Siren Song (Harrison Jones and Amy Bell Mystery Book 1)

by Rebecca McKinney

  She walked down to the tideline, picked up a stone and threw it into the water, watching the ripples spreading out in rings. The waves carried a melody, with what almost sounded like a human voice: a girl singing, from very far away. She closed her eyes and listened.

  Lucy Merriweather only wanted to get away. All her life she’d been controlled by other people, used for her voice and her face by those whose duty it was to keep her safe. Her parents looked at her and saw pound signs. And so, she fled, but she couldn’t get away. The further she tried to run, the more entangled she became.

  Amy opened her eyes again. It felt like someone had breathed words in her ear or told her a story when she was half asleep and barely conscious of hearing it. She possessed a new titbit of knowledge, one that was potentially vital to the case, but she had no idea if it was true. It could be clairvoyance, or it could be imagination. Where did you draw the line between one and the other? Even after everything Harrison had shown her, she wasn’t ready to trust herself.

  But Harrison trusted her, and this was the job. She called him.

  ‘Amy. You alright?’

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘I’m heading off to teach in five minutes. Something up?’

  ‘I wanted to ask what you think about Lucy’s parents. There’s more to them, I’m pretty sure. They’re in this up to their necks.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just feel it.’

  ‘So do I, but how do you feel it. Describe that.’

  She looked up at the sky. ‘I’m out for a run. I’m standing here on Portobello beach, where we know she used to come, and something just crossed my mind. Like part of a story. A feeling of oppression, or ... exploitation, maybe? And it was definitely Lucy. I could see her. It’s almost like I was her for a second or two.’

  ‘Right. Good. That’s good. Well done, Amy.’

  She laughed. ‘I haven’t done anything. Where does this come from?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Let’s just go with it for now.’

  ‘Anyway, I want to know what she was running away from. I’m going to do some more digging around online. See what kind of background information we can pull out.’

  ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’

  ‘Not as much as I should. I’ll let you know what I find out.’

  SEVENTEEN

  When Elizabeth Merriweather opened her front door, an icy draught hit her in the face. Wind howled through the house and a door in another room banged shut. She froze mid-step and her pulse began to quicken.

  ‘Simba,’ she called. He was always at the front door when she came home, a whirling dervish of paws, tail and tongue, practically knocking her over. She’d been away for several hours; he should be desperate to greet her and get outside.

  ‘Simba!’

  Nothing, except the banging door and the cold air. Elizabeth scrabbled to remember whether she had been out the back this morning. Might she have left the French doors open? It was possible, but she had no memory of it. She’d been with her solicitor all morning and then with her friend Anna for lunch. She had been very naughty to drive home after three glasses of wine, and now she regretted it. Her judgement was impaired. She couldn’t think clearly.

  She kept her coat on and walked slowly toward the kitchen. The French doors were wide open, creaking on their hinges, the vertical blinds clattering.

  ‘Stupid girl,’ she muttered, dropping her handbag on the island. The dog could be anywhere by now. If he was still on the grounds, he would have come running when he heard the car. She’d have to go out looking for him.

  ‘Simba!’ she called out across the back lawn. She stepped outside onto the path and scanned both directions. At first, she saw no sign of him, but then something caught the corner of her eye. Just around the corner of the house, lying on the path, the tip of a tail.

  ‘Are you playing silly beggars, daft dog?’ she asked him, although she knew he wasn’t. It was like the time Lucy fell off her pony and didn’t get up, after so many falls where she dusted herself off and climbed back in the saddle.

  This wasn’t like that at all, it was worse. Simba was dead. His eyes were open and his long tongue was lolling, foam drying in a crust around his lips. Elizabeth screamed.

  EIGHTEEN

  The first three chapters of Aziza’s thesis sat in front of him. The prose was so dense, Harrison was surprised that the half-inch stack of paper didn’t crush the desk beneath it. There was no real line of thought, or perhaps there were dozens of lines, all haring off in different directions and petering out. Here and there, she had dropped in passages of elegant, vivid description of the women she had known, their hardships and their rare triumphs, but these were too short, and almost hidden in the academic bullshit.

  She sat opposite him; emanating a slavish desire to please. To be fair to Gordon, Aziza was, without doubt, exquisite to look at: long black hair tied up high, kohl-rimmed eyes, a figure of rolling hills and valleys.

  Harrison took off his glasses. It felt less dangerous to look at her this way. ‘So, I’ve read it.’

  ‘All of it?’ She sounded surprised.

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘Thank you. I am grateful that you took me in, Dr Jones. I have let Professor Leigh-Davies down, I think.’

  ‘Aziza, you haven’t let him down. He just felt that your work is more compatible with my approach, and ...’ he floundered. A momentary fear of drowning.

  ‘Coming to Edinburgh University is a very high honour for me. If I had to leave, it would be the most awful thing for me.’

  ‘You don’t have to leave.’

  This merited a flickering smile and a briefly bowed head. Through the blur, he could see the sunlight glinting off her hair.

  ‘There’s some good material here.’ He took a deep breath. ‘However, I’m going to be honest, these chapters need some work.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I know ... I’m trying so hard.’

  She was ashamed of herself for not getting it right on the first go, but behind that, he sensed a deeper fear. She had some form of threat hanging over her. It felt ominous, possibly deadly. He studied her for a moment, wondering how to reassure her.

  ‘Maybe you’re trying too hard. There’s so much theory, it’s losing its meaning.’

  ‘So, you want me to rewrite this?’ She was ready to cry now. ‘These chapters have taken me six months.’

  Writing up could take her years at this rate. What was Gordon trying to do to him?

  ‘I’d like to ask you to go away and write me a one-page summary of what the thesis is about. Don’t cite any references, don’t refer to anyone else’s work, just tell me in your own words. Keep it simple.’

  ‘One page?’

  ‘Just one. Remember you’re writing about real people with real lives. Keep that in mind at all times, and you’ll stay right.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Jones. I will bring that to you tomorrow.’

  ‘Next week is soon enough. Don’t rush it.’ Supervision once a week would be more than enough. Given the chance, he thought she might be banging down his door every day.

  She lingered for a moment, gripping her notebook across her chest. ‘I would like to tell you something. I fought with my father to be allowed to come here. He paid so much money for my education all my life, and then he wanted to arrange a husband for me. An old man, almost as old as my father himself, a businessman he knows. We made a deal. If I receive my PhD, I will be free to marry whom I choose. If not, I will marry who my father picks. In my country, when you are a beautiful daughter of a wealthy man, you are a tool for his business and that’s all. Here, it’s better. Here, they respect you for your mind.’

  ‘I wish that was always the case, Aziza. Thank you for telling me that.’ He was surprised that she had. ‘You’re not leaving Edinburgh without your PhD.’

  She touched the corners of her eyes with her fingertips and drew away tears of relief. ‘Thank you.’

&n
bsp; When she had gone, he stared out the window for a couple of minutes. Her words repeated in a loop. In my country, when you are a beautiful daughter of a wealthy man, you are a tool for his business and that’s all.

  Not just in her country. He thought of Lucy Merriweather. Another beautiful daughter of a wealthy man. The vision of Lucy singing for all those old men.

  Possibilities began to play out in his mind and he began to wonder if this should be a police matter after all. It was time to speak to Elizabeth again.

  The phone rang. It was as if she’d known. ‘Elizabeth,’ he answered. ‘Are you alright?’

  She was practically sobbing down the phone. ‘Somebody has poisoned my dog.’

  ‘Thank you for coming so quickly,’ she said, standing aside to let him in. Her face was milk-white, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

  He allowed himself a single second to be relieved that Simba was no longer there to greet him, before shaking her hand. He could feel she was heartbroken, but there was something else in her too. Fear, and something darker and more opaque. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, again.’

  The aftershock of malice stirred the air. It raised the hair on the back of his neck and stirred adrenaline in his legs. ‘Have you phoned the police?’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll concern themselves with a dog, do you?’

  He suspected she knew exactly who was responsible for this, and that she didn’t want the police involved. ‘Somebody broke into your house. They deliberately fed him poisoned meat.’

  ‘Yes.’ She led him to the kitchen and motioned for him to take a seat. ‘It could be my neighbours over the back. They’ve hated Simba since I got him. Complaining endlessly about him barking, suggesting he frightens their children. They threatened to report him to the council as a dangerous dog if I didn’t muzzle him when we were out walking. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s never bitten anyone.’

  ‘Is that honestly what you think?’

  She turned away from him without answering.

  ‘An attempted burglary?’ he offered, in the hope of drawing something else out of her.

  ‘They haven’t stolen anything, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Maybe they wanted Simba out of the way before they come back and take what they like.’

  ‘I haven’t much worth stealing, really.’

  Harrison allowed this to go without comment. He had always hated the false modesty of the British elite. As far as he was concerned, it was an embarrassing attempt to cover up the inequalities of the class system.

  She brought out a bottle of Glenlivet. ‘Can I tempt you?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He wondered what made her offer him alcohol, when she knew he had to drive back up to town. Maybe she thought it would muffle his senses. Maybe she didn’t want him picking up too much. If so, she was too late. He could almost see them, the shadowy figures of two men, one prying open the French doors and the other standing in wait for Simba, a packet of raw mince at the ready. They knew the dog, they knew the house, and they knew Elizabeth’s movements.

  She smiled weakly and brought out a single crystal tumbler, dropped three ice cubes into it and poured the whisky over them, almost to the top. Her hand trembled a little, making the ice tinkle against the glass. ‘My nerves are shot.’

  ‘No wonder.’ Harrison crossed the room and placed his hands on the buckled section of the doorframe. ‘They used a crowbar. You’ll have to replace these doors.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I have a man coming soon.’

  ‘You may want to consider installing an alarm system.’

  ‘Quentin always wanted one, and I accused him of being paranoid.’

  He opened the door, scanned the garden and followed the path along to where the dog still lay. She’d covered him with a wool blanket, as though to keep him warm. Harrison moved the blanket aside and touched the fur between the dog’s ears. There was spittle around Simba’s lips, some of it bloody. Poor beast. Whatever had done the work, it had been painful and not particularly quick.

  Elizabeth lingered back and watched him, gathering her wrap closer around her chin. ‘Who could do that to a helpless animal?’

  Helpless wasn’t the word Harrison would have used, but still a living creature that didn’t deserve such an inhumane fate. He closed his eyes and let an image come. The two men were young and dressed as tradesmen. Another emotion stirred the air around the dog. It might have been regret, or even shame. He pulled the blanket back over Simba’s head and stood up. ‘The men who did this weren’t out to get your dog, they’re out to get you. They’re trying to frighten you.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Either she doubted him or she was trying to put him off the scent. ‘Elizabeth, you hired a psychic detective. If you don’t want me to use my skills, then we can settle the account right now.’

  ‘I hired you to find my daughter.’

  ‘Which I am trying to do. These two things are connected, as I’m sure you already know. You know fine well who’s behind this.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. What on earth gives you that idea?’

  ‘The fact that you called me here today and not the police?’

  She didn’t reply to this.

  He sighed and stepped around her, back into the warmth of the kitchen, sat down on the stool and waited for her to close the doors. ‘Does Quentin have any reason to want to intimidate you?’

  She stared at him with feigned incredulity, so conditioned to defending her husband that she couldn’t acknowledge the blatant evidence against him. ‘Are you suggesting Quentin did this?’

  ‘He didn’t do it personally, but he paid somebody else to. You’ve already told me the man was abusive, there’s no need to protect him.’

  ‘He might have slapped me a few times, but he loves dogs. He would never deliberately hurt Simba.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Quentin always wants to intimidate people. That’s how he’s made his money. Bribery and intimidation. He now wants a divorce and wants me to put the house on the market to free up the capital. It must mean he’s in some kind of financial difficulty. He won’t hesitate to bully me until I agree, but he wouldn’t do this. Will you please tell me what this possibly has to do with Lucy?’

  ‘I feel it. I can’t see the details yet.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ She gave a nervous, intentionally dismissive sort of laugh. ‘Are you any further forward in locating her?’

  ‘I think so. I’m fairly confident that she’s not in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Oh good, so you’ve established that there is one city in the world where she isn’t.’ Elizabeth stood impatiently and stared away from him, arms crossed and hands running along her upper arms. ‘Just tell me where she is.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m getting closer, but I don’t know exactly.’

  ‘When will you know?’ Her voice assumed an imperious tone.

  ‘Maybe when you start giving me the information I need.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, for example, why Lucy ran away? Why she really ran away. You made her sing for people, didn’t you? People he wanted to influence?’

  Elizabeth sat and rested her elbows on the marble worktop, hands together in a praying gesture. ‘At first, we merely encouraged her to sing for guests, some of whom were Quentin’s business contacts. Her voice was so enchanting, Quentin thought it softened men up and made negotiations easier. I have to admit, I saw it work many times. I thought it was a good idea ... at first.’

  ‘But Lucy didn’t want to do it.’

  ‘She didn’t mind when she was younger. She was a bit of a show-off that way, you know? But later, it changed. Quentin made her do it even when she refused, and it all got rather nasty.’

  ‘Did you try to stop this at any point?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ she snapped, although this was only a half-truth. The guilt radiating from her told the rest of the story
. ‘You don’t know Quentin. You don’t know what he’s like.’

  Her defensive shell was cracking now. Harrison sat back and softened his tone. ‘You can tell me about him.’

  ‘He’s as manipulative as they come. He makes you feel powerless. He’s quite dangerous, in his own way. You may accuse me of being complicit in my daughter’s abuse, and perhaps you’re right, but I was frightened of him.’

  ‘You were frightened he would hurt you?’

  ‘Hurt me, yes. Or worse, leave me with nothing. I should have left him. I should have taken Lucy and disappeared, but I couldn’t.’ She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips into them. ‘You hate them, you’re afraid of them, and you want them at the same time. It’s an impossible thing to explain.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘Because you can see into my head and you already know I’m a weak-willed and pathetic excuse of a woman.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he wants you to believe. Can I ask whether your husband ever made Lucy sing for Kostas Gianopoulos?’

  ‘Kostas!’ She laughed sharply. ‘Dear God, what has he got to do with any of this? He’s a business associate of Quentin’s. An associate, that’s all. They have developed some properties together, that sort of thing.’ The fear she had been giving off became tempered by jealousy. ‘He and I were ... friends. For a while.’

  Harrison held her gaze. ‘Friends?’

  Her cheeks reddened and she turned away. ‘We had an affair. My husband slept with any female who was willing to lie down for him, so please don’t judge me.’

  ‘I’m not judging you.’

  She softened. ‘It was off and on for a couple of years. He and Quentin were working on some projects together and he came to Edinburgh most months.’