Ken McClure - Eye of the raven

McClintock called just after four. He sounded strangely subdued. ‘Boy, did you come up trumps with these videos,’ he said.

‘ How so?’

‘ The girls in them were on our missing persons register. We know now what happened to them.’

‘ They became stars of the silver screen?’ said Steven.

McClintock didn’t laugh. ‘They died on the silver screen,’ he said. ‘They’re snuff videos, S amp;M taken to the limit. All three were tortured to death on film. I’ll spare you the details.’

Steven swallowed hard. He’d heard of such things — even films depicting the death of children but being this close to it made it feel different. All the good of the day was wiped out in an instant. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘ We’ve had a busy day, raiding the addresses on the lists in the tin,’ said McClintock. ‘But we left the saunas alone. They pale into insignificance in the light of what we found in the videos.’

‘ And Verdi?’

‘ We’ve pulled him in but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see him. The slimy little bastard has done a pretty good job at keeping everything at a distance — but then he’s a lawyer. If we’re not careful we could end up charging the clowns while the ringmaster walks. Our people are having a go at breaking him before he has too much time to think about things. He was expecting some kind of police action thanks to our illustrious leader pulling in Tracy but he didn’t reckon on us getting our hands on Tracy Manson’s shortbread tin. He won’t be getting much sleep tonight.’

‘ Good luck,’ said Steven. ‘How about the goons at Tracy’s flat?’

‘ We’ve charged both of them with her murder but under advice from their solicitor, they’re saying nothing. A shifty little prat in an Armani suit called Tomasso turned up as soon as we brought them in. These bastards carry solicitors’ cards in their wallets like the rest of us carry Visas.’

‘ C’est la vie,’ said Steven.

‘ It’s just a pity that Tracy Manson didn’t have any information about where the money goes,’ said McClintock. ‘If the others suspected for a moment that Verdi wasn’t in a position to look after them financially I reckon they’d start singing a different song.’

‘ Mmm,’ said Steven, feeling uncomfortable.

‘ I’ll let you know when you can see Verdi,’ said McClintock. ‘It’ll probably be tomorrow afternoon.’

Steven thanked him, feeling relieved that the conversation was over and knowing that he should have told McClintock about the existence of the account numbers but it was an ace he wanted to hold on to himself for the time being. He had plans about forcing Verdi into telling him what he wanted to know.

Steven was to hear from McClintock much sooner than he expected when he called just after eight pm.

‘ We have to meet,’ he said.

Steven was about to make a joke about McClintock never appearing to go home but the policeman’s tone stopped him.

‘ All right,’ he said. ‘The pub in Inverleith?’

‘ Too near headquarters,’ said McClintock. ‘Somewhere out of town. Do you know Queensferry?’

‘ Down by the Forth Bridge?’ said Steven.

‘ That’s right. There’s a hotel on the water called the Sealscraig. I’ll meet you in the bar in an hour.’

‘ I’ll be there,’ said Steven. The line went dead before he could say anything else.

He asked at the desk for directions and was told that he should follow road signs for the Forth Road Bridge but take the opening off to the right at the roundabout before it. He did this and found himself descending a steep hill into the village some ten minutes ahead of time. He parked the car by the waterfront and got out to look up at the rail bridge where a small commuter diesel was just about to complete its crossing from Fife. The noise of the train, amplified by the steel girders, stopped abruptly as it reached the permanent way. It was as if some giant hand had lifted it off the track.

Along to his left and lying below and between the rail and the road bridges, he could see the Sealscraig Hotel. On a dark, misty night its yellow lights seemed welcoming and were reflected on the smooth oily surface of the water as he got nearer and entered to start climbing the stairs leading up to the bar.

McClintock was already standing there. He didn’t smile although he gave a nod of recognition and ordered another beer.

‘ Let’s sit down,’ said McClintock as Steven’s beer appeared. The bar was less than a quarter full so it wasn’t difficult to find a table where they could speak freely but they still kept their voices down.

‘ Something’s wrong?’ said Steven, alarmed at just how worried McClintock seemed to be.

‘ I wanted to tell you this before I told anyone else,’ said McClintock, ‘but first, the DNA fingerprint you asked me to check, where did you get it?’

Steven told him how Susan Givens had uncovered it by amplifying up the faint ghost bands present on the gel that convicted David Little. ‘She used a computer imaging programme to intensify them and then she eliminated the main ones. You’ve come up with a match, haven’t you?’ he said, suddenly realising why McClintock had asked the question.

‘ McClintock nodded and looked down at the table.

‘ Well, c’mon,’ Steven prompted. ‘Out with it.’

‘ I think I’d rather it was anyone else on Earth,’ said McClintock. ‘But it’s Hector Combe’s DNA.’

‘ Sweet Jesus Christ,’ whispered Steven. ‘You’re sure?’

‘ There’s no doubt.’

‘ So he did kill her,’ said Steven after taking a moment to come to terms with enormity of the finding. ‘Little was stitched up.’

‘ But Little’s semen was in her too,’ McClintock reminded him, but the spectre of a huge miscarriage of justice was already in his eyes.

‘ The lab must have fixed it,’ said Steven. ‘No one else could have done it. There’s no other explanation. They must have altered the evidence to clear Combe and convict Little.’

‘ But why?’

Steven shook his head. ‘God knows but someone in the lab must have cleaned up Julie — that’s where the traces of Virkon came from — and then contaminated her with David Little’s semen before taking new forensic samples.’

‘ How?’ asked McClintock again.

‘ I don’t know how, I don’t know who and I don’t know why but that’s what must have happened. Combe was guilty all along.’

‘ Christ almighty,’ whispered McClintock. ‘The press will bury us this time.’

Steven was having his own nightmare. In it, Combe recited, this little piggy went to market… Snap!

‘ What blood group was Combe?’ he asked suddenly as an idea came to him.

‘ I’ve no idea,’ said McClintock. ‘But it’ll be in the records. What difference does it make?’

‘ The scrapings under Julie’s fingernails must have come from Combe not Little,’ said Steven. ‘Julie scratched his face just like he told Lawson she did. I have to know what blood group he was.’

‘ If you say so but what do we do about this in the meantime? I haven’t told Santini. I haven’t told anyone except you. I didn’t even tell the lab where the DNA profile came from.’

‘ Sit on it for the time being,’ said Steven. ‘Don’t tell a soul.’

‘ What are you going to do?’

‘ I’m going to talk to a nurse.’

McClintock drove off, having promised to find out as quickly as he could about Hector Combe’s blood group, although still not clear about why. For his part, Steven hurried back to his car and drove directly to the Western General Hospital where he rushed up to the ward where he’d last spoken to Samantha Egan. It was going to be a long shot at this time of night — just before ten — but worth a try.