Craig Robertson - Snapshot

‘Lieutenant Commander Wallace also took the opportunity to announce that LH McKendrick is to be posthumously awarded the Military Cross and that this will be presented to his mother Rosaleen at a ceremony in Buckingham Place later this year.

‘Despite being in obvious distress, Mrs McKendrick also addressed the congregation and told them of her pride in her son. She said that she was finding it very difficult to come to terms with the loss of Ryan so soon after the death of her younger son Kieran but that she found comfort in knowing he had died bravely helping others and was grateful for Ryan’s senior officers in privately sharing the circumstances of his passing.’

Rachel grabbed the remote control and switched the television off, falling back onto the bed, her eyes on the ceiling. Above her, Winter saw the three framed original Metinides prints that she’d bought him. The woman hanging from the tallest tree in Chapultec Park, the man electrocuted on the wires and the beautiful Adela Legaretta Rivas after she was knocked down and killed by the car on the Avenida. The most romantic presents anyone had ever bought him.

‘That was the right thing, wasn’t it?’ she asked him.

‘The right thing? I’m not sure what the right thing is any more but I know it’s right that poor woman doesn’t get any more shit in her life that she doesn’t deserve. If Monteith taking the hit for everything means that she gets a moment of comfort in thinking her boy’s a hero then I can live with that.’

Narey thought for a moment, still examining the contours of the ceiling.

‘I can live with that, too,’ she said at last. ‘But can you live with me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think I mean?’

She reached under the pillow and produced a key.

‘It doesn’t mean you’re moving in and it doesn’t mean I want to broadcast it but it does mean you could let yourself in now and again. If you can live with that.’

Winter smiled.

‘Yeah. I think I can live with that.’

He leaned in towards her but his attempt to kiss her was interrupted by her phone ringing.

‘Ignore it,’ he pleaded.

‘No can do,’ she replied, picking it up and looking at the display screen. ‘Cat Fitzgerald,’ she said with a finger to her lips to indicate he should shut up.

A pang of guilt surged through Winter and he was grabbed by an irrational fear at the forensic scientist phoning Rachel at home. What did she want?

‘Hi, Cat.’

‘Hi, Rachel, sorry to call you so late. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

‘No, you’re fine. What’s up?’

‘I’ve finally got those DNA results for you from the condom we recovered in the Oonagh McCullough case.’

There was something in Fitzpatrick’s voice that bothered Rachel but she couldn’t place it.

‘Okay… I’m guessing that there’s something wrong if you’re not leaving this till the morning. Bad news?’

‘Not bad news, Rachel, no. More like very strange news.’

Narey and Corrieri were already in the city mortuary in the Saltmarket, the Arctic chill licking at their skin, waiting for Brendan McCullough to join them to formally identify his daughter. Corrieri’s hands were stuck firmly in the pockets of her overcoat and she shuffled from foot to foot as much to fend off her nerves as to keep warm.

‘The first time is always the worst,’ consoled Narey, sensing the DC’s edginess.

Corrieri was grateful for her words but she wasn’t altogether convinced that she’d ever get used to this bit of the job. The pervasive clinical smell that she took to be disinfectant and perhaps formaldehyde was turning her stomach and she was worried that she’d be unable to hold onto it.

The pair fell quiet again, the only sound being the faint buzz of the fluorescent striplights on the high Victorian ceiling.

The door creaked open behind them and the desk sergeant ushered a tense-looking Brendan McCullough into the room. The man’s eyes immediately flew to the covered body in the centre of the room and the two officers saw his mouth drop open in shock before he firmly closed it again. Oonagh’s father stood, almost to attention, dressed smartly in collar and tie beneath his anorak and stared at the shape that he had been summoned to see.

‘Thanks for coming, Mr McCullough,’ opened Narey. ‘We realize how difficult this must be for you.’

The man didn’t look at her but pursed his lips and sternly nodded.

‘Would you like to take a moment to prepare yourself?’ Narey continued, her eyes on McCullough’s.

‘No. No need,’ he replied briskly. ‘I’m ready.’

As if to prove it, he took two steps forward towards the table and stood still again awaiting for Narey to act.

Narey swapped glances with her DC and got a brief nod from Corrieri suggesting that she was ready too.

The DS went to the end of the table, placing herself to one side and indicating to McCullough to take his place on the other. The man moved forward and with a deep breath positioned himself opposite Narey, with Corrieri at his shoulder.

With her eyes on him, Narey reached down and took hold of the cover and slowly pulled it back to reveal the head and shoulders of Oonagh McCullough.

Her father’s eyes opened wide and a gasp escaped from his lips. After a momentary waver, he stood stock-still but shut his eyes tight.

‘Mr McCullough,’ said Narey firmly, ‘I have to ask you to look.’

After a few seconds, his eyes opened again and for the first time since he entered the room, he turned towards Narey, reproachful at her tone.

‘I am sorry, Mr McCullough,’ she continued, ‘but I do have to ask you to look. Is this your daughter?’

The man held her gaze for a few moments longer before switching back to the table. Oonagh’s eyes were closed over and her face stripped of the make-up she’d worn when she was killed in Wellington Lane. Her skin was bloodless pale and the livid purple strangulation marks on her throat stood out angrily.

The father looked at the mortal remains of his daughter, his jaw clenched and seemingly determined to avoid any more sounds of weakness leaking out. He stared at the lifeless form in front of him, almost glaring, resentful that she was dead.

‘Yes,’ he barked loudly, his voice ringing round the mortuary. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, quieter this time. ‘It’s Oonagh.’

Narey nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

‘It’s been a long time since you’ve seen her, Mr McCullough. She will have aged considerably in seven years. Are you sure it’s Oonagh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Her hair was auburn but this girl’s is dyed. And there has been dental damage that has altered her expression…’

Narey let the question go unrepeated but it hung in the air between them.

McCullough snapped his head round to her angrily.

‘It’s my daughter!’ he replied sharply. ‘It’s Oonagh. I should know my own daughter.’

‘Indeed,’ Narey agreed softly.

‘Has she changed much, Mr McCullough?’ asked Corrieri at his shoulder. ‘Excessive drug use can have such an effect on a person’s appearance.’

He turned to look at her, his eyebrows knotted in momentary confusion.

‘I don’t really… yes, of course she has but it’s Oonagh. It’s Oonagh.’

‘It must have been hard to discover what she’d been doing,’ chipped in Narey. ‘That she’d been working on the street.’

The father’s eyes blazed at her furiously.

‘My wee girl wouldn’t do something like that. She wouldn’t be some kind of cheap whore.’

‘Things happen, Mr McCullough. People change,’ replied Narey.

He stared at her, saying nothing.

‘Oonagh had changed so much,’ she continued. ‘It would be perfectly understandable if someone didn’t recognize her right away.’