Enlisting the help of everyone who was there, Chrissy had collected eighteen mobile photographs taken during McNab’s party. Iona featured in quite a few, especially when she’d hooked up with the newly promoted DI. There was a wistful one taken as McNab watched Rhona leave and one where they stood laughing together. Not for the first time did Chrissy wish Rhona had taken him home with her.
No one she’d spoken to had admitted to knowing Iona. Most thought she’d simply been in the pub and had joined in the fun. Initially Chrissy had thought the same. Not any more.
One photograph had caught her eye in particular. In it, Iona was deep in conversation with a bloke and they looked very friendly. Yet, shortly afterwards, Iona had abandoned the boyfriend and made a play for McNab. Chrissy could understand why women fancied McNab, even though she didn’t herself. He’d been in good form that night, telling stories, making people laugh. He was the man. Definitely. So Iona had switched allegiances.
Chrissy didn’t buy that version of the story. The more she thought about it, the more it looked like a set-up. And one that involved the boyfriend. Talking to the bar staff confirmed her suspicions. Apparently Iona had told one of them she was there for the police party, despite no one knowing who she was.
So confirming why she was there had been easy. Finding her had proved more problematic, until Chrissy had shown the photograph in a pub further down the road. It seemed Iona had worked there for a couple of months, so they had her contact details, including her address. They hadn’t been keen on giving them out, until Chrissy explained who she was, laying the emphasis on the word ‘police’ rather than ‘forensic’.
So here she was, gazing up at a set of flats, one of which was Iona’s.
Chrissy tried not to imagine what might be going on behind the closed curtains. If McNab was in there, he would be less than happy to discover her on the doorstep.
Chrissy pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. Neither did anyone pull back the curtain to check who wanted entry. She pressed again, holding it on this time. Still nothing.
Just then the door sprang open for someone to exit. A bloke, wearing earphones, tried to pass, but Chrissy brought him to a halt. She flashed her ID, and articulated the word ‘police’, then showed him the photograph and asked if Iona lived there.
He looked relieved to find it had nothing to do with him then shouted above his music, ‘Second floor, middle door. I think she’s away, though. Haven’t seen her recently.’
‘Does she live alone?’
He shrugged. ‘As far as I know.’ Satisfied he’d done his bit, he replaced the sound system and headed off.
Chrissy, her toe in the door, let him leave before she went into the close. The middle door on level two was badly in need of a paint job. Chrissy stood for a moment listening, but like the neighbour said, it didn’t sound as though there was anyone inside. She checked out the locks. An upper mortice and a lower Yale. If the mortice wasn’t on, entry would be easy. She put her eye to the crack to find that the Yale was the only thing keeping her outside. Seconds later she was in, courtesy of her specially designed lock breaker, fashioned from a plastic milk carton.
The narrow hallway had three doors leading off. The first led to a small toilet and shower, the second to a combined kitchen and sitting room. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that filtered through the closed curtains. On her entry a couple of flies rose from the remnants of a meal on the coffee table, then resettled to continue gorging and laying their eggs. An empty vodka bottle lay on the floor next to the table. The room smelt stale, even unpleasant. Chrissy traced the worst of the smell to an open carton of milk on the kitchen surface. The milk was going off, but hadn’t yet reached the stage where it smelt like a decomposing body, although in this heat it wouldn’t be long before it did.
She went to take a quick look in the bedroom. There was always a chance that Iona would return, so she didn’t want to hang around too long. Chrissy wrinkled her nose. The putrid smell was in here too, maybe even stronger. By the time anyone came back, this place would be as stinking as McNab’s flat.
She glanced around the shadowy room, making out a double bed, a wardrobe and what looked like a dressing table. The curtains were thicker than in the sitting room and blocked out all light.
Chrissy reached for the switch, just as her eye caught sight of what looked like a foot sticking out from under the duvet. Shock rooted her to the spot.
Jesus. Iona was here.
She took a step backwards, as quietly as possible, then halted.
Something wasn’t right. The foot was pale, but filtered light from the hallway suggested a mottled pattern on the underside. Chrissy switched on the light.
The heaped duvet on the bed didn’t move. She caught the corner and slowly raised it. The second foot appeared, followed by the legs and buttocks, all bearing the early signs of decomposition. Chrissy let the duvet fall back down, then walked round to the head of the bed and lifted the duvet again.
And there she was. Naked and dead, an empty syringe clasped in her right hand.
Chrissy let the cover fall back down as the scent of death brought the resident flies through from the sitting room.
Once in the hall, she gathered herself together. There was no way to keep this under wraps, not like the trashed flat. McNab was in the shit, whatever she did.
Chrissy pulled out her mobile and made a call.