‘Thanks.’ Vicky watched her go, strutting along the corridor then into the room, then collapsed against the wall. A cleaning machine was working away nearby but she couldn’t see where the sound was coming from, just had that deep throb and the reek of chemicals.
And she couldn’t get the thoughts of Catriona Gordon’s ordeal out of her head. She had suffered one of the most brutal attacks anyone could endure. Her head would be full of self-hatred and disgust. Torturing herself, blaming herself.
Vicky had read somewhere or heard on some course about how it was the brain’s way of trying to prevent it happening again. Torture yourself badly enough that you didn’t get into the situation again.
The reality was so much darker than the theory. Seeing someone clawing at their skin like that. Hating their own body. When it wasn’t her fault.
And whoever did it, Dougie McLean say, the sheer callousness of making beans on toast before he left.
Christ.
She brushed a tear out of her eye and got out her phone. A text from Considine:
Raging about McLean. Lassie was raped eh?
Expressing frustration as anger. Understanding as rage. The closest he came to caring, maybe.
Vicky called her mum, listening to the ringing. She could picture her rummaging through her handbag, scouring the contents as she searched for her phone, ringing loud enough to be heard in Edinburgh.
‘Hello?’ Voice super-quiet.
‘Mum, it’s Vicky.’
‘Oh, hello, Victoria. How’s it going?’
‘Tough, Mum. Really tough. Listen, thanks for helping me out.’
‘It’s fine. The number of times your father would be called out at all hours during his days on the force.’
The plus side of having a copper father. And a mother who’d been understanding about it all. ‘How’s she?’
‘Oh, Bella’s asleep. Lasted half an hour of that film. Frozen, is it?’
‘Aye. But that was the second time she watched it.’
‘Twice back-to-back. I put her to bed and came back down to see your father watching it.’
Vicky laughed through a thick throat. ‘Did he deny it?’
‘Oh, of course. Still, we watched the rest of it and he’s got Die Hard on now.’
‘That’s more like it. Make sure the sound’s down.’
‘He’s got his headphones on. Cable reaches all the way to your telly.’
Vicky could just imagine him sitting there, beer in hand, cable pulled tight as he lounged back and watched John McClane killing German terrorists.
Christ, the same surname as the chief suspect, albeit differently spelled.
‘Shall we put her presents out for you?’
‘I’d rather do it myself, if it’s all the same.’
‘Any idea when you might be back?’
‘You know how it is, Mum.’ Vicky sighed, but felt it dragging her down into a deep well. ‘But I’m not missing her Christmas for anything. Or your roast turkey tomorrow, Mum.’
‘That’s good to hear. Your brother’s looking forward to seeing you.’
‘I bet he is.’
Alison stepped out of the room, with the sort of scowl Vicky really didn’t want to see.
‘I better go, Mum. I’ll text you when I leave.’
‘You do that.’
Vicky walked over to the room, pocketing her phone as she went. The curtains were drawn, so at least she didn’t see Catriona’s suffering first-hand. ‘How is she?’
‘Well… not great.’ Alison was staring into the middle distance. A big shiver and she was back. ‘There’s no way to prove she was raped, but she did have sexual intercourse with someone in the last day or so. Certainly since she last showered. I’d say there are signs of forced sexual activity, both vaginally and anally, presence of spermicidal lubricant, presence of micro-tears to the labia, presence of bruising to the inner thighs, forearms and neck, and of course ligature markings. The clinical findings support the victim’s account you relayed to me, Vicky. Unfortunately for us, the man wore a condom.’
Superb…
Vicky had been hoping McLean had been stupid enough to leave evidence. ‘But?’ She hoped there was one.
‘Well, we have recovered some pubic hairs.’
‘How is that good?’
‘Catriona is… well.’ Alison coughed. She looked down at her groin. ‘You know what kids are like these days. So I’m assuming it’s from her attacker.’
‘Not just kids...’ Vicky nodded, trying to encourage the nurse. She reached into her pocket for a stack of business cards, then flipped through until she found the right one. ‘Can you get in touch with Jenny Morgan about this? I want that DNA test fast-tracked.’
‘Sure thing.’ Alison stared at the card. ‘Do you know who her attacker is?’
‘I’ve got a good idea, yeah. Trouble is, it’s related to a murder tonight.’
‘The girl in the Ashworth’s car park?’
‘Right on the money.’
‘Oh my.’ Alison covered her yawn with her hand. ‘Well, I’ll speak to Ms Morgan right away.’
‘Thanks.’ Vicky tugged Alison back. ‘Can I speak to the victim?’
The firmest of nods. ‘By all means.’
‘Cheers.’ Vicky returned the kindness with a smile then slipped into the room.
Catriona was perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the TV, but it wasn’t on. Wearing comfy clothes – tight leggings and a baggie jumper with an inappropriate flower pattern. And she looked even younger than in her home, just a girl. She caught Vicky’s eye, then held her gaze.
Vicky stayed by the door, giving the girl some space. ‘How are you feeling?’
Catriona swallowed hard. ‘How do you expect me to feel?’
‘There’s no right way, Catriona. No wrong way, either. It’s your reaction to a horrific incident, nobody else’s.’
‘Have you caught him?’
‘I’ll need some help with that.’ Vicky reached into her pocket for her phone, but stopped short of unlocking it. ‘We can do it later, if—’
‘Now. Please.’
‘Just a sec.’ Vicky unlocked her phone and switched the phone to a voice memo app. ‘I’m going to record this for evidence.’ She started the app going, then found the secured email from Karen and opened it. Took a couple of steps and another password, but she was in.
Her screen filled with six faces, all men, mid-thirties. Stubble, dark hair. Some with long noses, some with open mouths.
‘This is DS Vicky Dodds. I am
