‘For both of you, yes. But far more so for Sara.’ As she spoke, Clare’s mind went back to her phone conversation with her sister Jude. Sara and Chris could have no earthly idea what the future would hold for them as parents. Chris was right. It would be life-changing. She hoped her smile was hiding her real thoughts. She slapped him on the back. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, hoping she sounded more cheerful than she felt. ‘It’ll be the making of you.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Tell you what, after this one’s born, I’ll make you an appointment with Doctor Knackeroff. Sort you out.’
‘Very funny, Inspector.’
* * *
Lyall appeared shortly after, back in his Donegal tweeds, and made a beeline for Clare. ‘Any news?’
Clare shook her head. ‘Not yet. But that list you did last night was very helpful.’
His face lit up. ‘Want me to look back at any more cases?’
Clare looked at him. He was so eager to help. ‘Actually, yes, if you don’t mind.’
He was beaming now. ‘Anything you like, Inspector. Just tell me what you want done.’
‘Can you go through press archives for anything in the last couple of years on Valerie Isobel Docherty? Anything at all.’
Lyall gaped. ‘Big Val?’
‘The very same.’
‘Saw her a couple of times at drugs trials. Not the kind of woman you mess with.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Can I use that PC on the desk?’
‘Yes, help yourself before someone else grabs it.’
Lyall moved the mouse to bring the computer to life. ‘What sort of information are you after?’
Clare shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. Anything drugs related for a kick-off. Trials, accusations, co-accused, witnesses.’
‘Just crimes? Or other stuff?’
‘I’ll take anything you can lay your hands on,’ Clare said, and left him to it. Her phone buzzed and she took it out of her pocket. Tom, her ex, from her days in Glasgow. She stared at the screen. Why on earth was Tom messaging her? Surely he wasn’t still trying to revive their relationship? Her sister Jude had mentioned something about Tom putting himself out there again. Had his attempts at dating been unsuccessful?
She thought back to earlier in the year when she had started seeing Geoffrey. Tom’s weekly messages had continued. She knew he was struggling to accept that Clare had moved on – that he still hoped Clare would take him back. And she hadn’t minded the messages, really. They were chatty, friendly, always with a still here for you at the end. She told herself the sensible thing was to stop replying. But if she had stopped replying, maybe Tom would have stopped sending the messages. And she had avoided facing the obvious conclusion. The unpalatable truth that, while she did not want Tom any longer, she didn’t want him to stop wanting her.
And then Geoffrey had happened. She had told Tom, of course, and he had messaged to say he was glad for her but that he would always be here for you.
And then the messages had become shorter. The single X at the end was missing. And the here for you comments had stopped. And, in the end, they had tailed off. Clare was glad, of course. Glad to see Tom moving on. At least, that’s what she told herself. And when the messages stopped coming, she found she checked her phone more than ever, especially in the evenings when she knew he would be settled down with a glass of wine or a pot of coffee.
‘Everything okay?’ Geoffrey would ask, as she checked her phone for the third time in an hour.
‘Just work,’ she would say. ‘Just work.’
Finally, she had given up. Accepted that Tom had moved on and that he no longer needed her. She had started to look to her own future. A future with Geoffrey Dark.
And now this. What on earth could Tom want, so many months down the line? Had his new relationship foundered and he was trying to win Clare back? If she replied, maybe it would all start again. And how would she feel about that? She looked round the room. There were other priorities for now. Whatever Tom wanted, it would have to wait.
Sara had emerged from the interview room. Clare thought she looked a bit better. Cheerier. There was no sign of Chris, and Clare decided it wouldn’t be a bad thing to keep the two of them apart for a few days.
At that moment he emerged from the loo.
‘Chris, do you have a minute?’
He lumbered across, with a sidelong glance at Sara. Clare wasn’t quite sure what she was going to say but, as he approached, a call went up from one of the Dundee uniforms.
‘Found the car.’
Clare turned to stare at the cop who had shouted.
‘The Audi,’ he said. ‘We’ve got it.’
Chapter 20
Bingham Terrace was a quiet side street near the Eastern Cemetery in Dundee, fourteen miles to the north of St Andrews. Behind its broad, leafy pavements sat large houses dating from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the older ones on the north side of the street.
‘Some nice properties here,’ Chris said, as they drove slowly along, checking left and right for Lisa’s Audi. The street was a dead end to the west, a set of Victorian wrought-iron gates leading to the sweeping lawns of Baxter Park.
‘Nice park, that,’ Chris went on, indicating the gates in the distance. ‘Lots of grass and trees. And there’s a weird sort of Italian pavilion in the middle.’
As they neared the park gates, they saw the Audi. Clare pulled into the side of the road and the two cars following her did likewise. The officers emerged from their vehicles and gathered beside Clare’s car to await instructions.
‘You two,’ she said to a pair of uniformed officers. ‘Take the northern half of the park, beyond that pavilion thing. You three, take the southern bit. Stick to the edges but keep an eye on the open grass area in the middle. Anything suspicious, get on the radio.’
The officers went off on their mission and Clare turned to Chris and the others. ‘House-to-house, guys. Show Lisa’s photo, ask if they’ve seen anything suspicious – the usual. You lot start across the road; Chris and I will take the bigger houses behind.’ She scanned the street. ‘Get these car registrations checked out as well. And ask Sara to check the voters’ roll for this street and any streets running off. Cross-check with PNC records. Anyone with a conviction, I want to know about it.’
While Chris photographed the car registrations and phoned them in to Sara, Clare took a walk along to Lisa’s car. The rain had stopped now but pools of raindrops sat on the polished bonnet and roof. She tried the driver’s door but it was locked. There was condensation on the windows and the bonnet felt cold. Clare peered through the glass where she could, but there seemed to be nothing unusual inside the car.
She glanced over at Chris, who was still on the phone. ‘I’m going to start on house-to-house,’ she called, indicating the first of the large Victorian villas.
Chris responded with a thumbs-up. Clare began walking up the garden of the first house. It was a substantial property, built in local sandstone and, from the look of a stone staircase, which had been added to the side wall, the house had been divided in two at some point. The front room bay windows had blinds drawn and there seemed to be no sign of life. The nameplate said Carstairs. Clare rang the doorbell but there was no sound from within. She rang again and, after a few minutes, she stepped back and took in the front of the house. No curtains twitching. It looked as if no one was at home. She moved round the side of the house and mounted the stone steps that led to a door on the upper storey. The illuminated doorbell had a white card for the owner’s name but the sun had bleached it blank. She rang the bell but, again, there was no response.
As she descended the steps, Chris appeared.
‘Should hear back from Sara shortly,’ he said. ‘Anything here?’
‘Nope. Let’s try next door.’
The next three houses yielded nothing. This was obviously a street where everyone went out to work. But the nameplate on the fifth house rang a vague
bell with Clare.
‘Does the name Tennant mean anything to you?’ she asked Chris.
‘As in the lager?’
‘Different spelling – A, N, T.’
Chris shook his head. ‘Should it?’
Clare noted the house number. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll check it later. Come on. Lots more houses to check.’
They moved along the street, speaking to the few householders who were at home. It was the same story each time. No, they hadn’t seen anyone unusual. No, they hadn’t seen Lisa in the street, but their hearts went out to her, of course. Yes, it was generally a quiet street, nice folk, mostly out to work.
They carried on along the street without success until every house had been checked. As they wandered back to the car the officers searching the park emerged through the open gates. Clare was disappointed but not entirely surprised to hear they had found nothing, other than the usual discarded needles and condoms.
‘There’s a maze of streets going off the park though,’ one of them told Clare. ‘Mostly tenement flats. We could be all day knocking on doors.’
Clare considered this. With the manpower she had, it wasn’t feasible. Maybe Tony could wave a magic wand and conjure up some extra bodies but she doubted it. ‘We’ll leave it for now. But I’d like two plain-clothes guys in an unmarked car keeping an eye on that Audi. If you two could stay here for now, I’ll get another couple to relieve you in a few hours.’ She took out her phone and dialled Tony’s number.
He answered with a curt, ‘Yep?’
‘It’s time to go public on Lisa Mitchell,’ she said. ‘I want her photo on every news bulletin within the hour. I’m treating her as a missing person.’
* * *
Chris drove back to St Andrews while Clare phoned Wendy to check on Kevin.
‘Pretty much as you’d expect,’ Wendy said. ‘Quiet, worried. Keeps going to the window to look for Lisa’s car.’
‘Can you ask him if Lisa has any friends in Dundee?’ Clare said. ‘Particularly around the Baxter Park area?’
There was a short pause. Clare could hear Wendy and Kevin talking. A few minutes later Wendy was back. ‘He doesn’t recall anyone, but he’s going to have a think and let me know.’
‘See if he has something like an address book,’ Clare said. ‘Maybe a list for Christmas cards – that sort of thing. If he finds anything at all, get straight back to me.’
When they arrived back at the station, Clare saw that Tony was talking to a tall girl in faded skinny jeans. Her tatty grey sweatshirt was too big, and she had rolled up the cuffs. Her long, blonde hair was scraped back in a high ponytail. Tony was perched on the corner of a desk, his legs splayed out, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The girl, with her back to Clare, tossed her head and laughed, making her ponytail swish. Tony caught Clare’s eye and the girl followed his gaze. She wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up but there was no mistaking how attractive she was.
‘DI Mackay,’ Tony said. ‘Meet DI Donovan. Drug squad.’
The girl looked Clare up and down, and Clare was suddenly conscious of her rather dull work uniform of a black trouser suit from Next.
‘Amy,’ the girl said.
Clare held out a hand. ‘Clare Mackay.’
There was a just a suggestion of a smile on Amy’s lips. ‘Erm, okay.’ She held her hand out, adding, ‘We don’t usually go in for polite handshakes in the drug squad.’
Clare took Amy’s hand briefly then let it drop. ‘Has Tony filled you in?’
‘Sort of. But it’s probably best I hear it from you, Clare.’
‘Good idea, ladies,’ Tony said. ‘My office…’ And he turned on his heel.
‘Want me to get the sign on the door changed?’ Clare snapped, then, seeing his smirk, instantly regretted it. They followed Tony into Clare’s office and pulled chairs out.
There was a tap on the door and Sara appeared. ‘Got that info for you, boss.’
Clare opened her mouth to reply but Tony cut across her.
‘Give us five, pet.’
Sara raised an eyebrow and glanced at Clare, who gave a nod, and the door closed again.
‘Honest to God, Tony,’ Clare said. ‘Don’t be so bloody patronising. Have you never heard of dignity in the workplace?’
‘Aye, all right,’ Tony said, sinking down on Clare’s seat. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Clare shook her head but the gesture was lost on Tony. She turned instead to Amy. ‘I’m after some information on one of the Edinburgh dealers.’
‘Okay. Name?’
‘Docherty. Val Docherty.’
‘Yeah, our paths have crossed once or twice,’ Amy said. ‘I put her away for two years at one point, but it was reduced to nine months on appeal. It was better than nothing at the time. She’s kept her nose clean since then, though. Or rather, we’ve not been able to pin anything on her. What’s your interest?’
Clare frowned. ‘To be honest, Amy, I’m not entirely sure. We have a missing baby…’
‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been following it. Pretty grim. Still no news, right?’
Clare shook her head. ‘We also had a drugs death recently. Schoolgirl. And something tells me there could be a link.’
‘What sort of link?’
Clare sat back. ‘Do you think Val could be operating in Fife?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me. You got a tox report for the kid?’
Clare reached over and angled the computer monitor so Amy could see it. Tony grabbed the mouse, but not before Clare saw that he was working on a statement in support of his application for the Superintendent post.
‘That’s not how you spell liaison,’ she said.
He glared at her. ‘Just get on with it.’
Clare called up the tox report on Yvette Jackson.
Amy read a few lines, then said, ‘Can you copy that to me?’
‘Sure.’
Amy scrolled down the report. ‘Could be wrong, but I’d say that looks very much like one we had a few weeks ago in Edinburgh. And possibly another in Leven. Is Leven your patch, Clare?’
Clare shook her head. ‘Just outside my area. Probably about fifteen or sixteen miles south-west of here. And Edinburgh’s definitely not my patch. It’s a good thirty-five miles on from Leven.’
‘Well, I’d say you’ve got a new supplier working their way north.’
‘So Val could be moving into Fife?’
‘Yeah, could be.’ Amy rose. ‘If you can give me ten minutes or so, I’ll check them out.’
Clare followed her to the door. ‘I’ll be out in the main office.’
Sara was fielding phone calls, following the news that Lisa Mitchell was now missing. She handed Clare a sheaf of papers as she spoke, and Clare smiled her thanks. She found a spare desk and sat down to scrutinise the papers. The top sheet was a list of everyone on the electoral roll in Bingham Terrace and the surrounding streets. Clare saw that Sara had highlighted four entries – those with criminal records. The other sheets detailed their convictions. One was for drink-driving, another for non-payment of council tax and the others were assaults. None were within the last two years and it seemed that the residents were largely law-abiding. The name Tennant came back into her head. Clare scanned the list of names and addresses again. And there they were. Ronald John Tennant and Margo Elizabeth Tennant. But no convictions.
So why did they sound familiar?
She looked up from the papers to see Jim at her side. There was something in his manner. ‘Jim?’
‘It’s a body, Clare. The cops in Dundee. They’ve found a body.’
Chapter 21
Dunsinane Avenue was a long road running east to west through a small industrial estate in the north of Dundee. Its network of right-angled junctions made it popular with learner drivers but today it was deserted, closed off at either end by police cars parked broadside. Employees in the factories that peppered the road had been allowed to remain at work but deliveries to and from the estate had been
halted. About halfway along the road, Clare could see a patch of ground where a building had recently been demolished. Most of the debris had been removed but, to the rear of the site, there were four high-sided skips, their yellow paint scored and rusted in places. Three police cars were parked on the road bordering the site and the familiar blue-and-white tape had been strung across the entrance. A uniformed officer waved Clare and Chris through the cordon towards a parking space. They jumped out of the car and took forensic suits and overshoes from the boot.
As they approached one of the skips, they could see Raymond Curtice, the SOCO, standing on a ladder peering into it, directing a photographer, who was standing beside him on another ladder.
‘I’m guessing that’s where our body is,’ Clare said.
Beneath the skip other white-suited SOCOs were carrying out a fingertip search of the ground. When the photographer had finished, Clare approached Raymond. ‘Any chance of a look?’ she said, indicating the photographer’s ladder.
‘Sure, Clare. Just don’t touch anything.’
Clare mounted the ladder and, holding onto the sides, peered over and into the skip. The body of a male lay, partially obscured by debris which, she presumed, had been thrown in to conceal him. She peered at the clothing and a knot began to form in her stomach. The jacket looked similar to the one worn by the pharmacy burglar. Could she really be looking at the body of Paul Sinclair? And if it was him, had their only chance of finding Abi Mitchell gone with him?
‘Reckon it’s him?’ Chris called.
Clare dismounted. ‘Have a look for yourself,’ she said. ‘And mind you don’t touch the skip.’
Chris leaned over and studied the body. ‘Looks like him, I’d say. Any local cops around who know him?’
‘Let’s just wait till the pathologist gets here. We don’t want half the cops in Dundee clambering up for a look.’ As she spoke, another car drew up and Neil Grant the pathologist stepped out.
‘Afternoon, Clare. What do you have for me?’
‘Body of a male,’ Clare said. ‘I’m concerned he might be the man who abducted our missing baby so keen to have him ID’d as soon as possible. Cause of death too, but the ID is the important thing just now.’
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