by Vicky Jones
“Well, they are the ones with all the power to look into it. I guess what will be, will be.”
Katie sat up and hugged the duvet around her knees. “I don’t even know what I’m hoping for.”
“For somebody to have a clearer explanation for what happened than your hazy memory can provide, maybe.” Tom stroked her head and smiled.
“Could that be worse, though?” Katie replied.
Katie walked into the toilet cubicle at the nursery and slammed the door. She put the lid down on the toilet and sat down with a thump, raking her dark brown hair through her fingers. It had only been an hour since the inspectors had been there, going over each and every page of paperwork, but already she was feeling the strain. She took out her phone and called Tom.
“Love, I’m at work. What’s up?” Tom said down the phone.
“I can’t cope with this. The lead inspector is an absolute dragon. Not to mention how she looks like Morticia Adams. She’s scaring the children.” Katie ranted until she ran short of breath.
“You rang me to slate the woman who has the potential to shut you down and put you out of the job, and off your course?” Tom replied mock seriously.
“Yes. And you are my boyfriend and it’s your job to listen to me rant.”
“How is it going, really?” Tom asked.
“OK, I suppose. I’ll just be glad when it’s over. And Morticia goes back to her coffin.”
Tom laughed. “Gotta go, love. See you later. Be nice.”
“Bye.” Katie hung up. She took a huge deep breath and composed herself. Standing up, she opened the cubicle door and walked over to the sink to splash her face. Another cubicle door opened behind her. When she looked up, she found herself standing next to the lead inspector, her expressionless eyes fixed on her. She was wearing a long black dress and suit jacket. Her jet black hair shone in the strip lighting above them, her scarlet lips a thin slit across her slab face.
“Hi. Umm… Have you, umm, got everything you need?” Katie said.
“Yes. Thank you,” The inspector replied, her tone monotonous. She nodded and turned towards the exit, leaving Katie to kick herself for her indiscretion.
Dawn opened her office door later that afternoon and froze for a second, as the lead inspector stood like an apparition in front of her. “Cynthia. How’s it going?”
The lead inspector frowned and opened her red slit mouth. “We have found a problem here. My colleagues and I have discovered something that has raised some serious concerns. We believe that the children here could be put at serious risk.”
Dawn swallowed hard and held her arm out to invite the lead inspector into her office.
The drive to Scotland was long, but the scenery Rachel passed once she was over the border was stunning. Heather-covered fields stretched on either side of the M74, only breaking when she reached the small villages that were peppered along the route. The M74 changed to the A74, and each town along it seemed to be a copy of the last, comprised of whitewashed stone terraces and the odd playground by a small, grey stone built primary school across the main road. The town she was looking for was twenty miles to the east of Glasgow, and, as she approached the sign welcoming her to Crailach, she took her foot off the accelerator, slowing her Alfa Romeo to the required thirty miles per hour speed limit.
Green fields filled with freshly shorn sheep flanked both sides of the dirt track she had been directed to follow by an old man with a straggly grey beard who was walking along the road with his red setter dog. After mumbling his answer in his broad native accent, he had pointed and gestured along the track up to a farm Rachel could now see on the horizon. Now approaching it at low speed, she clenched her fingers around the steering wheel as she drove over a cattle grip that rattled all the pens in her dashboard like marbles in a bag. With trepidation, she negotiated the wheels around the dry potholes that she feared her low-suspension car would be wholly unsuitable for tackling.
She reached the front yard of the property and got out of her car. Standing and stretching her legs after her long drive, she scanned the area for signs of life. It didn’t appear to be a working farm. The machinery she saw, including an old tractor with no windscreen and a giant rip in its back left tyre, was rusty and bent, as if it had not been used for its purpose for many years. The farmhouse was dull grey stone, with weeds growing all around the foundation stones. The windows were dirty, covered in some kind of green lichen and mostly intact, save for one on the lower left side which had a long, forked crack along the diameter of it. The front door was solid looking oak, painted black at some time in its life, but the paintwork was now chipped and flaking away, not helped by the biting westerly Scottish winds and icy rain. The farm was truly in the middle of nowhere, and apart from the old man she’d passed on the way here, and the fields full of livestock, she hadn’t seen another living soul for miles.
“Can I help you, hen?” a small, croaky voice piped up from around the side of the building. An old woman stood peering at her, a quizzical look on her face as she took in the smart-suited, official-looking woman about to knock on her farmhouse door. The old woman was wearing a brown woollen skirt, a navy blue wax jacket and sturdy-looking Wellington boots. Her head was covered with a brown and dark green tartan scarf, revealing a few strands of long, greasy-looking grey hair. Her face was deeply lined and weather-beaten but her sharp blue eyes were keen. She was holding what looked like a makeshift scythe.
“Oh, hello. I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Rachel. I’m looking for Robbie.” Rachel, sensing that this farm wasn’t used to visitors, decided to leave out her rank and profession from the introduction.
“Why? What’s he done?” the old woman replied, stepping forward. She was easily into her eighties, but the gnarled hand that held the scythe still looked strong.
Rachel took a step backwards and flashed a disarming smile. “Oh, nothing. I wanted to have a quick chat about something. He’s not in any trouble.”
“Nan, who are you talking to?” came another voice from around the farmhouse. Appearing at the old woman’s side was a young man, around thirty years old, wearing dirty blue jeans, a navy blue woollen jumper and heavy work boots. His dark brown hair, slightly curly at the temples, was speckled with what looked like sawdust. He looked at Rachel with watchful, brown eyes. “Who’s this?” he asked, pointing.
“Hi. Robbie, is it?” Rachel asked, inclining her head towards him. A gust of wind blew a strand of her long brown hair across her eyes, which she wiped away.
“Who wants to know?” the man replied. The old woman jabbed him in the side with a long, bony finger.
“Polus,” she said out of the corner of her mouth to the man. She looked at Rachel, a glint in her eye. “I may be old, lassie, but I’m nay stupid. I know a detective when I see one. So what’s the story?”
Rachel sucked in her cheeks and took out her warrant card and showed it to the old lady and the young man. “You’ve got me there. DI Rachel Morrison. And you both are?”
“Morag Brown. This here’s ma’ grandson, Rab.” The old woman pushed the young man forward.
“My name’s Robbie.” He cast a look over his shoulder. “Nan calls me Rab for short. What can we help you with, detective?” His voice was polite, with a slight scouse twang, but it had picked up the rural Scottish burr his grandma spoke with.
“I’m looking into an old case. I wanted to ask if you knew, or remembered, a girl called Mollie Spencer?”
Robbie’s legs seemed to buckle slightly. He reached his hand out to the wall of the farmhouse to steady himself. His stubbly face turned as grey as the stone. “Jesus. I’ve nay heard that name in a long while.” His eyes looked inward for a moment, then he shook his head and stared into the middle distance. “Why are you asking about her after all these years?”
“So you do remember her, then?” Rachel said. She watched his reactions carefully. “Do you remember anything about the events of the day when she died?”
“It was tw
enty years ago. I thought it had all gone away now.” Robbie still couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with Rachel. He screwed his face up and continued to focus on something way out in the fields across from the farmhouse.
“Like I said, it’s an old case we’re looking into. Her sister, Katie is,” Rachel paused, searching for the right word, “concerned that a few details don’t quite fit with her recollection of events. So I was hoping you could tell me what you remember.”
Robbie’s eyes widened as he fixed Rachel with a hard stare. “What I remember?” He began chewing on a dirty fingernail. “Oh, so now you wanna take it seriously?”
Rachel frowned. “Take what seriously?”
“Now, Rab. Calm yer’sel. Nay be takin’ it out on the polus lady now,” Morag said, her eyes flashing a warning glare at her grandson. She reached out to pull at his sleeve. “Why don’t we go inside and have a cuppa wi’ the nice wee lady?” She gave Rachel a thin smile.
Robbie wasn’t listening. He shrugged his nan’s hand off his forearm and jabbed his finger into Rachel’s face. “I spoke to you lot. Back when it happened. I spoke to my parents to tell them what I saw. I even told the vicar at our local church because nay person would listen to me. But even he told me to mind my own business and nay get involved. And now you come here, after all these years, pretending you’re interested in what I have to say?”
“Yes. I’m very interested, Robbie. Will you talk to me?” Rachel’s face was set with determination not to be intimidated by Robbie’s hostile body language. Her words were soft, her manner relaxed, her experience in these situations obvious. She inclined her head as she remembered something Robbie had said. “Wait. You spoke to the police?”
Robbie backed down, his anger subsiding. He wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve and began pacing the area. “I went to the police station the day Mollie died. I ran away before the police arrived at the scene because I was so scared about what I’d seen. I was only ten, for fuck’s sake. But when I’d calmed down, I knew the right thing to do was to tell someone.”
“Who did you speak to, Robbie?”
“Don’t remember the name. They didn’t take any notes, just said thank you and someone would be in touch. But I never heard anything again. My parents battered me for what I told them when I got home after. They called me a liar and wanted me out of the house. So, I stole mum’s address book and a photograph of Nanny Morag and came up here to find her. She agreed to let me stay. Said she could use a strong lad to help her on the farm. Grandad had died the year before I came up here. Fell off the tractor.” He nodded towards the battered tractor Rachel had seen when she first arrived.
“Robbie, I’m sorry no one listened to you back then. But I’m listening now,” Rachel said, her stare burning with sincerity into Robbie’s screwed-up face. “What did you see? The day Mollie died, what did you see?”
Robbie was unmoved. He set his face hard and rose up to his full six-foot height, his fists clenched by his sides. In his eyes was a cold look of disappointment and disgust. “You lot weren’t interested then, so why the fuck should I go through all of that again just to help you now?” He set his lips into a thin, long hard line. “Now, unless you’re planning to arrest me, or my nan, get the fuck off our farm and leave me alone.” He turned and slung an arm around Morag, leading the bewildered old lady back around the side of the house and out of Rachel’s sight.
Rachel walked back to her car, her mind turning with the oddness of Robbie’s words and behaviour. As she got back in her car and drove back down the lane away from the farm, her phone beeped, having finally picked up a reception. She pulled over and saw it was a voicemail from her mum. She called her number back but got the answer machine.
“Hi, Mum, it’s Rachel. Look, I’m up in Scotland on business, but I’ll call you when I get back. We’ll arrange something for next weekend, yeah? I’ll book your train ticket to come up to Liverpool. Have a think about what time is best for you. Talk later, love you.”
She hung up the phone and made another call straight after, mindful of the dodgy signal between her location and the nearest built-up area.
“Sharp? It’s me. I need you to stop what you’re doing and find out who would have been the local vicar in the churches surrounding Mollie Spencer’s home address twenty years ago.”
“Of course. I’ll get onto it now. How are things up there?”
“OK. Robbie lives with his nan, who’s an interesting character.”
“I wonder if he’s told his nan what happened?” Chloe mused.
“Whatever he was saying, people clearly didn’t want it becoming public knowledge.”
“Could be to do with the plan to keep it from Katie? For her own good, maybe?”
Rachel scratched her nose and wrinkled her face. “No. That all happened afterwards. We need to find out what exactly Robbie saw, and why there is no record of him even being spoken to, let alone what he said.”
“Are you heading back to Liverpool now, or staying over?” Chloe asked.
“Straight back. Unless Robbie wants to speak to me, there’s nothing up here to investigate further. I’m going to go and take a look at the Spencers’ old property too, on the way back to HQ. Have a nose around that cabin shed, just to build a picture of it in my mind.”
“Make sure you stop off at services if you get tired and need a break.”
Rachel smiled. “Yes, boss.”
When Rachel returned to the station, ACC Clifford and Supt. Jenkins were waiting for her in her office. It was well after six o’clock and Rachel was exhausted.
“Hello, Rachel. DC Sharp mentioned you’d decided to come straight back from your little trip,” Clifford said, flashing a bright white smile.
“Yeah, I was going to leave it until Monday, but I received new information that couldn’t wait.”
Jenkins looked at her. “New information on the Spencer case? From where?”
“A witness, actually, sir.” Rachel dropped her handbag onto her desk and unpacked her notebook and phone.
Jenkins put his hands on his hips. “A witness all the way up in Scotland? By the name of…?”
“Robbie. Reynolds.”
Jenkins looked at Clifford, whose dark features creased. “Why has he only just spoken up now? Isn’t this case twenty years old?”
Rachel chose her words carefully, uncertain as to the full reason herself. “He said he spoke to a few people back at the time of Mollie Spencer’s death. But no one took him seriously for some reason, so he gave up.”
“Maybe he was lying and no one believed him?” Jenkins said.
“No, I don’t think so. He spoke to his vicar as well as the police and his parents. He said he saw what happened that day but ran because he was so scared. You know as well as I do, an eyewitness is worth following up with.”
“Rachel,” Clifford said at length. “I understand your diligence, and I appreciate it. It’s why I brought you up here in the first place. But when you are using my resources, such as DC Chapman and DC Sharp, and driving from one country to another—albeit on your own time—it becomes my business. Remember, I have to justify where I spend my budget.” He paused and looked at Jenkins for a moment, then back at Rachel. “We have open cases coming out of our ears, so I cannot have you traipsing around on ten-hour round trips to interview witnesses to closed cases. Do I make myself clear?”
Rachel swallowed hard. “Yes, sir,” she answered as brightly as she could. “But what if I look into the Spencer case in my own time?”
Clifford thought on it and nodded. “I can’t stop you, I suppose, if it’s in your own time. But I want results on the cases I’m actually paying you to solve, understand?” His deep voice was firm, but fair.
Chapter 21
Tom raced up the stairs and into the bedroom, thudding down on the bed next to Katie. She stirred awake and sat up rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?” she mumbled.
Tom stared at her and thrust the Monday morning newspaper
into her face. “Look. Page four.”
Katie thumbed through the newspaper and there it was. Her heart flipped. “Oh fuck. I didn’t think they’d do that,” she gasped. “Am I mentioned by name anywhere?”
“No, luckily. It’s just basic information—location, facts, etc.… Some hack writing a speculative story, no doubt fed by a leak in the police. You’ve never mentioned having a sister called Mollie, so there’s no reason why anyone we know would think you were involved. But if that journalist is right, and people from the area start to put two and two together, it’ll be all over the national news by teatime.” He wiped his hand across the air. “‘Mollie Spencer case reopened’, it’ll say. Babe, how could you let this happen?”
Katie dropped the newspaper into her lap and buried her face in her hands. “Who the hell would have leaked the story to the police? And why now?”
“Who knows? The story mentions that ‘new information has come to light’, but it doesn’t say from who.”
“I’ll call Rachel.” Katie leaned across the bed to get her phone.
“No, don’t. You need to leave this alone now, Kate. Let it blow over,” Tom said. Katie put her phone down and read the article properly.
Katie left home for work that morning with her head clouded from the newspaper article she’d read. Finding a note on her desk from Dawn, she headed over to her office. She knocked and entered to find the look on her boss’s face the same as when she’d last been in her office.
“Good morning, Katie. Sit down,” Dawn said. She was wearing a dark navy business suit and purple blouse with a white and purple chiffon scarf tied loosely around her thin neck. “Well, there’s no easy way of saying this, but what I read this morning has seriously concerned me. Katie, you’ve not only let me down, but you’ve let the children down, and everyone else who works here. I can’t even begin to tell you how disappointed I am.” Dawn shook her head and looked as if she was stifling tears. Katie suddenly wished she still had her resignation letter.