Final Cut by Lin Anderson

now what it was. I could go back. Take another look.’
    ‘The dog sniffed every pile of brushwood in that wood and didn’t detect any more human remains.’
    Rhona looked again at the drawing. ‘The body here is buried.’
    ‘We can’t dig up the entire wood just because a kid draws a picture.’
    ‘Have you talked to her mother about this?’
    ‘Emma said in the email that her mother didn’t want her to show me the drawing.’
    ‘I’m not surprised. The woman’s probably as freaked as you are by the kid’s story.’
    McNab said nothing.
    ‘What if I contact the mother?’ Rhona suggested.
    This was obviously what McNab had been hoping for. She studied the drawing again, registering the classic shape of a Christmas tree.
    ‘Pine needles are very acidic. A small body buried under a pine tree would be subjected to a constant trickle of acidic water, enough to dissolve even the bones.’
    ‘So there would be nothing left?’
    ‘After a decade, maybe some fabric, plastic things like buttons, gold items like a ring.’
    ‘Did you find anything in the material from the deposition site?’
    ‘Not yet. I suspect the body had been stripped before it was left there.’
    ‘Meaning the killer was forensically aware?’
    ‘Ten years ago he was probably just being careful. Hoping if it was ever found, it couldn’t be identified.’
    ‘He might be right.’
    ‘Hey, we don’t give up that easily.’
    McNab was suitably chastised.
    ‘On a different note. The dead guy in the skip might be eastern European. He had a meal of beetroot soup and dumplings before he died, possibly at the Russian Restaurant.’
    ‘Beetroot soup?’
    Rhona found herself defending the borscht. ‘It’s very good. I tried some.’
    ‘You went to the restaurant?’
    ‘The manager’s name is Misha Grigorovitch. He invited me back for a Russian meal.’
    ‘Hope you’re not planning on fraternising with a suspect?’
    ‘He’s hardly that.’
    ‘He might be.’
    ‘So might Claire Watson.’
    That made them both think.
    ‘You’re suggesting the girl or her mother knew there was a body in those woods?’
    Rhona hadn’t really considered the idea until that moment. It would certainly explain how Emma ‘found’ the skull.
    ‘Maybe we should take the story of a second body more seriously,’ she said.
    ‘I could take you down there tomorrow,’ McNab offered.
    ‘I have a court appearance in the morning and so do you.’
    ‘We do?’
    ‘The old lady, Mary Healey? We’re going to put her killer behind bars.’
    ‘Oh yes, I remember. What about a visit to the Watsons’ afterwards?’
    ‘Possibly, if we don’t have to sit around waiting to be called. Give me the contact number. I’ll talk to the mother.’
    When McNab left, Rhona tidied up before dialling the Watsons’ number. The phone rang out four times then a small voice answered.
    ‘Is that Emma?’
    ‘Who’s speaking please?’
    ‘My name is Dr Rhona MacLeod. I’m a colleague of Detective Sergeant McNab.’
    The voice brightened. ‘Michael?’
    ‘Yes, Michael. May I speak to your mum?’
    The phone went down with a clatter. She could hear Emma’s voice calling for her mother, then footsteps before the receiver was picked up.
    ‘Hello.’
    Rhona repeated what she’d said to Emma.
    ‘How can I help you?’ The woman’s tone was guarded.
    Rhona explained her role in the inquiry then said, ‘DS McNab showed me a drawing Emma sent him.’
    There was an intake of breath. ‘I told her not to send that.’
    ‘I know you must be worried by all this.’
    ‘I am.’
    Rhona chose her words carefully. ‘There’s a remote chance Emma did register something odd on her way to the place we found her. Something that’s preying on her mind. I wondered if I walked with her through the woods, I might be able to both check it out and put her mind at rest.’
    Rhona could sense controlled anger in the response.
    ‘I don’t think . . .’
    ‘Detective Sergeant McNab has