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.’
CHAPTER 51
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.’
‘Especially if it was dark,’ added Corrieri.
Brendan McCullough continued to stare at Narey.
‘Look at her, Mr McCullough,’ Narey told him.
The man glared at the DS, battling her gaze. She saw him gulp hard.
‘Look at her!’ she ordered.
McCullough turned hesitantly to look at his daughter.
‘I remember her in those photographs at your house,’ Narey said behind him. ‘Such a pretty thing. She didn’t need all that make-up she wore, did she? Not really.’
The father shook his head, agreeing.
‘She looks better without it, don’t you think? More like your wee girl.’
‘Yes,’ a faint voice came back at her.
‘That’s why you tried to scrub the make-up off her cheek, wasn’t it?’
‘She was such a sweet girl when she was younger,’ he replied. ‘The best daughter you could imagine. Never got herself into any kind of trouble and was always quick to do something for someone else. She was
… happy.’
‘It must have been hell for you when she left.’
