’
‘Hence the second bag,’ Jonty said. ‘In here are a few eyelashes, pulled out from Zoey while she was still alive. The injuries were too minute to have been spotted until the doll pointed us in the right direction, but under a microscope it’s possible to see the redness on Zoey’s eyelids where the lashes were plucked.’
‘How many?’ Callanach asked.
‘Maybe a dozen from each eye, hard to be specific, and not all were stuck onto the doll,’ Jonty said. ‘Again, they didn’t bond well.’
‘Perhaps the killer gave up halfway through, or ran out of time,’ Callanach said.
‘That’s a fair theory. It’s meticulous work and that level of skill isn’t on show here. Have you ever seen items made from human skin before, Luc?’ Jonty asked.
‘I haven’t,’ Callanach said, ‘although I’ve read about it.’
‘It’s labour intensive, expert work. Human skin is hard to fashion. Various monsters throughout history became quite adept at it, but this is a clumsy recreation. Let me show you the stitches. I have close-up photographs on my computer.’
In Jonty’s office, they sat next to each other in front of a computer screen. The images resembled a child’s crude attempt at patchwork.
‘The knots are quite basic. In places the cotton thread has been pulled too tight and has split the fine edges of the skin. The stitches are irregular and change direction,’ Jonty said.
‘It’s like a work in progress,’ Callanach said. ‘A carefully thought out idea, highly symbolic, but which was poorly executed.’
‘Exactly,’ Jonty said. ‘But now your killer holds another young woman.’
‘You think the first doll was disappointing, but that it’s a learning curve?’ Callanach asked.
‘It doesn’t feel like a one-off to me,’ Jonty said. ‘The killer worked too hard at it. So much effort for a single pay-off. Then there’s this.’ He picked up a flat plastic folder from his desk. ‘There was a message rolled up to form a tiny scroll, right in the centre of the stuffing. I found it minutes before you arrived. I was just processing it.’
Callanach picked up the folder and read aloud the words that were on the long strip of paper contained within.‘“If there is anyone who curses his father or his mother, he shall surely be put to death; he has cursed his father or his mother, his bloodguiltiness is upon him.” Oh fuck, Jonty, this sounds like a crusade.’
‘Unfortunately, I agree. I was just looking up where it comes from, if you’ll forgive me crossing into your discipline. The quote is from Leviticus, chapter twenty, verse nine. There are other references here to disrespectful children being put to death. It’s proper fire-and-brimstone, Old Testament stuff.’
‘It’s someone who’s aware of Zoey’s problems with her stepfather then,’ Callanach said.
‘Not the stepfather himself?’ Jonty asked.
‘He didn’t abduct her – we know that for sure. He has a watertight alibi. Spent the day at a community fete, photos and all. Zoey’s mother seems genuinely upset, even though Zoey had left home and wasn’t in contact with them.’
‘Were other family members aware of the allegations?’ Jonty asked.
‘There’s a brother in the army, but we’ve had confirmation that he was away on manoeuvres and hasn’t been back in the UK for eighteen months. Plenty of other people were aware of the allegations against Christopher Myers, though. Zoey had contacted social workers, staff at the shelter and friends she stayed with at times. The police were even called in at one stage to encourage her to prosecute. She declined. If we consider everyone who knows what Zoey had alleged to be a suspect, it’ll make a long list. What about the paper it’s written on?’
‘It’s a section of paper cut with scissors to the shape of the quote, probably from an A4 sheet originally, no watermark on it. Looks very standard. I hope that’s not your best lead,’ the pathologist replied.
‘Bloodguiltiness,’ Callanach read. ‘Who the hell uses language like that these days?’
‘You’ll have to check which version of the Bible it’s from,’ Jonty said. ‘I didn’t get that far in my research.’
‘I’ll need the paper transferred to a handwriting expert. Have you tested for fingerprints and DNA yet?’ Callanach asked.
‘I can’t see any fingerprints, and other tests are underway, but referring this to a forensic handwriting analyst will be a waste of your time, I fear. Look at this.’ Jonty brought up a photo of the writing, grossly enlarged. Callanach sat down next to him again. ‘Every same letter – you see these letter f’s – is exactly the same. Not just the shape and style, but the precise measurements. However, each letter has a small break before the next one. The script is cursive in style but not properly joined. It’s all too regular.’
‘They used a bloody stencil,’ Callanach said.
‘Your swearing sounds much more authentically Scots these days,’ Jonty said. ‘But I’m afraid you’re correct about the stencil. You can probably source it on the internet. The font should be copyrighted.’
‘But it means that it’ll bear no resemblance to the killer’s normal writing. Not the pressure points or the strokes, none of it. Clever,’ Callanach said.
‘Clever, well organised, dedicated, passionate. Unfortunately the word obsessive is the one that’s been in my mind.’
‘It needs to be kept quiet, Jonty. I know you won’t say a word, but anyone on the staff here who knows about this …’
‘No one knows yet, and only those with access to my report need find out. It’ll be harder to control it at your end.’
‘Can I sign this out of your evidence log and transfer it to our custody at the station?’ Callanach asked. ‘Ava will want to see it straight away.’
‘You can. Would you join me this evening to open the bottle you so kindly brought?’
‘I can’t tonight, Jonty. I’m seeing someone, when work allows. If I leave the office at all tonight, that’s where I’m going.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Jonty said. ‘I thought for sure you’d be headed back to France after the first case we did together. I’m pleased to see you’ve decided to give Scotland more of a chance.’
Callanach smiled at him. ‘It was touch and go,’ he said. ‘Call me when you get the other test results in? Straight away, day or night.’
Back at the station, Callanach went immediately to Ava’s office. She was wading through a mountain of paperwork, frowning at numbers.
‘Sorry to interrupt. I’m just back from the pathologist. Zoey’s murderer sent us a message.’ He explained what Jonty had shown him. Ava was on her feet before he’d finished, checking her watch.
‘Eight o’clock. The superintendent might just still be here. Come with me. I need Overbeck to sign off on the extra funding we’re going to need.’
Together they went up the additional flight of stairs to Detective Superintendent’s Overbeck’s office, neither of them saying a word. Overbeck’s reaction to them asking for more money was always the same. Keep it below budget. Finish it yesterday.
As Ava knocked on Overbeck’s door, it opened. Lively’s face appeared from within.
‘Ma’am,’ he said to Ava.
‘What have you done now, Lively?’ Ava asked. ‘You need to learn to watch your mouth. I don’t want any members of my squad in trouble at the moment. Get everyone together for a briefing. DI Callanach and I will be down in five minutes.’
Lively gave a small nod, didn’t even bother insulting Callanach, and made for the stairs.
‘What do you need, DCI Turner?’ Overbeck called through the open door.
‘Is there an issue with DS Lively?’ Ava asked.
‘Nothing that a period of suspension and a diet wouldn’t cure,’ Overbeck snarled. ‘I see you brought DI Looks Over Substance with you. This doesn’t bode well.’
Ava carried on in spite of Overbeck’s jibe at Callanach. She’d never liked him, but then she’d never liked anyone, as far as Ava was aware. ‘Zoey Cole’s killer is a religious extremist, or at the very least is using that as an excuse to kill. He or she left us a note inside the doll that was found in the pram with Lorna Shaw’s baby. There’s also the possibility that the Mikey Parsons assault is linked. It’s all twisted vigilante behaviour – cleaning up the city, exacting retribution for poor life choices or whatever the offender is telling himself. I’m also concerned that this may turn out to be a serial killer, and I believe it’s going to get even nastier.’
