Whispers

  of the

  Dead

  LIN ANDERSON

  Contents

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  Acknowledgements

  DRIFTNET

  1

  2

  Unable to sleep, she rose from the bed and went to the window.

  It’s snowing, she thought, surprised, and it has been for a while.

  Funny how a veil of white made everything seem beautiful. Even from here.

  She shivered a little and thought of climbing back into the warm bed . . . soon to be for the last time.

  It was at that moment the figure of a girl, dressed in a kilt and blue velvet jacket, arrived to tramp across the snow in front of the main gate. As though sensing someone watching, the girl stopped and turned to look over at her.

  Marnie stood transfixed, then shut her eyes, her heart hammering.

  She’s not real. It’s a waking nightmare. When I look again, she won’t be there.

  And she was right. When Marnie forced her eyes open, the figure had gone, or more likely, it had never been there in the first place.

  Except . . . there were footprints in the snow to prove otherwise.

  Marnie dropped to her knees. What if it was a sign that her daughter, Tizzy, was alive and waiting for her outside these prison walls?

  1

  He sensed the dark rather than saw it, his eyes barely able to open a crack. As for his mouth, it too had been stitched together with tight thread, which dug into the puffed-up lips.

  That only left his ears, which were still resounding with the high screeching noise fed into them via the headphones, now, thank God, no longer in place.

  He thought the room was empty, but as the ringing in his ears abated, he imagined he caught the whisper of laboured breathing.

  Then again, it might be his own.

  The sudden blast of cold air against his naked body, that he was certain of. A window had been opened or a door to the outside. He thought he felt the soft touch of wet snow on his lips and welcomed it hungrily.

  The crash of glass when it came told him two things for sure: his hearing had returned; and there was definitely someone in the room with him. As the rush of cold air became stronger, it caught at his blood-matted hair and snowflakes swirled against his battered face.

  Then he was moving, the chair he sat upon screeching across the floor, pushed solidly from behind. Instinct told him to try to stop it and he forced his feet hard to the floor, but the pressure on the chair’s movement could not be stopped.

  He knew now where it was going, because he felt the approaching emptiness before him.

  He would have screamed if he had been able to open his mouth, but it would have done him little good.

  As he met the open air, his feet snagged on a jagged ridge of broken glass and he felt the warm escape of blood. Then he was tipping forward. There was a brief moment while he pivoted there on the cusp between life and death, before gravity came into play and he dropped like a stone into the swirling snow.

  2

  The snow was getting thicker now. Ally raised his face and opened his mouth, relishing the touch of the snowflakes on his tongue.

  Dreep, standing beside him, finally abandoned his attempts to ping stones off the supermarket trolley parked in the middle of the boating pond.

  ‘Fuck it. I cannae see it any more.’

  ‘You didn’t hit it when you could,’ Ally told him with a grin.

  Dreep was shivering, his narrow shoulders quaking now that he’d stopped throwing stones.

  ‘I vote we get inside,’ Ally suggested. ‘Unless you want to head for home?’

  ‘No way!’ Dreep told him, jumping up and down in an attempt to keep warm.

  Ally turned towards Kevin, who was putting the finishing touches to a slogan on the side of the nearby pavilion. ‘You coming, Kev?’

  Not waiting for an answer, he and Dreep made for the high railings that surrounded the old farmhouse at the edge of the park.

  Glasgow city council had done their best to keep them out of the derelict listed building, bricking up the doors and sealing the windows with metal sheets, but they hadn’t made it foolproof to Dreep, who, climbing up, over and through all obstacles in his way, had first gained them access to the upper room on the pavilion side.

  Now, shimmying up the blackened and burnt trees next to the spiked metal fence, showing exactly how it should be done, Dreep was first to plop into the deepening snow cover on the other side.

  Ally caught the list of expletives resulting from that. At least, that’s what he thought the swearing was about.

  It turned out he was wrong.

  Dreep’s frantic cursing continued in his half-smothered, high-pitched voice, sending a warning bell jangling in Ally’s brain as he followed his friend.

  Had another gang found their way in and booby-trapped the place?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he called, keen to avoid anything bad between him and the shadow of Dreep ahead.

  Dreep’s sudden silence freaked him even more than the litany of curses that had preceded it. As he moved cautiously forward, he heard the sound of Kev landing behind him. The usually silent Kev asked him what the fuck was going on.

  ‘Something’s freaked Dreep. I don’t know what.’

  Emerging from the intervening tangle of bushes, Ally was presented with Dreep’s back.

  ‘What the f—’ The unfinished expletive died in Ally’s throat as Dreep stood aside to let him look.

  The naked shape of what might be a human was on its back, knees in the air. Ally’s eyes were drawn to the blood-soaked feet, the rigid hands tied to the arms of what looked like a metal chair. The head, flung back, seemed to be looking up into the falling snow, much as he had done himself back at the pond.

  Dreep was pointing at the face, his own ghost-like. ‘Somebody sewed his eyes shut, and his mouth.’

  As they contemplated the added horror of this, Kev said, ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Of course he isn’t,’ Dreep said, open-mouthed.

  ‘Did you check?’ Ally asked, rousing from his own stupor.

  ‘How the fuck do I do that?’ Dreep squeaked.

  Ally forced himself forward and reached for the neck, the way they’d done in First Aid in school. He tried to find a pulse like they’d been taught, but his shaking fingers were refusing to stay in position.

  The sudden sound of a police siren heading along the nearby road ended his attempt.

  Dreep took off first, his skinny legs like a deer springing through the undergrowth. He was up and over the green metal fence before Ally had taken a breath.

  Even Kev got there before him and was over, almost as fast as Dreep.

  By the time he’d made it out, the two of them were well on their way in their sprint across the snowy grass towards the park exit.

  As he belted along behind them, Ally realized all three sets of footprints were clear evidence as to where they’d just come from. Worse than that was the memory of the faint pulse he’d felt beneath his fingers before he’d upped and run away.

  The naked ginger-haired guy had been alive . . . just. But someone definitely didn’t want him to be.

  He thought of Kev repainting their tag on the pavilion wall. He thought of the stuff they’d planked in the old farmhouse. Jeez, whoever tortured him must know someone had been using the place as a hideout.

  His mind racing as fast as his feet, he thought of his fingers on the naked guy’s neck. Had he left his prints on him?

  As he belted round the corner at the Vital Spark pub, he thumped into a smoker huddled against the wall. Gasping out an apology, he attempted to walk on, only to be wrenched back by the hood of his jacket.

  ‘What’s the big hurry, son? Polis after you?’ a gravelly voice demanded.

  Ally took a breath. ‘Naw. Frozen, that’s all.’

  The hood suddenly released, Ally staggered off and, picking up speed again, headed for the agreed meeting point if they ever got split up.

  The pedestrian tunnel that ran under the Clyde from Govan to Partick was only yards from their own street. Racing through it on their bikes was a favou rite pastime. Ally wished they’d spent the last hour down here rather than in the park.

  On approach, it looked as though Kev and Dreep had already bailed, and he’d almost decided to do the same, when he heard Dreep call out to him.

  Small for his age, Dreep seemed to have shrunk even more in the cold light of the tunnel.

  Ally heard himself say, ‘It’s okay, Dreep, no one saw us.’

  ‘I dropped my phone.’ Dreep’s voice came out in a squeak.

  ‘I was running behind you. I would have seen it on the snow,’ Ally said, willing that to be true.

  ‘I took a photo of . . . him,’ he chittered. ‘When I heard the polis car, I ran and must have dropped my phone.’

  There was a sudden screech of brakes as a fast-moving bike spotted them clogging the passageway. As they dived to one side, the cyclist let rip with exactly what he thought, before whizzing on past.

  Ally, still trying to process what he’d just heard from Dreep, said, ‘You took a photograph of that man, then dropped your phone?’

  Dreep nodded, his eyes huge with horror.

  At this, Ally felt a peal of panicked laughter rise in his throat only to erupt like a volcano, and he had to lean against the tunnel wall to stop himself from falling over.

  ‘And I was worried about leaving my fingerprints on his neck!’ he gasped as he began to regain his wits.

  ‘We’re fucked,’ Kev offered solemnly.

  ‘We sure are,’ Ally agreed.

  3

  The previous evening, Rhona had watched from the bay window of her flat as the big flakes of snow had dressed the surrounding Kelvingrove Park in a robe of glistening white.

  Expecting it to be gone by morning, she’d been surprised to discover that a drop in temperature had turned the snow, on the grass at least, into a layer of frosted icing. The roads, however, didn’t share the sparkle, and any remaining snow there had been beaten to a slush by this morning’s rush hour, through which she had just driven.

  Now entering the gates of the new custodial community unit for women, known as the Lilias Centre, Rhona was pleased to note that the cluster of attractive buildings before her bore no resemblance to the old Cornton Vale. She had visited the former women’s prison in Stirling on several occasions, usually to talk about her role as a forensic scientist or to encourage inmates to take the free online introductory course offered by Glasgow University.

  This morning she was here at the Lilias Centre to congratulate the inmates who’d successfully completed the course and also to meet with the members of the Fine Cell Work group, who’d been learning needlework during their incarceration. Magnus, interested in the rehabilitation of female prisoners, had been conducting a study on the positive aspects of the sewing class on the group.

  Drawing into the car park, Rhona checked to see if Magnus’s car might already be there, and found that it was. Professor Magnus Pirie was a man who operated in a timely fashion, unlike herself. Then again, he knew exactly when he would be called upon to give a lecture to his criminology students at Strathclyde University. She, on the other hand, never knew when the next call to a possible murder scene might occur.

  Luckily, that hadn’t happened this morning.

  Locking her vehicle, she double-checked she had brought the personally signed certificates of completion for the forensic course participants, then made her way to reception, where she found the tall blond figure of the Orcadian professor chatting to the officer on the desk.

  ‘Dr MacLeod, you made it,’ Magnus said with a smile.

  ‘I did.’ She approached the desk and signed in. ‘Are you coming to my forensic group first?’ she asked.

  ‘It seems the two groups overlap apart from one participant, Marnie Aitken, the star of the stitching class.’

  ‘She didn’t take the forensic course?’

  He indicated not. ‘She’s coming along anyway. I understand there are to be awards?’

  ‘I had certificates made. It’s not much but . . .’

  ‘They’ll love that,’ Magnus assured her. ‘I hope you signed them?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Good. They may ask you to dedicate them too. For their kids.’

  ‘That’s a thing?’ Rhona said.

  He nodded. ‘As an encouragement, I think.’

  ‘Or to warn them how easy it is to get caught nowadays,’ Rhona suggested.

  At that point a young woman arrived and introduced herself as Dr Sara Masters, forensic psychiatrist at the centre.

  ‘Dr MacLeod?’ she said with a smile. ‘Professor Pirie and I have already met.’

  Rhona decided that the super-friendly smile Sara now bestowed on Magnus suggested the two of them may have already met outside the confines of the correction unit. Something she would need to question Magnus about later.

  The area they were now walking through had been painted in soft pastel shades of green, blue and pink.

  ‘This place is certainly an improvement on the old Cornton Vale,’ Rhona said.

  ‘And not just in looks,’ Sara told her. ‘There are only twenty-four women here and we use a gender-specific and trauma-informed approach to manage and support them. Plus hopefully better prepare them for their reintegration back into their communities.’

  ‘You’ve been coming here since it opened,’ Rhona said to Magnus. ‘Is it managing to do that, do you think?’

  ‘It’s early days but it’s a definite improvement on what was available before. The woman I mentioned as the star of the Fine Cell Work group?’ Magnus said. ‘She’s being released tomorrow after serving a long sentence. Being here has definitely helped her prepare for the outside world again.’

  Sara nodded her agreement. ‘Marnie was incredibly withdrawn when she arrived. It took quite a while before she could be persuaded to join even the Fine Cell Work group. Then she turned out to be an excellent student.’

  The door to the room stood open, the seven women seated round in comfortable chairs. One wall was lined with computer desks. The other held a display of some of the work of the Fine Cell Work group, framed embroideries and a selection of soft toys, one of which sat centre stage. It was a doll, dressed as a female Highland dancer. Even from where she stood, Rhona could see how beautiful it was.

  That, she guessed, must be the work of the star of the class.

  Fifteen minutes later, Rhona had happily dedicated the certificates to the various offspring of the women. After which she was questioned about her job and how she could possibly work on dead bodies, especially ones that had been buried.

  It was a question she’d been asked numerous times, but she always made sure to answer it carefully and with respect.

  ‘I never think of them as bodies but as people, each one of them unique. I try to learn as much as I can from them, so that I might understand how they died and whether someone else was involved in their death. The loved ones of the victims have the right to know these things.’

  She halted there as she saw a hand raised. The small, brown-haired woman, Rhona guessed to be in her late twenties, had been the only one not to receive a signed certificate, so must be Marnie Aitken.

  ‘Yes, Marnie?’ Rhona asked cautiously.

  The voice that answered was soft, yet determined. ‘What if the police don’t find a body to examine?’

  It was obvious from the faces of the other women that they knew why Marnie had asked that particular question.

  When Rhona checked with Magnus, he indicated with a nod that Rhona should respond.

  ‘Then other forensic evidence must be brought to bear, sufficient to establish the likelihood that the missing person is dead and likely murdered.’

  ‘But what if they’re not dead?’ Marnie said. ‘What if they turn up alive later? That’s happened, hasn’t it?’

  Rhona couldn’t lie. ‘It has on occasion,’ she admitted.

  Marnie nodded as though reassuring herself of such a possibility.

  As calm descended once again, Magnus switched their attention to the endeavours of the Fine Cell Work team.

  ‘Let’s show Dr MacLeod what you’ve been working on.’ He indicated that they should all approach the display.

  ‘You too, Marnie?’ he said, when she remained in her seat.

  Marnie didn’t respond to his invitation but rose and left the room. Magnus didn’t remark on this but instead encouraged the others to tell Dr MacLeod about their own work and how it had helped them deal with their time inside.

  As the women eventually began to drift off to their own rooms, Magnus asked Rhona if she had time for a coffee before she went back to work. ‘There’s a staffroom we can use.’

 

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