Craig Robertson - Snapshot

Six separate portraits showed the same auburn-haired girl at various ages. On one side of the shelf a baby picture, wide eyes and an unlikely mass of hair; a shyly smiley toddler in a short summer dress; then in school uniform aged about five. In the middle was a wedding portrait of her parents, the husband in army uniform and the wife in a white dress and veil. On the other, was Oonagh with a pony and rosettes; a birthday shot complete with thirteen candles on the cake; and finally a sulkier teenager looking bored in a family wedding photograph aged about fifteen. There was little doubt that it was the face of Melanie the hooker that was looking back at them.

‘Yes,’ her mother was confirming with another smile, this one managing to be at once proud and sad. Mrs McCullough was fearing the worst but hoping for the best. Narey knew it wasn’t fair to prolong their agony any longer.

‘Mr and Mrs McCullough, I think it would be better if you sat down.’

Her words slapped across the mother’s face and Narey saw her recoil from them. The husband shook slightly but refused to budge.

‘I’d rather stand, Sergeant,’ he said soberly. ‘Please, continue.’

‘I really think it best that you take a seat too, sir.’

‘I’ll stand.’

‘Very well. I’m afraid that we have some very bad news for you both. The body of a young woman, whom we believe to be Oonagh, has been found. She was murdered.’

Mary McCullough grabbed at her skirt and a hand flew to her mouth.

‘Believe. Believe. You said you “believe” it to be Oonagh. You aren’t sure, then. It could be some other poor girl. Right?’

‘I’m sorry to say that we are quite sure, Mrs McCullough. We will need to ask you or your husband to identify the body but…’

The phrase produced a scream from deep within Mrs McCullough. As soon as it escaped she clamped a hand over her mouth and looked to her husband, eyes pleading.

‘Where was she found, this girl that you think is Oonagh?’ Brendan McCullough asked grimly.

‘In the city centre, sir. In the area near Waterloo Street.’

‘In Glasgow?’ the parents chorused.

‘She was living here all this time?’ the father added. ‘Living here but wouldn’t come to see us?’

‘We believe she has been here for the last few years,’ Narey nodded. ‘She disappeared when she was sixteen, is that correct?’

‘Sixteen years and one day, Sergeant,’ he replied. ‘She left on the twenty-third of March 2004, the day after her birthday. We never saw her again. I can’t believe she was so close all the time. We have never moved, she knew where we were.’

‘I realize this is very difficult news to take in,’ Narey continued. ‘But we believe that Oonagh became a drug addict and this led her into a life of prostitution.’

‘No. No, no, no.’

Mr McCullough’s denial wasn’t spoken in anger but more in an unwillingness to accept what had been said. He was dismissing the possibility out of hand. His wife had silent tears streaming down her face.

‘I’m sorry, Mr McCullough, but there seems little doubt. We have already checked Oonagh’s last known dental records with your local practice and despite considerable decay in the intervening period, there is a convincing match.’

‘We always made sure she had a check-up every six months,’ the mother burst in. ‘Regular as clockwork, never missed an appointment.’

Her husband opened his mouth as if to scold her but his gaze softened and he just nodded in her direction instead.

‘Have you had any contact at all with Oonagh in the past seven years?’

Brendan McCullough turned to his wife again.

‘The postcard.’

At that Mrs McCullough jumped up, glad of something to do, and almost ran to a teak sideboard against the far wall. She opened a drawer and instantly brought out a card adorned with a photograph of the Eiffel Tower.

‘It arrived four years ago,’ the husband explained. ‘May 2007.’

Narey took the postcard from the woman’s trembling hand and turned it over.

Don’t worry. I’m safe. O.

The card had a Paris postmark and was dated as the man had said.

‘It is definitely Oonagh’s handwriting?’

‘Of course.’

‘And this was the only time she got in touch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there anyone she was particularly close to before she left, someone that she might have stayed in touch with?’ asked Corrieri.

The father shook his head impatiently.

‘We spoke to all her friends, all the ones we knew of. The police did the same at the time. They knew nothing.’

‘Brendan went out all the time looking for her,’ his wife said, her red eyes staring at the floor. ‘Day after day, night after night, scouring the streets. But nothing. After the postcard came we stopped looking, knowing… thinking… that she wasn’t in the country any more.’

Mrs McCullough sprang out of her seat and plucked one of the photographs from the mantelpiece, the one of Oonagh in her first school uniform. She sat carefully back onto the sofa, cradling the framed picture to her breast. Her husband sat down beside her and put an arm around her.

‘Mr and Mrs McCullough, might it be possible for us to take a photograph of Oonagh away with us, as recent as you have?’ Narey asked. ‘I’ll ensure it gets back to you safely.’

The husband nodded without looking up.

‘I’ll get you one.’

‘And could we arrange for one of you to identify Oonagh’s body at the city police mortuary at the Saltmarket?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll do it,’ he replied.

‘Thank you. I am so sorry to have had to bring you news like this. I will arrange for a family liaison officer to be in touch with you this afternoon.’

‘There’s no need,’ he snapped at her. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘I still think it’s best. I’ll ask one to call by and you can take it from there.’

‘Yes, yes, whatever. Let me show you to the door.’

Brendan McCullough squeezed his wife’s shoulder before rising from the seat and leading the two officers out of the living room, closing the door behind him.

‘You’re absolutely certain that it’s Oonagh?’ he asked them quietly.

‘Yes,’ Narey replied.

‘And you are sure that she was an addict and… a prostitute?’

‘Yes, Mr McCullough, we are.’

The man’s face darkened.

‘Whatever she had become, I need to know that you will still do your job. No one cares about those working girls, do they? The police always have more important things to do.’

‘I can assure you that we do care,’ Narey answered testily, her mind chiming with the force’s resources being eaten up by the sniper killings.

‘And you will catch the man who did this to my wee girl?’

‘Oh we will, Mr McCullough,’ Narey assured him with a lot more certainty than she knew she could promise. ‘We will.’

Sunday 18 September

Winter woke up feeling sore. Sore head, sore body, sore Sunday morning. Both head and body had taken different kinds of pounding the day before and the price was now being paid. The shower helped one but only succeeded in stinging the other. A cup of coffee at least helped both a bit.

He struggled into some clothes but resisted the temptation to head for the newsagents. His bruises had won the fight against the hangover and woken him early enough that he had time to read over the previous day’s newspapers before going into Pitt Street. There was a morning meeting of the Nightjar team but he wasn’t needed for that and was to wait for a call to arms if their man struck again.

The killings of Adamson and Haddow were splashed over the front pages of the papers and most of them had large photographs of the pair. The Daily Star was the exception but even it squeezed the photo of some reality TV bimbo to the side in order to get in a head and shoulders of the dead accountant. For Winter, though, the real eye catcher was the Sun ’s headline.