In Place of Death by Craig Robertson Read Free Book Online Page B

five foot eleven when he’d disappeared aged seventeen. Chances were he’d grown more than enough to be taller than the man in the tunnel. He’d been in
his last year at school when he failed to return from a night out with friends. The search for him had gone viral, hitting every teenage Facebook page in the land, but he was never seen again.
    Rico had been sure that killer and victim had gone into the tunnel together. The chances of the murderer stumbling across him there were minuscule. Yes, he could have followed him but it seemed
much more likely they’d gone down there together. Narey had written on the whiteboard again.
Killer known to victim?
    No one knew how many people went missing in Scotland or the UK every year. The best guess was far too many. Some went missing but were never reported, others were reported out but never back in
again. The ones old enough to be thought capable of looking after themselves, they could bugger off and go where they liked. More difficult these days of course when every transaction leaves a
digital trail but still quite possible to do.
    She had interviewed too many distraught parents whose grown-up baby had done a disappearing act and had to tell far too many of them that there was nothing she could do. Not until the kid was
harmed or broke the law. If they ended up living under an underpass or begging for change in London then there was a good chance they’d disappear forever.
    Henaghan, Hendry, Hegde, Hughes, Hillman, Handoo and Haynes. She wandered round in the room’s harsh white light and hummed the tune to herself as she walked and thought.
    She’d already decided that an artist’s impression of this guy wasn’t going to cut it. They were going to need a facial reconstruction. She’d put in a call to a friend,
Professor Kirsten Fairweather at the Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification at Dundee University, to ask if her department would do a 3D reconstruct. Kirsten had been only too happy to help
and was making arrangements to get the process started. It would, of course, take time, and until then there was no choice but to continue to do it old-school.
    Dental records were en route for all seven RHs on her list but she knew they were unlikely to match. None of the seven seemed a fit to the man in the tunnel but their names still worked for her,
giving her a beat to work to, the rhythm of the lost.
    She left the room and wandered the corridor for a bit, following her thoughts and staring idly into one of the smaller rooms used to counsel bereaved families. It was a halfway house between the
living and the dead, all pastel colours and adjustable lighting. Would there be anyone to come and see the remains of the Molendinar Man? Anyone to say yes, that’s my son, my husband?
    She turned and retraced her steps, feeling suddenly anxious to be with the evidence bags, to hold the clothes again and see the man that wore them, her thoughts coming together and a puzzle
falling into place.
    What did the clothing tell her? A mismatch of sizes and quality. The victim was either a man who just didn’t care much about what he wore or didn’t have much choice. She knew plenty
of men who didn’t give much thought to their wardrobe, Tony for one, but they generally at least wore clothes that fitted them.
    The cagoule with the cut-off label had to be second-hand. It looked it too. The rest was cheap but functional. All except the shoes. They’d been bought new and the man hadn’t skimped
on the price.
    Clothing worn, definitely seen better days. Maybe worn for longer than the time in the tunnel. A fleece
and
a cagoule? It wasn’t that cold yet, not unless you were outside a lot.
Good shoes that fitted him but not the pattern.
    They’d wondered about him being a farmer, a postman or a road sweeper but there were plenty of reasons other than a job for someone to spend a lot of time outside. Perhaps the lack of a