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<h2>12</h2>
<p>"Curiouser and mysteriouser," David said. "I'll get a team out
to the Jane Doe's place to lift the floorboards if I have to. She
definitely had a baby there at some time, and maybe more than one.
Almost definitely more than one. Christ alone knows what she was up
to."</p>
<p>Helen sat curled up in an old armchair close to the imitation
coals of the fire which sent a flickering glow dancing on the
walls. She was wearing an outsize sweater which swamped her and
cradled a brandy in a fine cut glass. She had a small pink dressing
on her forehead. The nurse in casualty had looked at the small,
deep cut, swabbed it with stinging alcohol and sent her home again.
She wasn't even bruised.</p>
<p>"It was the same smell, or very similar. I really thought I'd
been poisoned. It was like having a trip, and a real bad one too.
"</p>
<p>"I suppose you're talking from experience?"</p>
<p>"Give me credit, David," Helen shot back until she saw the look
on his face. She tendered a smile that faded quickly as she thought
back. "It was like walking into a nightmare. Everything in the room
changed shape and the colours went through the spectrum, except
they were all sick colours. It felt as if I was on a roller
coaster, but a mental one, as though all my senses had been wired
up the wrong way. I was scared and angry and depressed all at the
one time and completely confused the whole of the time. It's hard
to explain exactly what was happening. I remember thinking I was
having some sort of breakdown, a psychotic episode or
something."</p>
<p>"I get that kind of feeling just watching Rangers in extra
time," David said. She hit him with another look and he gave her an
apologetic shrug that told her he was trying to keep it light.
"Maybe there's something new on the market. Ecstasy? Jellies?
Something like that? A new brand of PCP?"</p>
<p>She leaned back and sipped her drink. "Whatever it is, it's not
pleasant, I can guarantee that. I can't imagine anybody paying
money to feel like that"</p>
<p>David had to agree with her. He remembered the odd, unnerving
twist of emotions that had rocked him when he'd stepped inside the
dingy room in the dead woman's house. The sudden violence had been
the most disturbing part of it all, the instant, vicious anger that
had swept through him; that and the sudden hot surge of raw
need.</p>
<p>"I got something like that in Quigley's place," he said, slowly,
battening down the image in his mind that tried to transpose itself
on the real Helen Lamont. "I mean McDougall's house. I thought it
was gas at first, or some fumes, like lead paint or ammonia, but it
was none of those. Remember I got you to the window?"</p>
<p>She nodded, recalling the sense of loss and the other, weird
need inside her. She recalled the grab of his hand on her neck and
the shunt of sudden want.</p>
<p>"It was then I thought of nerve gas. I saw a programme on Porton
Down. Sarin gas, the kind they used on the Tokyo underground, that
was what they were testing, that and a few others. They can give
people real hallucinations. As soon as I breathed it in, I wanted
to hit somebody. If I hadn't got to the window, it could have been
you."</p>
<p>Helen gave him another smile. "I saw what you did to Kenny Lang.
You dropped him like a sack, so I'm very glad you decided against
it. You should have told me this before."</p>
<p>"Well, it passed pretty quickly, and of course it couldn't have
been anything lethal I suppose, " David said. "I'm allergic to a
couple of antibiotics. They give me anxiety attacks. I just assumed
there was some sort of cleaning fluid that had evaporated and left
some traces that affected me the same way."</p>
<p>"Was there anything inside the other place?" Helen asked. David
shook his head.</p>
<p>"Nothing out of the ordinary. The bed was still unmade and might
have been slept in. A couple of blankets and sheets were on the
floor by the wall. It reminded me of the bedding in the other
house. I've taken some of that for sampling, plus the caul."</p>
<p>He'd already told her about the macabre find in the shoe box.
Helen herself had heard of the phenomenon, so he didn't have to
explain in great detail. It was just a mystery that sparked more
questions. "I'm more interested in who hit you. Cruden's sure to
give you a bad time for going in on your own."</p>
<p>"I told you, it's just a missing girl who's got no history at
all. The address is a workmate's house , and she's clean too.
They're normal folk, from quiet, law abiding families. Both girls
have good jobs, good careers. There was no reason to expect
anything, none at all. I was surprised to find the door open, and
there was always a possibility that the girl could have been lying
there hurt. It was a judgement thing. Anyway, that's in the past.
I'm not sure what happened. Remember, I was seeing things, and I
didn't want to let the uniforms know that. I don't want that kind
of thing on my record." She turned to David again and gave him a
half smile that conveyed a number of different messages. "I can
tell you, though. There could have been something, but I couldn't
swear to it, or I might just have fallen. My head was spinning and
there could have been spiders coming out of the walls next. I
thought I saw something, but what I saw was some kind of monster,
like some creepy thing out of a Hammer movie. It had two heads and
one had a face like a gargoyle, but then again, there were spikes
growing out of the door and blood running down the walls. There was
definitely a chemical in the air, but it cleared when I opened the
door."</p>
<p>"So what made the mark on your head?"</p>
<p>"Your guess is as good as mine. I wish I knew. If it had been a
burglar, I could have taken him down, or at least made him fight
his way past me. Under any normal circumstances I could have done
that, but believe me, the situation wasn't normal by any means. I'd
like to find out what it was I breathed in, because it's powerful
stuff."</p>
<p>Helen said she'd prefer to accept she'd slipped and fallen on
the frosted tiles, at least on the official record, than to have
let an intruder escape, assuming there had been one, after going in
without back-up. David didn't think it was such a good idea, but he
went along with it. By the time he'd checked over the small house
where Celia Barker lived, the smell was faded and stale,
discernible and unpleasant, but dissipating rapidly.</p>
<p>"And how was your day?" she asked, draining her glass, drawing
him back to the present. She reached for the bottle, caught his
look which silently asked if it was wise to take another drink on
top of the painkillers, but she poured anyway and took a sip.</p>
<p>"As weird as yours. Christ knows what I'll be able to tell the
boss. Thelma Quigley turns out to be Heather McDougall, her best
friend who's been living under an assumed name for at least five
years, possibly more, maybe even as many as thirty. I'll have to do
some real backtracking to find out. Quigley was murdered back in
the sixties and Heather disappeared a couple of months later, on
July 27. I spoke to her old mother who's still pretty sparky,
though her dad's lost it a little. Things got a little complex from
then on. I can't make head nor tail of it."</p>
<p>"Tell me then."</p>
<p>He leaned back and reached for the small folder into which he'd
slotted some of the documents. He took out a folded sheet of paper
and handed it to her.</p>
<p>"See for yourself," he said.</p>
<p>_______</p>
<p><em>July 28, 1967.</em></p>
<p><em>BABY DIES IN BRIDGE PLUNGE.</em></p>
<p><em>A baby is believed to have drowned in a river plunge after
its pram was hit by a lorry. The tragedy happened at Duncryne
Bridge in the village of Blane just north of the city when a woman
believed to be the baby's grandmother was crossing a road. The
child's pram was thrown against the parapet of the bridge which
crosses the Balcryne Stream. Police believe the infant was hurled
out and down to the deep pool below.</em></p>
<p><em>The woman is critically ill in Blane Hospital where surgeons
last night operated on horrific head-wounds suffered in the
accident. A hospital spokesman said the woman, who has yet to be
identified, was still in intensive care suffering from multiple
fractures and internal injuries.</em></p>
<p><em>The tragedy happened yesterday afternoon on the north side
of the Duncryne Bridge opposite the public walkway well known in
the area as a lover's lane. The crushed pram was found only yards
from the spot where in March this year, the mutilated body of
amateur actress Thelma Quigley was discovered. Police are still
hunting for the killer who buried his victim in a shallow grave
after stabbing her to death in a frenzied attack.</em></p>
<p><em>Teams of police, using tracker dogs which are already
familiar with the steep-sided valley were out in force combing the
area around the banks and a team of divers were being flown in from
the Navy Base on Finloch to search the deep pools in the river
known locally as the Witches Pots. So far no trace of the infant
has been found.</em></p>
<p><em>Last night lorry driver Brian Devanney, who is employed by
J.C. Carnwath Hauliers was charged with reckless driving. He is
expected to appear in court this morning. It is the third fatal
incident this year involving the transport firm and already
pressure is mounting for a full department of transport
inquiry.</em></p>
<p><em>Devanney was initially taken to hospital for shock and head
injuries suffered when his cab veered off the road, narrowly
avoiding a plunge into the chasm, and demolished a row of ash
saplings planted by Councillor Agnes White early this
year.</em></p>
<p><em>Hospital sources say that the driver claimed the woman had
run in front of his vehicle. This allegation was not completely
discounted by Mr and Mrs George Crombie who arrived soon after the
tragedy and helped Mr Devanney from his cab</em></p>
<p><em>"He was in a dreadful state," Mrs Crombie said. "He said
he'd just killed a woman who had ran out in front of his
lorry."</em></p>
<p>The story went on, brown ink on grey paper, still smelling of
chemicals from the microfiche printer. It was just one of a handful
of sheets of old newspaper David had got printed out from the
library's storage system when he came back from his visit to the
old couple. The report carried a picture of the bridge which had
not changed in thirty years, David knew from his walk up the track,
spurred by curiosity. The spot where Thelma Quigley, the real one,
has been butchered, where the baby had been catapulted over the
parapet and drowned in the river, was quite spectacular, even in
winter. In summer it must be beautiful.</p>
<p>"I took a walk up there, just for a look see. Heather McDougall
said she was going up to the bridge and that's where she was
headed, apparently, on the day she went missing. Her idea, as far
as I can see, was to top herself. I'm convinced she planned to jump
from the bridge and join her dead friend in the hereafter.
Something stopped her, and that's the real puzzle."</p>
<p>He took the piece of paper from her fingers and folded it once
more. "She never went home again. Her parents expected her back
that day and she didn't turn up, and thirty years on, she turns up
dead on the floor of Waterside Mall. That's really weird. Her notes
really point to a suicide attempt, and It was the same day as this
other baby was sent flying." David put the print-out into the
folder.</p>
<p>"That's an awful story."</p>
<p>"True. When I heard it, it rang a bell in my mind. It was one of
the biggest cases at the time. Devanney the driver was sent to jail
for manslaughter."</p>
<p>"The woman died?"</p>
<p>"No. It wasn't her. It was the baby, and oddly enough, they
never did find the body. That's what made it stick out in my mind.
Devanney was initially done for dangerous driving and they boosted
the charge up to manslaughter. He took the corner too fast and was
on the wrong side of the road at the time, so the court was told
anyway, though he denied it. His defence couldn't have been trying
too hard, for the case would never stand up nowadays. Anyway, he
was charged with the culpable homicide of the baby, even though
they never found it."</p>
<p>"I'm not with you."</p>
<p>"You must have heard of the Bridge Baby case?"</p>
<p>Helen shook her head. "Before my time."</p>
<p>"And mine, but I do read, you know." He indicated the sheaf of
papers jutting from the folder he still held in his hand. "It's all
here in the print-out. What happened was that this woman, Greta
Simon her name was, had a baby with her. It was knocked out of the
pram and over the parapet into the water. There was a spate at the
time, a heavy rainfall or something, and the baby was washed away.
Nobody knew even who the kid was, because Greta Simon couldn't tell
them. She was brain damaged and hardly able to speak, but her
neighbours knew she'd been looking after a baby. Just like Heather
McDougall in fact. They thought it was her grand-daughter. She was
too ill to appear in court, but there were enough witnesses to say
she'd been walking in the path to the bridge with the baby in the
pram."</p>
<p>"And they convicted a man for that?"</p>
<p>"He did nine months. The baby never did turn up and according to
the experts, it was probably washed down into the River Forth and
out to sea. It could have been anywhere. The search took the whole
length of the stream and they dragged every pool and culvert. The
dogs found nothing either, though some people said maybe a fox or a
badger, or even a domestic dog might have found it and eaten
it."</p>
<p>Helen shuddered. "That doesn't bear thinking about."</p>
<p>"No. But it's a coincidence. Really odd. I wish I'd never
started on this."</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>"Because I'm getting nowhere and it's got to me. I've a million
other things to be getting on with and Scott Cruden's expecting me
to get this one tied up as soon as possible. It was supposed to be
a simple job of back-tracking on a dead woman with something odd in
her blood. The more I look into it the further away any answer
seems to be.</p>
<p>"But you won't be able to let it go?"</p>
<p>He shook his head. "My old mum always said my curiosity would
get me into trouble. She's probably right. But you have to admit,
there is something weird in all of this. We get a Jane Doe in the
mall..."</p>
<p>"You're beginning to sound like an American dick," Helen said.
She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes mischievously. "Or maybe
just a dick."</p>
<p>"Very funny. We find Thelma Quigley who turns out to be Heather
McDougall who did a runner thirty years ago on the same day that a
baby is killed. She turns up in another town half way across the
country with a baby that's now gone missing and we know it can't be
hers, but the medical reports say she was lactating and possibly
able to feed a baby."</p>
<p>"You never told me that. I thought she was about sixty. Was she
on some kind of hormone treatment?"</p>
<p>"That's why I was put on this in the first place. To find out if
she'd been away and picked up a weird tropical disease. Anyway, in
her flat, we find baby toys, clothes, and then there's a caul. I've
taken some pieces for analysis and the rest of it crumpled to dust.
It should tell us something."</p>
<p>David paused, trying to recollect where he had digressed. "Yes.
So McDougall went missing, just like your girl, what's her
name?"</p>
<p>"Ginny Marsden."</p>
<p>"Her. She McDougall just never turned up. They thought she'd
been murdered, but she hadn't. All this time she's been living very
quietly as Thelma Quigley, her friend who <em>was</em> murdered and
buried in a shallow grave up near the bridge. Lovely spot, by the
way. Really spectacular. You'll have to come and see it. I saw a
little bird there, a dipper, poor little thing, trying to find a
hole in the ice."</p>
<p>Helen sat back. "You've side-tracked yourself again. I thought
it was me who had the bump on the head."</p>
<p>David came back on line. "So then <em>you</em> turn up at the
Marsden girl's place, or at least her friend's place, and it's got
the same smell, the same kind of chemical as we found down at Latta
Street. That's too many coincidences for me."</p>
<p>"Maybe it really is some kind of cleaning fluid," Helen
suggested. "I get reactions to some of them. Maybe that's it."</p>
<p>"It's an easier explanation than nerve gas," David allowed,
though his expression said he was far from convinced. "Maybe I'm
allergic to it as well, and possibly we should call in the health
department just in case there's been a spillage. Aside from that,
there's something in this whole story that doesn't add up. It's
going to niggle at me all night."</p>
<p>He flicked through the papers, letting the other chemical smell
of the microfiche printer drift up. "Look at this," he said,
leaning towards her. The picture was grainy and smeared, but
unmistakable. An old fashioned black pram lay crushed against the
stone wall just at the side of the bridge. A patterned baby blanket
lay on the road.</p>
<p>"Nobody knew who the baby belonged to. Nobody knew it's
name."</p>
<p>"I thought you said it was that woman. Greta."</p>
<p>"She <em>had</em> the baby all right. But it wasn't hers. She
was too old. There was plenty of evidence that she was caring for
one, but nobody knows whose it was. There isn't even a name,
although the neighbours said she called it Tim. Tiny Tim. There
were no records of adoption, and no relatives came forward at the
time. Greta Simon herself was a bit of a mystery. Nobody was sure
of where she came from, although most folk thought she was English.
That was it. She was crossing the bridge and a truck smacked her
into a plantation of shrubs and knocked her baby over the wall and
into the river below. End of story."</p>
<p>"But you don't think so?"</p>
<p>"No. There's something weird here. I can see a connection, or at
least a similarity here. It's too much like the Heather McDougall
case."</p>
<p>"But separated by thirty years."</p>
<p>"Separated yes, but connected. She went up to the bridge on the
same day. That's in her diary, and her old mother confirms it.
Thirty years on she turns up dead and allegedly, <em>possibly</em>,
a baby has gone missing."</p>
<p>"Sounds like history repeating itself. What do you think? This
Heather McDougall, do you think she was a baby snatcher? Some kind
of crazy?</p>
<p>This time David shrugged. "Could be. I don't know. I did a check
this morning on recent snatch cases. There's damn few of them, and
as far as I can see, there's never been a case where a baby's been
stolen and gone unreported. Not unless..." he paused.</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Not unless she's been bumping the mothers off first. Maybe
poisoning them? Perhaps that's what the smell was. Some sort of
poison that she gassed them with."</p>
<p>"You don't really believe that," Helen said.</p>
<p>"No. I don't believe it at all. The McDougall woman was sick and
she was old. She couldn't have overpowered a mouse. She was
probably looking after someone's kid. We just haven't turned that
person up. As I said, if I have to, I'll dig up the floor. It could
be a Fred West case all over again, but I doubt it. I just think
there's something weird in all of it I look through all these
clippings and I think for a second I'm getting to the bottom of it,
and then it's gone."</p>
<p>He stood up and put his glass down. "And now I'm gone. I'd
better shoot."</p>
<p>She made a disappointed face. "Just when I was beginning to
enjoy this." She eased herself off the chair and snaked her arm
around his. "Thanks for coming to get me today. And thanks for
keeping it between us too. I won't forget it."</p>
<p>He gave her a wink that told her it was no big deal. She leaned
her weight against him again and he could feel the warmth through
his shirt. It was a friendly gesture, the kind a partner would
make, but in that instant he sensed something more. He almost
wrapped an arm round her to draw her close and stopped himself just
in time.</p>
<p>"I'll give you a hand with your runner," he said quickly.
"Because I want you to stick with me on this Jane Doe. Come and
pick me up in the morning."</p>
<p>"You don't have to do a runner too," she said. She smiled up at
him, let the smile fade. Her dark eyes looked straight into his and
her skin felt hot on his. Helen saw his hesitation, mistook it for
incomprehension. She shrugged quickly to disguise what could have
been an awkward moment.</p>
<p>"Not so soon anyway."</p>
<p>_______</p>
<p>It was cold and dark. Outside the mist oozed and crept, almost
alive, seeking the dark corners to fill with thick and clammy
damp.</p>
<p>Ginny Marsden shivered, half asleep, slumped against the potato
sack matting in the corner of the garden shed. How she had got
here, she could barely remember. The flight was a series of jumbled
images, shapes and shadows flicking past in peripheral vision. She
recollected the shape that had loomed in the kitchen and she had
struck out and then she'd been running, protecting the baby. The
threat had gone. It had reeled back and fallen and Ginny had got
the impression, no more than that, that it had been a woman.</p>
<p>She had been dreadfully afraid that the shape would hurt the
baby. The fear had swelled in a hot gush that had blanked out every
other thought save the need to protect the tiny thing in her arms.
She had gone blundering out into the cold, breath pluming out in
the frigid air, running as if devils were panting at her heels. She
hadn't stopped when she reached the end of the lane at the back of
the houses. She'd taken the right turn up the next road and then
carried on for almost half a mile, unsure of where she was gong,
but guided somehow by instinct. She reached the pathway that led up
the side of the allotments where rickety shacks and huts and old
greenhouses that had seen better days huddled together in the
little patches of cultivated ground.</p>
<p>She knew this place. Her grandfather still worked here in the
summer, tending his chrysanthemums and dahlias and weeding his
little plots of prize onions and leeks. She had played here as a
child, tasting the mint and the thyme that grew beside the
greenhouse. She had played with the big fat toad that lived under a
terracotta pot and ate the slugs that ate the cabbages. It seemed
like a million miles away in time.</p>
<p>The gate was locked, barricaded against vandals and crowned with
a piece of barbed wire. She ignored it, ignored the pain as she
clambered over the wooden slats, ripping her palm twice in the
attempt while still holding the baby close to her. It urged her on,
its fear driving her along. It needed warmth and shelter. She got
to the other side, letting herself down heavily, then scampered up
the aisle between the frosted leeks and Brussels sprouts to the hut
at the far end. The padlock was closed but she knew where the key
would be. The pot shard sheltered another toad, this one stiff in
its winter hibernation, looking more like a rock than an animal.
Beside it, the silver key glinted. She opened the hasp. The door
creaked as she let herself inside and she closed it firmly before
allowing herself to stop. In the dark, guided by the powerful
motive, emotive force, she crept to the corner where the potato
sacks were piled in a heap. She arranged them around herself,
pulling them over and tucking them, until she and the baby were
almost completely covered. The baby nuzzled in at her, forcing its
head in against her warmth, searching for a nipple. It found it,
plugged in, and she felt the intense merging sensation as it drank
of her.</p>
<p>Sometime in the night, she awoke, briefly, shuddering at a
dreaming image, her breast's sore and throbbing and her blouse
smelling of sour milk. Her back ached and her palms throbbed where
the barbs had punctured the skin. Her eyes were heavy and gritty
under the lids, as if dust had got under there to rasp at the
tender skin. An enormous lethargy enveloped her, and try as she
could, it was impossible for her to move.</p>
<p>She was alone here in the cold and the dark. For a moment she
tried to recollect what had happened but her mind was sluggish and
turbid. For an instant the image of the hibernating toad came back
to her and that was an accurate reflection of how she felt. Her
muscles were drained of power, as if she'd been sucked hollow, and
the cold had stolen into her bones, making her weak and
strengthless. The sacks smelt musty, of loam and old potatoes, and
overlaid with that other smell that was becoming familiar now, the
bitter sweetness that it secreted.</p>
<p><em>It.</em></p>
<p>Ginny Marsden gave a little start in the dark.</p>
<p><em>IT.</em> The baby. It had snuggled into her and nuzzled and
fed and she had given of herself, feeling the urgent pressure in
her swollen breast lessen in a pleasurable seepage.</p>
<p>It wasn't there. She turned, just a little, feeling her numbed
muscles respond so slowly it was like being cocooned in treacle. A
deep exhaustion sagged in her. The baby was gone. Her mind began to
come alive again, suddenly thrown out of the torpor by that
knowledge of release.</p>
<p>The baby was gone. The thing that held her had left her. Her
heart gave a little double beat. She moved, heard the joints creak
painfully. The darkness inside grandfather's garden shed was almost
complete, save for a pale rectangle high on the wall where a piece
of perspex had been screwed to the wall as a windowpane. It was
still night then, for the moonlight came glimmering through the
scratched plastic, barely strong enough to outline the shapes of
the garden tools hanging from the nails on the beam nearby.</p>
<p>It was gone. She could escape. The images of her dreams came
back then, the scaly sensation of something inhuman crawling all
over her, its cold, puckered skin making her own surface cringe and
buckle into gooseflesh. She felt again its probe down between her
legs, slender and cold, hugely repulsive, appalling in its
invasion, draining the goodness from her blood, from her
marrow.</p>
<p>Just at that moment, she heard the slithering motion close to
the door. A movement happened, a rustle in the dark, a scuffle that
ended in a tiny, almost inaudible squeak. Something small died in
that instant. Her heightened senses picked up its sudden snuffing
out, just as they perceived the other presence.</p>
<p>It had not gone at all. It was still there, in the dark. It had
crawled away from her and caught something. It was there by the
door, a scuttling shadow</p>
<p><em>Oh my god oh my god, I have to get...</em></p>
<p>that would come back and snare her again.</p>
<p>Ginny attempted to gauge distance in the dark. She flexed her
arm, trying to warm it quickly, knowing any delay would give it a
chance. Of a sudden a desperate need to be free almost paralysed
her, coming as it did on the waves of fear and dismay and
horror.</p>
<p>There by the door, something crunched gently, the sound of a
bird's eggshell crushed, the noise of an insect squashed. A faint
warm smell of blood came on the cold air, mingling with the other
smells and the similar metal scent that she knew would later come
from the oozing drag deep inside her. The shadowy thing made a
scuttling noise again, two, maybe three yards away, hardly more
than that. Beside her the garden fork dangled beside the old spade
that grandfather used to make the even rows for potatoes. The four
tines were close to her head height. An instant solution came to
her and with hardly a pause she got to one knee, reaching a hand to
unsnag the fork.</p>
<p>Her muscles groaned in sluggish, dry protest. The bones in her
knees and the joints at her thighs ground together like rough
stones. The thing in the shadows by the door moved quickly. She
sensed it turning. Desperately she reached and got a hand round the
shaft of the fork.</p>
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