Dark Flight by Lin Anderson Page A

see what was in there was greater than her desire to vomit.
    Light from the open door was dull and grey, reaching in only a few feet. The rest was thick darkness. She resisted the temptation to rush in. If this was a crime scene it had to be preserved. Whatever was generating the smell had been dead for a while, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t also something alive in there.
    ‘Stephen?’
    The steady plip of water was the only answer to her call. She opened her case and took out a forensic torch. The beam lit up what looked like a small white shoe lying on the concrete floor.
    McNab responded immediately to her frantic shout. She watched as he sprang across the waste ground, leaping the piles of rubbish with the ease of a hurdler. He had always been fitter than the rest of the squad, but he must have been in training during his spell at the Police College. He was barely out of breath when he reached her.
    His anxious glance moved from her shocked face to the open doorway. ‘Is it . . .’
    ‘I can see a child’s trainer but it’s too dark. I don’t want to go in before I put on a suit.’
    He peered in, registering the ominous smell. ‘I’ve got crime scene gear in my boot. I’ll go and get it.’
    ‘Don’t use the track in case of tyre evidence,’ she said, as though McNab needed to be told his job.
    ‘You sure you’ll be all right here?’
    Distress at the possible contents of the building rendered her voice sharp. ‘Of course!’
    He scanned the waste ground as he left, obviously checking for her earlier assailants. The feeling that he was watching out for her only served to make Rhona feel more vulnerable.
    She was pulling on the suit as the threatening sky let go in a sharp burst of rain, plastering her hair to her head and running down her face. Forensically, rain was bad, washing a site clean of evidence. The weather had stayed pretty dry since Stephen’s disappearance. That had been their only real luck . . .
    Street lights on the distant River Road popped on, bathing it in orange, as McNab’s headlights emerged from beneath the railway bridge. The car swerved to avoid a pile of tyres on the remains of the tarred surface then swung left onto the waste ground. If McNab reached her without a puncture he was doing well.
    He stayed clear of the rutted track, weaving between clumps of bushes and piles of rubble, the back axle jumping violently up and down, and finally drew in behind the building.
    She waited for him to lay metal treads as far as the door. When he was finished she handed him a suit. ‘Ifyou’re coming in you’d better put this on.’ It was her way of saying she didn’t want to go in alone.
    McNab drew on the suit and pulled up the hood, leaving the mask dangling around his neck.
    He produced two high-powered torches, handing Rhona one. It felt heavy and solid. She pressed the switch and a strong beam of light sprang on.
    ‘We should call Bill.’
    ‘I already have,’ he told her. ‘There’s the usual rush-hour traffic on the M8. They’ll be here as soon as they can.’
    McNab stood back, letting her go first. She ducked under the lintel, hearing him grunt as he ducked and followed her. He directed his beam at the centre of the floor.
    The trainer lay on its side, a smear of mud on the white surface.
    She swung the beam across the floor, holding her breath.
    There was no body.
    She heard a muttered ‘Thank God’ from McNab. Rhona wasn’t so relieved.
    ‘Check the walls,’ she told him.
    Both circles of light danced the back wall together.
    ‘Jesus.’ McNab’s voice was a hiss. ‘What the hell is that?’
    The rectangular brick construction was about three foot high and two foot wide. On its surface sat two candles. Between them stood some kind of animal skull, wrapped in barbed wire. There was a red diagonal cross painted on the wall above.
    Rhona directed her beam to the left as McNab moved right. There was nothing but concrete wall glistening with water that