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<h2>14</h2>
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<p>"This should make it easier," Donal Bulloch said. The CID chief
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leaned back in his seat, tall and grey-haired and with the kind of
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suntan he could only have got from the solarium at his four day
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conference. Beside him Scott Cruden looked cadaverishly pale.</p>
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<p>"If she's toting a baby around, she'll be easier to find. At
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last it looks as if foul play is ruled out." Cruden observed.</p>
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<p>"Unless kidnapping's been decriminalised," Bulloch corrected.
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Then he gave a smile. "No, you're right Scott, we don't know if
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this is really a snatch. They could have known each other, very
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likely did. But from what we know so far, this is a very odd case.
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Two odd cases. I think we'll have to get to the bottom of
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them."</p>
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<p>He turned to David. "Mr Hardingwell tells me you went round to
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see him." It was both question and a statement. David was perfectly
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straight in his reply.</p>
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<p>"I thought I'd best be informed rather than go into any
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situation blind."</p>
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<p>"Not like Lamont, then, forgetting to call in for assistance.
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That could have been dangerous. I expect better of you. Next time,
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shout for back-up."</p>
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<p>Helen blushed to her roots. "Sorry Sir, won't happen again."</p>
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<p>The chief superintendent nodded, closing the matter. David had
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shown him all the tapes, in the same sequence as he'd seen then
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that morning in John Barclay's office, though this time he included
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the collapse of the woman they'd thought was Thelma Quigley.</p>
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<p>"I don't think they were acting together," David told the senior
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officers. "From what Helen got from colleagues and the girl's
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parents, she had only gone for some Christmas presents. We'll get
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back to them to try to find a connection, but it doesn't seem
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likely. It does give us another mystery, and of course we must find
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the baby, even if it hasn't been reported missing."</p>
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<p>"We've got a start on the girl anyway," Helen put in. "When we
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find the one, we'll turn up the other."</p>
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<p>"What about this other thing?" the chief butted in. He leaned
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forward and put both hands on his desk. "You said the McDougall
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woman's diaries say she had a child before? Some years back?"</p>
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<p>"I'm checking that out too. There was evidence of an infant in
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the house and I've sent a sample to forensics. They should come
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back later today or tomorrow morning. What I'm concerned about is
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the history. We know McDougall disappeared. Soon after that, she
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starts talking about a baby in her diary. Pretty sketchy stuff, and
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leaving a lot of gaps, but it's pretty definite. Then she brings a
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baby to the mall and dies. Now this one gets taken."</p>
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<p>He thought before continuing, gauging whether the moment was
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right, then ploughed ahead.</p>
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<p>"But I'm also concerned about the first case. The entries in the
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diary start just after a baby went missing in Edinburgh. I
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discovered that when I spoke to McDougall's mother. Her daughter
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disappeared on the same day as a child was killed, or at least
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presumed dead after an accident."</p>
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<p>"I remember that," Bulloch interrupted. "In the sixties, wasn't
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it? Duncryne Bridge it was. I used to take a stroll up there myself
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in my younger day. A friend of mine, old Phil Cutcheon was involved
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in that. He's retired now. Strange case. The lorry driver did time
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for it, even though they never found a body. He'd have gone down
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for the accident anyway, but it was a celebrated case of the
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day."</p>
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<p>"I was wondering, "David said, "and I know it's a long shot,
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whether McDougall developed a habit. I mean, there's a lot of
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coincidences. She went missing on that day, at the same place, as
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far as I can make out. Her diaries begin to mention the child.
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She's been seen by the neighbours pushing a pram, carrying a baby,
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going back five years or so. Maybe more. There's something not
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right here."</p>
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<p>"I agree," Bulloch said. "Find the girl, and find the child. The
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pair of you work on this together, but try to hurry it up, all
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right? Give a bulletin to the patrols for the moment and if you
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need more manpower, we'll see what we can do."</p>
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<p>In the squad room, David made coffee for each of them. Helen
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opened her folder and brought out the picture of Ginny Marsden. It
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was clearly the girl they'd seen come into the mall and lift the
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baby from the pram. The photograph showed her the way she'd been
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when she came striding along, coat flapping, past the shop windows.
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She was fair haired and on the cusp of a smile and bright
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intelligence sparkled in her eyes.</p>
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<p>"So why would she lift a baby?" David asked. Helen raised her
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eyebrows and cocked her head to the side in a facial shrug.</p>
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<p>"There's something creepy about the whole thing," he added and
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Helen could only agree.</p>
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<p>"I could see that. She had no such intention when she came in.
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Then she passed the pram and everything changed. She looked as if
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she'd taken ill. I thought she was about to collapse."</p>
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<p>"Maybe she heard the baby crying?"</p>
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<p>"Possibly, but nobody lifts a baby from a pram just because it's
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crying. You take your life in your hands doing that. I'm getting
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some of the shots enhanced. Surveillance have some scanner
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programme that can improve the definition."</p>
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<p>They got the results of the dried skin back from forensics in
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the early afternoon while David was reading through the rest of the
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notes that were scrawled in the old exercise books he'd found in
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the dead woman's house. Every now and again he'd pause and write
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something down.</p>
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<p>It was no caul. It was skin, but not human. Bill Caldwell in the
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lab sent down a note to say that it was an integument of some kind,
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like a sloughed skin, but it was neither human nor any mammal
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they'd heard of and that meant any mammal at all. He suggested
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there might be a reptilian connection but could not be sure, and
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because of that he could give no clue as to the age.</p>
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<p>David cast his mind back to the previous day when the thing had
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tumbled from the shoebox, drifting the floor, feather light and
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translucent. It had crumpled as it hit the floor, as delicate as
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rice-paper. He had definitely seen a head and two arms. A skinny
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chest. The rent was down the back, just as he had seen in his
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dream. It had been no lizard.</p>
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<p>But had it really been human? He did not know the answer to
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that.</p>
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<p>Helen called him up to the photographic lab within the hour.
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Derek Horner, a small man with thick-lensed glasses sat at a
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keyboard in front of a screen. His fingers moved a trackball and he
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typed in commands every second or so. On the screen, Ginny Marsden
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turned round in slow, regular jerks as the scanner reeled the tape
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on. A square zeroed in on her face and shoulders, like the
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targeting system on a computer game. Almost instantly the picture
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expanded. It was fuzzed slightly, but Derek said he could clean
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that up no problem. He did. The girl's face jumped into clarity,
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almost face on to the camera. It was the same as the girl in the
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photograph, without any shadow of doubt. They could see the curve
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of the baby's head snuggled in to her chest. It was turned in
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against the fabric, almost side on to the lens.</p>
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<p>"Can you enhance the kid?" David asked.</p>
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<p>"That is it enhanced. I doubt we could do much better. It's a
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good system here, but it won't do miracles. Forget anything you've
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seen on Blade Runner. That technology's fifty years from now at the
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very least. I can tickle up some definition, but it's not going to
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improve much."</p>
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<p>"Why is it out of focus?" David was used to cameras. He'd been
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using them since he was nine years old, taking pictures of the
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birds which flew into the garden and nested there. At the distance,
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even allowing for movement, both faces should have been clearly
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defined.</p>
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<p>"Beats me," Derek told him bluntly. "Maybe an aberration in the
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lens. Maybe an odd shadow from somewhere. I can lighten it up a
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little." He hit a few more keys and the area around the baby's face
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visibly brightened in comparison to the rest of the picture. Even
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then it was still grainy and indistinct. Just a blur, but oddly
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shaped.</p>
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<p>"You sure that's a baby?" Derek wanted to know. On screen the
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small head looked slightly elongated and the front of the face
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flattened. The eyes might have been closed but they seemed large,
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dark shadows on the squashed face.</p>
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<p>"It's got a face only a mother could love," Derek said. Helen
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laughed. "Takes one to know one."</p>
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<p>Derek printed out a copy of the enhanced image, skilfully adding
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what approximated to skin tone. Ginny Marsden's face was
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exceptionally clear, but the baby was still just a blur.</p>
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<p>"Looks as if it's melted," Helen said jokingly. "We can't use
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that on a poster." She held the picture up again when they got back
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to the office. "There's something wrong with this," she finally
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said. "It doesn't look right. I know we couldn't see it on screen,
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but I got a weird feeling when I saw it. I'm getting the same
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feeling from the picture. It's really creepy."</p>
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<p>David said nothing. His thoughts were occupied with other
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problems. He'd been back to the notes again, collating his own
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markings. While the exercise books, mostly tattered and brittle
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with age, were sketchy and undated, he could work out a sequence.
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Since the first mention of the baby, the sickly-sweet coo-ings of a
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new mother, there had been other entries, sometimes months apart,
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sometimes a whole raft of them that would continue for a month
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without missing a day.</p>
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<p>They all mentioned the baby. <em>Baby Grumpling</em> was the
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term most often used. Never a first name. She would write down the
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details of the day, how he needed fed, how he needed changed. And
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only once, in a book that looked newer than the rest, Heather
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McDougall had spoken of the poor baby's skin rash, how it needed
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swabbed constantly with baby oil and then how it had peeled off
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like a sunburn, leaving him all pink and healthy again.</p>
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<p>Could that have been the caul? David thought. Not according to
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Caldwell in the lab. That hadn't been human.</p>
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<p>Yet on the same page where she'd marked a note, the woman had
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written.</p>
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<p>"<em>I kept it to show him when he grows up. How sick he was.
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And now he's all better again and hungrier than ever. I think he'll
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drain me like a prune, God love him.</em>"</p>
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<p>Ginny Marsden's feet led her west, taking her towards the bus
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station close to St Enoch's hospital where Heather McDougall had
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twitched and writhed as she died. It was a long walk, past the
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museum and the art galleries and across the park where the steam
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tumbled through the ornamental gardens. Up on the bare branches, a
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crowd of crows sat hunched and sleepy, silhouetted against the pale
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overhead, winter vultures waiting for the sun. They fluttered
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uneasily when she was directly underneath, but she never noticed.
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On the overpass, where the bridge soared over the river, the
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traffic was light at this time in the morning, most of them trucks
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and double-trailed rigs hitting the road before the rush.
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Underneath the span she could feel the ground vibrate with their
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passing.</p>
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<p>Her feet hurried her on, out towards the bus station and when
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she reached it she found the waiting room empty but for a slumped
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drunk in a far corner. She sat patiently, huddled inside her coat,
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holding her bundle tight, watching the single deckers come roaring
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in to collect their early morning passengers. She had no clear idea
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in her head until a bus came in and sat shuddering close to the
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door of the long waiting room. Almost reluctantly she got up,
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forced the door open and stood beside the bus until the driver
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noticed her. He gave her a cheery grin, hit the handle and the
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doors wheezed open on hydraulic hinges. She stumbled on the steps,
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righted herself, paid with a ten pound note which caused a delay
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while the driver rifled his own pockets for change and then went up
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to the back. The bus moved out ten minutes later, heading west out
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of the city towards Kirkland which was miles out into the country.
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There were four other passengers, two of them workmen in dirty
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donkey jackets, hats pulled down over their eyes as they caught
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some extra sleep. Nobody bothered to look at her. It was still too
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early.</p>
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<p>Half an hour later, the bus pulled into a town she had passed
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through before but had never visited. She looked out of the window,
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aware of the dim reflection of her own face in the dirty glass, and
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saw the sign boasting Levenford Castle and the double-humped,
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elephant's back logo of the rock on which the ancient monument
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stood.</p>
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<p>She had no real plan, but somehow, instinctively she knew she
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should get off here. The sky was still dark, but there was a small
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cafe close to the bus stop where early travellers were queuing for
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plastic cups of coffee. She got in line, still clutching the baby
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tight. She found a corner seat. A bulky man in a heavy leather
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jacket sat opposite her and lit up a cigarette. She did not look at
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him, even when he tried to strike up a conversation with her.</p>
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<p>Ginny felt the baby stir against her and turned away. The coffee
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was bitter, but warm and she sipped it slowly while the infant
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twisted, trying to get closer to her body heat. She waited in the
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cafe until the sky lightened and the day began to brighten. The two
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women behind the counter who had worked non-stop since she'd
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arrived kept looking over at her curiously. Finally one of them
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came over with two cups.</p>
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<p>"You look as if you could use another, love," she said kindly,
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her wrinkled face in stark contrast to her jet-black hair. She
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pulled a chair and sat down opposite Ginny.</p>
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<p>"New baby, is it?"</p>
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<p>She nodded. The infant stirred again. It turned, squirming hard,
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moving fast. The older woman reached out, pulled the lapel of the
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coat back, the way women do when taking a peek at a baby.</p>
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<p>For a split second, her expression simply sagged as if all the
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muscles had been cut.</p>
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<p>The musky scent came rising up, invisible but thick on the
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stale, smoky air. The woman blinked twice, as if her eyes were
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burning and itching. She shook her head just a little, as if she'd
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been startled, and then the motherly expression came right back
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into her lived-in face.</p>
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<p>"Oh, isn't he gorgeous," she said.</p>
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<p>Her friend, behind the counter, called over. "Don't you go
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giving that baby your cold now, Margaret."</p>
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<p>Margaret coughed, covered her mouth quickly, and gave the girl a
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big, even smile, showing a wide array of false teeth. "Had this
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since October. It'll be the death of me," she said, reaching
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reached into her own purse to bring out a packet of cigarettes and
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a cheap plastic lighter. "So will these. Mind if I smoke?"</p>
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<p>The girl shook her head absently. Margaret paused, dipped into
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her purse again and took out a silver coin. She handed it over to
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the girl, pressing it into her palm. "Just for the baby's luck,
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love. Can't let a baby be without a bit of silver."</p>
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<p>"I need somewhere to stay," the girl said. Her voice was hollow
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and had a slight, but definite tremble. There was something about
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her eyes that spoke of trouble, but she didn't look to Margaret as
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if she <em>was</em> trouble.</p>
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<p>"Got a bit of bother honey?" she asked, her seamed face
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crinkling into a mask of concern. There were dozens of people
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passing through the cafe on winter mornings, office workers heading
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up to the city. Boys with shaven heads coming down for the early
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sitting of the court, some of them in ill-fitting suits borrowed to
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make an impression, others beyond caring. You got farmers down on
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the highland train and road diggers getting a hot drink inside them
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before going out in all weathers to earn their bread and early
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arthritis. It was unusual to see a young girl with a baby at this
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time of the day. She had sat for two hours, waiting for the light,
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avoiding everybody. Of course she was in bother, Margaret could see
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that, and so close to Christmas too.</p>
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<p>The girl said nothing. She was slender and pretty with fair hair
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that looked as if it could use a brush. Her coat, though, looked
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well cut and expensive, good and heavy for the weather. Her face
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was pretty, but her eyes had bags under them, as if she was short
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on sleep, or maybe in the middle of a heavy period. Her pinched
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expression spoke eloquently of some sort of distress.</p>
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<p>"Is there a place to stay?"</p>
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<p>"Sure there is. There's a hostel up the top end of College
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Street. You just take the first on the left and keep going until
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you get to Ship Institute. You can't miss it because there's a big
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boat up on the wall. The hostel's just across the road from that,
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and they'll let you stay there until you get fixed up, and they'll
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help you find a place."</p>
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<p>Margaret pushed the other cup towards the girl, indicating that
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she should drink. The top of the baby's head was just visible under
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the lapel and the woman thought it was a damned shame the wee thing
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didn't have a hat for this weather. Once again she thought the girl
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must be in some serious bother. She smoked her cigarette while the
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girl sipped and was about to light up a second when the door swung
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open, trailing in a billow of cold air, and half a dozen men came
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in, bricklayers and plasterers from the Castlebank Church
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renovation, ruddy faced and foot-stamping as they tried to shed the
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cold. Margaret went back behind the formica counter to help with
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the order and soon had the eggs and bacon sizzling on the hot
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plate. When she'd finished serving the workmen, she looked over to
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the corner. The girl was gone, leaving her coffee-cup sitting on
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the table. She hadn't even seen her move. She hoped the hostel had
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a coal fire going.</p>
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<p>Nina Galt, the assistant manager at the hostel showed her the
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small room with its own stove. It had a bed and a square of carpet
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and a surprisingly pleasant view out of the window across a
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well-laid little public park where the shrubs were iced with a thin
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layer of snow. There was no television and no phone. The big
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armchair sagged in the middle and the stuffing in the arms looked
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lumpy and old. Nina gave the girl the booklet which listed the
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social services, the benefits office and anything else a homeless
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youngster might need. She asked few questions, except for a name
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and a previous address. As she left the room to go back downstairs
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to the common area where indeed there was a big coal fire roaring
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in the grate, she stopped, about to turn back and tell the girl
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there were spare bottles and teats for baby feeding., but something
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stopped her. She continued on her way, wondering how many more
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youngsters would turn up in the next few days. For some reason,
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there were always more of them at this time of the year and it made
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her think of Victorian fathers throwing their errant daughters on
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to the street and telling them never to darken the doorstep again.
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It was a damned shame, but there was nothing she could do about it.
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All she could do was get them settled in and give them a roof for
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as long as they needed.</p>
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<p>The next day the girl was gone.</p>
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<p>But at night, unknown to anybody, she had gone through the agony
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again.</p>
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