“Let’s take a lap around the school. Maybe we’ll see something.”
“My socks are wet,” she grumbled.
“Then you won’t notice if they get wetter,” I said with false cheer and pushed her out the door.
She managed to get the umbrella in place before she stepped out from under the building’s awning, though she turned and gave me a look that could curdle milk, and she refused to let me under the umbrella’s reach as we walked down the stairs and began to skirt around the school.
“I looked up the best route to St. Stephen’s church,” she said. “It seems like it’s fastest to go around the back of the school and cut across the alley there.”
“Lead the way.” I doubted we’d find anything. The rain would have wiped away any footprints or tire tracks, but it never hurt to check.
There was another iron fence at the back of the school, but the gate leading to the alley wasn’t locked and swung open easily under my hand as if it were used often. The alleyway beyond was narrow, with barely enough room for a car, the cobblestones dark and uneven underfoot. There were no windows to break up the wall across the way. In fact, it didn’t even look like the building was in use.
“Well, if I were going to nab someone, this is where I’d do it,” I said, looking up and down the narrow walkway with my hands on my hips. A white delivery van puttered slowly past the mouth of the alley.
“Comforting.” Fletcher finally relented and stepped in closer to hold her umbrella over both our heads.
“Let’s take a look around,” I suggested, and the two of us split up.
There weren’t many places in the alley to look, but I made my way over to a set of bins near its mouth. The rubbish was collected every other Friday, so it was possible there was something leftover from Tuesday afternoon.
I instantly regretted opening the lid. Someone had decided to dump a bucket of food waste into the bin, and it had started to ferment at the bottom. I quickly dropped the lid and stepped back, and as I did, my eye caught on a splash of colour on the ground between the two bins. I stooped and reached carefully into the space, retrieving the sodden red and white wool scarf. It was short and narrow. Just like one a child might wear.
Five
“Look.” I held up the scarf for Fletcher to see, and dirty water drip-drip-dripped off the end.
“That could be anyone’s,” Fletcher said, but she didn’t sound very convincing.
“One way to find out,” I replied and called Ainslee Wair.
The phone rang for a long time before she finally picked up, her voice wavering half from the static of the call and half from her exhaustion and grief. “Yes?”
“Ms Wair, this is DCI MacBain. Do you have a moment?”
Fear crept into her voice as she assumed that a call from me could only be bad news. “Yes. What is it?”
“What was Finn wearing on Tuesday?” I put the phone on speaker so Fletcher could hear Ainslee’s response as well.
“His school uniform, his coat. I-- Why are you asking this? Did you find something?”
“Did Finn own a red and white striped scarf?”
“He did. I made it for him. I think he was wearing it Tuesday. Why? Did you find it?”
“In the alley behind the school, between two bins. Which doesn’t necessarily mean something bad happened,” I barrelled on before she could work herself into a panic over the news. “He could have simply lost it.”
But even as I said it, I doubted it. Tuesday had been cold and windy enough that surely a young kid would wrap his scarf as tightly around his neck as he could, and he would notice it if it were gone. If it came off during a struggle though…
I didn’t suggest that to Ainslee.
“There is one other thing before I let you go,” I continued as Ainslee choked out a sob. “Would it be okay if I asked you just a couple more questions?”
It took Ainslee several long moments to get control over her voice again. “What is it?” she managed to ask, grief laced through every word.
“We just finished speaking with Mr MacTaberd, Finn’s homeroom teacher. You’ve met, yes?”
“Yes. Several times,” Ainslee answered.
The scarf was heavy in my hand, heavier than that strip of knitted wool had any right to be, as if it had soaked up a boy’s desperation and fear along with all the rain. “He said that Finn’s father called him last year, asking after his son. He mentioned that he told you about it?”
“Yes.” Ainslee hesitated. “Richard... he walked out on us. I could sense him pulling away in those months leading up to it, but nothing I did seemed to make a difference. I thought he left because he realized he didn’t want children.” Her voice trembled, and I wished this was a conversation we could have in person so she wouldn’t have to be alone. “But he was so excited when Finn was born… I couldn’t figure out what had changed. Still haven’t figured it out. I only got more confused when I started receiving money in the mail.”
“He really never tried to contact you or Finn?” I asked.
“He was just gone. It was as if he died.” She laughed bitterly, and her voice took on a sour tone. “I’m embarrassed to say I was excited when Mr MacTaberd said Richard had called. I thought he would come back to me. Obviously, he didn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Fletcher said. “That must have hurt.”
“You have no idea.”
I bit the inside of my lip as I thought over the mystery that was Richard Smith. “If Finn didn’t just get lost,” I said carefully because I knew what I was insinuating. “Do you think his father might have had something to do with it?”
Ainslee gave it some serious thought. Finally, she sighed. It was the sigh of someone who had put all her hope into a bottle and then tossed it into the sea. “I honestly don’t know, Inspector.”
“Thank you for everything, Ms Wair. I know this isn’t easy. I’ll call you as soon as we know more.” I hung up. My phone felt almost as heavy as the scarf still in my hand. “Do you have an evidence bag on you?” I asked Fletcher.
“Not one that big.”
“I think I have one in my car.” I held the scarf between three fingers, trying to touch it as little as possible. “Let’s visit the church before we head back to the station.”
The rain began to let up as we reached my car, though it would no doubt be back before the day was over. I opened the boot and fished out one of the large evidence bags I kept on hand, dropping the scarf inside and sealing the whole thing up.
We hit rush hour just as we pulled out of the school parking lot, and I cursed as I finally managed to squeeze into the left lane. A drive that should have been five minutes took twenty, and Fletcher was dozing lightly in the passenger seat by the time we finally reached St. Stephen’s Church. Its spire shot straight into the air, framing the front door, and gravestones, each tilted a different way like decorations slipping off a too-warm cake, dotted the green grass all around the building. A gravel path marched from the parking lot up to the blue doors while the small stained glass windows struggled to collect any light from the gloomy, cloud-riddled sky.
I nudged Fletcher awake, and she snorted as she jerked upright.
“Sorry, sorry.” She rubbed at her eyes. “Early morning.”
I led the way up the path, the gravel crunching beneath my boots, the wind picking at my coat. The door stuck for a moment, but I gave it a hard shove, stepping back to let Fletcher enter the church first. The room was wide and open, the floor covered in neat rows of pews and thick columns that reached up to the arched ceiling. The dark wooden supports stood out sharply against the light stone, and the altar at the far end was a simple dais sat before a carved cross, framed by stained glass windows that were dim and muted in the fading light. My footsteps rang through the space, though I tried to walk quietly as I followed Fletcher towards the information desk and tiny gift shop.
The clerk smiled at us in greeting, the expression deepening the wrinkles around his mouth.
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br /> “We’re looking for Lena Taggert,” I began. “She teaches a music class in the church basement. Do you know if she’s here right now?”
His smile widened, though that didn't seem possible. “Lena, yes, she’s lovely. She teaches here on Tuesdays. Unfortunately, she’s not here today. Why are you looking for her?”
I didn’t need to explain the details of the case to a stranger, so I ignored the question. “Do you have her address or her phone number?”
“Well, no.” The clerk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But she did invite me to her gig tonight. The band she’s in is playing at the Gellions Pub tonight. Eight o’clock, I think she said.”
That was something, at least. “Thanks.” I took five quid from my wallet and stuck it in the donation box, and the man beamed at me.
“Lena’s not in trouble, is she?” he asked just as I turned to leave. “Because she’s a good egg, that one. She’s great with those kids and a fantastic musician. I’d hate to she’s mixed up in any trouble.”
“No. No trouble.” I hoped that was true.
Rush hour was still in full swing when Fletcher and I left the church, the car idling in the parking lot as Fletcher punched in the address of Haruto Sato’s apartment, finding it on the other side of the city from where we sat. It took ages to get there, and I mostly sat in silence, turning the day’s facts over and over in my head. Aside from the abandoned scarf, we’d found nothing solid to go on, our clues a nebulous pile of intel about various people, none of which was particularly helpful.
Full dark was gathering by the time we reached Haruto’s apartment, though that had been happening earlier and earlier these days, so we still had a few hours to fill before we needed to be at Lena’s gig. Haruto’s apartment lay at the back of a quiet, little neighbourhood, the small building nestled between two much newer and flasher complexes. Judging by the apartment number, his unit was on the leftmost side, the curtains drawn tight across the window.
I parked across the street and stretched as I got out, stifling a yawn behind my hand. DC Barnes sat in a marked car a little way up the road, and I gave him a quick wave, motioning that he could head out. As we approached the building, I looked around to see if I could spot any white vans or suspicious activity, but the entire neighbourhood was still but for a single red car pulling into a drive down the way. From the neatly mown grass and the bushes snipped into the shape of squares, I could tell this was one of those streets where absolutely nothing happened, not even an argument about a missing newspaper. Though I supposed that was what everyone in slasher flicks thought, right up until the killer was in their home.
I rang the doorbell set into the brick wall. “Who is it?” Haruto yelled from within.
“DIs MacBain and Fletcher,” I replied, speaking loudly, so he could hear me through the wood and glass.
“I’ll be right there.” Footsteps thudded down the hall inside, and I backed away from the door so it wouldn’t swing open and hit me when Haruto came out.
“This seems like the kind of neighbourhood where a stranger would be instantly noticeable,” Fletcher said as she glanced around.
“That or everyone’s too wrapped up in their own lives to notice,” I pointed out, and Fletcher shrugged.
The door swung open to reveal Haruto and his wire-rimmed glasses. He had lost the wool coat in favour of a dark blue polo, bands of beads wrapped around one wrist. “You actually came,” he said breathlessly.
“I said I would.”
“Please, come in.”
Haruto pulled the door open more fully to allow us inside, and we stepped into the cramped entranceway one at a time. “I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind taking your shoes off?” Haruto asked, subtly blocking our way further into the house with his body.
“Of course,” Fletcher said, and I struggled to unlace my stiff, heavy boots in the narrow confines of the hall. Then, in our socked feet, we followed Haruto into the kitchen.
His place was neat and clean if a little sparse in decoration. Spices lined the kitchen counter, pressed up against the wall, and a couple of photographs were stuck to the fridge with magnets. A couple of tiny herb pots sat on the windowsill beside a wooden clock carved with tiny, intricate cicadas. The only bit of mess was a stack of papers and books spread across one half of the table, but Haruto quickly straightened them up and moved them aside.
“I thought we would take a look at all your doors and windows to see if anything’s been tampered with, and then you can point out everywhere you’ve seen these vans and this woman,” I explained. I was hoping this wouldn’t take long as I still needed to eat before we went to the Gellions Pub to speak with Lena.
“Thank you for coming all the way out here,” Haruto said, following close behind as I made my way to the back door out of the kitchen. “I know you must be very busy. You said something about another case?”
“A missing child,” Fletcher told him.
Haruto’s face contorted instantly, shock blending seamlessly with guilt as his hand flew to his mouth. “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize it was something that serious and time-sensitive. You shouldn’t be wasting that kid’s time checking up on me. I’m sure I’m just imagining things.”
I pulled his back door open and stooped to examine the knob and the lock. They looked like they maybe needed a bit of oil, but they were otherwise fine. “We can’t follow up on our next witness for a couple of hours, and besides, if I say I’m going to do something, I make sure I do it. Your safety is just as important to me. If we look around and find nothing, then you can rest easy. If we do find something, then we’ll know what steps to take next. Either way, it’s a win-win.”
The shock slipped away from Haruto’s face, though most of the guilt remained as if he didn’t totally believe what I said. I turned my attention to the little window over the sink, though it was obviously too small for a person to climb through easily, and they would have upset all the little plants if they’d tried. The window swung open easily, but without signs of tampering.
I quickly checked the window in the laundry room as well but found that the bar that kept it from opening too far was intact.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to scare you or be following?” Fletcher asked as the three of us moved to the living room.
The apartment had obviously come pre-furnished as the coffee table had deep scratches in it, and the end tables didn’t match. There were a few framed photos scattered around the space as well as a bunch of books stacked all along the large set of windows. Again, I figured if someone had come in that way, they would have knocked everything over, but I still ran my fingers along the latches, searching for any sign of a break.
“No, of course not!” Haruto seemed surprised that Fletcher would even suggest it. He perched awkwardly on the arm of a worn chair, unsure of what to do with himself as we searched his apartment. “I mean, my parents were a little upset that I decided to study and restore European manuscripts rather than Japanese ones, but not enough to send someone to what? Frighten me into coming home?” He laughed. “My father doesn’t even like killing spiders.”
“Has the Archives Centre received any weird messages or attention?” Fletcher perused the books as I finished going over the window. “Is book restoration a, I don’t know, contentious field or something?”
Haruto laughed. “Definitely not. Most people don’t even understand what we do or know that we do it.”
“Nothing here,” I said.
Relief began to creep into Haruto’s eyes.
There wasn’t a window in the small bathroom, so that left just the front door. I went over everything as carefully as I could. A good lock picker would be able to get in and out without damaging anything, but if they were careless enough to leave the door unlocked so Haruto would notice, I was willing to bet they wouldn’t be much good at breaking and entering. As far as I could tell, the entire mechanism looked fine.
I stood, knees creaking slightly, and turned to face
Haruto and Fletcher, both of whom had crowded in close behind me, curious. “I don’t see any sign of forced entry,” I told Haruto
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, does it?” He looked like he wanted to believe it was all in his head but was unable to accept it fully.
“True, but more than likely, it means that there’s nothing to worry about,” I said. “Why don’t you point out where you saw the woman and the van?”
It wouldn’t teach us anything, but it would hopefully help put Haruto’s mind at ease. He pointed to a couple of different spots up and down the street, but as I suspected, there was nothing helpful in sight. I was becoming more and more sure this was nothing more than a case of an overactive imagination.
“This is my card,” I said as I dug a slip of paper out of my pocket. “I want you to call me the second you feel like you’re being followed, okay?”
He nodded, slowly taking the card from my hand and looking it over. There was still something worried in his eyes, and the feeling travelled down to his fingers as he turned the paper over and over again.
“Promise me you’ll actually call,” I continued, staring him right in the eyes. “Even if you feel stupid or like you’re imagining things. You won’t be wasting my time.”
Haruto took a deep breath, and his nerves steadied, fingers stilling as he put my business card in his pocket. “I will. Thank you again for coming out today. I feel a lot better.”
“I’m glad. Best of luck with your book-thing.”
I struggled to get my boots on quickly while standing up. Usually, I had to sit to get them properly laced. Then Fletcher and I waved goodbye to Haruto and returned to our car, driving through the dusk-filled streets back to the station. Thankfully, rush hour was over. My road rage probably wouldn’t have been able to handle another minute in it. As soon as we arrived, we turned over Richard Smith’s phone number and Finn’s scarf to the lab for analysis.
Then Fletcher left to grab some dinner, but I waved off her offer to join her to eat at my desk instead and look over a few things, answer some emails. Martin the lab tech had received my sister’s photo and was eager to get to work on it. The man was obsessed with cryptids for some reason, as my father was, though his interest stretched to encompass any and all weird monsters, whereas my father had been deeply entrenched in his Loch Ness Monster research. I also had another email from Sam, already desperate to know if the lab had found anything out about the photo.
Buried Secrets (DCI MacBain Scottish Crimes Book 1) Page 4