A Gingerbread House

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘Missper’s stretched certainly,’ he said. ‘And we’re not even keeping up with traffickers. Not even scratching the surface. Independent women who take their laptops with them are right at the back of the queue. Are you OK?’

  I hadn’t realized that my face had fallen. I hid it in my drink, taking a big glug.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, when I surfaced again. ‘It’s just a horrible thought, isn’t it? So, I was saying, the police never connected them. One of them, Ivy, hasn’t got a car, doesn’t drive. That’s fair enough. But Martine’s car was tracked between Edinburgh and as far as sort of Livingston way on the M8. And Laura’s car was tracked up the M77 to Glasgow and then – same thing – halfway along the M8 in the other direction. So, you see? It’s like they converged on the same spot.’ But he had screwed his face up and was shaking his head. ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘When you say “tracked”, you mean plate recognition? Yeah, well that’s the thing, see. ANPR only covers the M77 and the M8.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘And a wee bit of the A726.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  He laughed. ‘It joins the M77 to the M8.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I said again. ‘That’s pathetic.’

  ‘So it’s not really significant that they were clocked there. They could have been going anywhere but there’s no way of knowing after they peeled off the motorway.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Jeez, this country.’ He frowned at me. ‘Half of it’s empty and everyone’s jammed in beside the same couple of roads. It’s like the whole population’s living in a layby.’

  ‘Keeps the nice bits nice,’ he said. ‘Where is it you live?’

  I laughed. ‘Grangemouth. You’ve got a point. But listen, that’s all by the by. Even if Ivy went somewhere in February and Martine went somewhere else in March and Laura went somewhere else again in May, the thing I actually wanted to pick your brain about? Is April.’

  I waited to see if he would twig, without knowing exactly why it mattered. I wasn’t even sure if I hoped he’d find the whole thing ludicrous and so give me roundabout permission to stop thinking about it, or if I hoped he’d pounce on it, proving he had a working brain, not dulled by checklists of risk.

  ‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘You think three women have been lured away from home by the same individual – this wee skinny woman – and you think it’s happened once a month since February, all over Scotland, but in April the target …?’

  ‘Didn’t bite,’ I said.

  ‘Or got away,’ he added.

  I shook my head. ‘No, definitely didn’t bite. If she’d got away she’d have reported it, wouldn’t she. I reckon she just backed out before it came to the bit.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘You’d never believe how much shame counts for. If she thinks she made a fool of herself, swallowing some crap someone’s peddled, she could easily not have come in and told us. I’ve seen it a thousand times for things worse than this.’

  ‘Worse than what?’ I said. I hadn’t meant it to come out so aggressive but how could he rank how bad things were when we didn’t even know what had happened? ‘The three of them might be dead in a ditch.’ I stopped as my brain caught up with my words. ‘Oh God. The fourth one might be dead in a ditch too, only no one’s missed her yet. Like that girl in London. That was years.’

  ‘What’s got you so interested?’ Ty said then. Taking back control, I told myself. Showing me who was boss when missing women and possible death were the topic.

  ‘I saw one of them on her last day,’ I said, lying smoothly. ‘And I wondered how common it was. I stumbled on the dates by accident.’

  He said nothing for a while, drank his drink. ‘You seem more bothered than that would make you,’ he said at last. ‘Are you worried for yourself? Has something happened to you?’

  I had drained my glass, so I couldn’t use it as a mask again, and I knew my face was naked as I looked back at him. ‘Maybe I am worried,’ I said. ‘I live alone. I work for myself.’

  He was shaking his head. ‘Forewarned,’ he said. ‘You’ll be OK. I can send you the best stuff we’ve got about keeping safe though. What’s your email?’

  ‘Ha,’ I said. ‘You’re smooth. I’ll give you that. You’re a smooth one.’

  But I had handed over my email address and my phone number, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to have a cop’s alarm going off if I vanished. And with him assuming I was too clever to get caught, I was flattered enough to invite him up to my room. Now here I was eight hours later.

  As I heard the key in the lock, I pinched my cheeks and bit my lips, hating myself for doing it but doing it anyway. His eyebrows rose as he edged round the door with the coffees only just balanced.

  ‘Still there, eh?’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get cracking.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ I said. ‘Talk about an ego. I’m not revving up again, sunshine. I’m just a lazy cow in the morning.’

  ‘Right, right, right,’ he said, handing me a cup and sitting on the edge of the bed with his own.

  ‘And anyway, what kind of sweet nothing is “I’m away downstairs for a shit”?’

  He was laughing now and maybe he was even blushing.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to hold my breath. I know you’re busy and you can’t just go digging where there’s no reason to, instead of doing whatever you’re supposed to be doing. But what is it you’re going to look for? In April.’

  ‘I won’t be digging at all,’ he said. ‘I’ll be passing it up. Same as if you phoned a tip line, only they’ll take a bit more notice seeing it’s me.’

  ‘Right, but what will it be they go looking for? Where would you even start?’

  ‘The date’s good,’ he said. ‘Best guess is they’ll trawl ID theft through false pretences. It’s not really ID theft but all the other frauds get you miles deep in financial stuff.’

  ‘What about kidnapping?’ I said. ‘Is that a real thing?’

  ‘Mostly child abduction by non-resident parent,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it’s not up to me – I’m not a detective; I’m a plod.’ The way he swigged his coffee had a rounding-off air about it. I could tell he was itching to leave. I’d never been clingy and it bothered me that he wouldn’t know that about me, that he might want to scrape me off like burnt porridge on account of how I was spinning this out. But I could hardly tell him I wanted clues, not cuddles.

  ‘You couldn’t fling me my shirt before you go, could you?’ I said, nodding at the pile of clothes heaped over the back of the desk chair on the other side of the room.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ he said. ‘I got up and gave you a floor show.’ But he was standing and rootling through the pile. He faked a scare when he picked my bra up then handed my shirt over and turned his back.

  ‘Not the same thing,’ I said, wriggling into it. ‘I was half asleep and I was naked too, under the covers. This is completely different.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’ll phone you later. I’ll not wait till there’s news. I’ll phone you. OK?’

  ‘I might pick up if I’m not busy,’ I said, scooting past him and then locking the bathroom door behind me. ‘See you!’

  ‘Cheeky cow,’ he called, then I heard the room door open and shut.

  I stood under the water, slightly hunched to let it stream over my head, and thought about April. There was something, just out of reach, like trapped wind. Nine Lives League in February, Family history research meeting in March, hook-up in May. What was I missing? Or was I putting two and two together and getting five? Maybe Laura Wade was dressed up to go to a genealogy talk, or a cat-lovers’ do. Maybe I should scour the internet for all the NLL and Family Forest chapters and talk to all the secretaries, the way I’d talked to Carole.

  I angled the showerhead so it was hitting me in the middle of my back and wiped my wet hair off my face. And there it was again, half an idea just out of reach, like seeing someone mid-morning you’d dreamed ab
out the night before.

  I cracked open the miniature bottle of shampoo and squeezed the whole lot out into my palm. By the time I’d rubbed my hangover away and managed to get rid of the excess of lather – I’d forgotten how soft the water would be down here – I thought I had it. If Laura Wade had set off on a date but never made it then somewhere there was a pissed-off man with a red carnation who didn’t want to admit it.

  I picked up the little bottle of conditioner and squeezed it out on to my hand then ran the long wet tail of my hair through my fingers, over and over. How could you find a man who so clearly didn’t want to come forward, when you had no idea where he was? The ghost of half an idea floated by again. Was it about him not coming forward? Laura’s picture had been on the news and no one had admitted to being the other half of the arrangement, slapping on aftershave and ironing his best shirt to go with her floaty dress and high heels.

  Of course, he might be married. Keeping his head down and hating himself, but not hating himself as much as he loved his kids, even if he didn’t care much about his wife these days.

  If he existed.

  He had to.

  Why else would a woman be leaving her house dressed like that on a Saturday teatime, too late for a wedding and too early for the evening do.

  I had coiled my hair up in a slimy pile on top of my head, but I didn’t notice as it slipped down again and the hot water started stripping all the conditioner out of the ends.

  If it was too early for the evening do at a wedding, it was too early – I saw it now – for a date. So he wasn’t local. And that went with the high heels in her hands and the driving shoes on her feet. She wasn’t just nipping round to the nearest bistro. She was in for quite a drive. To meet this guy.

  So how did she know him?

  When it broke over me, I shivered in spite of the hot water. Then, making no attempt to rinse the roots of my hair, I got out, wrapped myself in a towel and trotted back into the bedroom, ignoring the fluff sticking to my wet feet and not caring how see-through the net curtains might be. I found my recent contacts and hit the button to call Ty.

  ‘Talk about playing hard to get,’ he said, sounding delighted.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘Never mind. Listen. It was an online dating site. I bet you a much nicer bottle of wine it was a dating agency that hooked Laura Wade in May, so it might have been the same scam in April. It might still be operating now. Maybe.’

  ‘Talk me through it,’ he said. I could hear his indicator and then the quieter sound as he pulled off the road and parked to give me his whole attention.

  ‘I’m convinced she was off on a date when I saw her,’ I said. ‘And call it woman’s intuition, but I think it was a first date. And she was setting off on a long drive – she had driving flats on, stilettoes to change into – and there was just something about her … it’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Try anyway,’ he said, sounding distracted.

  ‘She was definitely looking forward to it but not like she knew it was going to work, not like a date with a man she knew she was into. But not a break-up date either.’

  Ty said nothing.

  ‘I’m probably making something out of nothing,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I’m looking at the security cam still now – I’ve just googled it – and I think you’re right. She’s half-excited and half-wary.’

  ‘So she’s going on a date with someone she doesn’t know,’ I said. ‘And unless it’s a blind set-up from a mutual friend that means a dating site.’

  ‘People do go on blind dates,’ he said. ‘They still hook up at the bar in a pub, as it goes.’

  ‘Ha-ha,’ I said. ‘Yeah, they do. But why wouldn’t the pal who set them up have come forward?’

  ‘We can’t interview every man in Scotland who’s got a profile up on an online dating service, Tash. We’d need to call in the army.’

  It sounded like the voice of experience. I wondered how hard he’d been trying to meet someone before he gave it all up for a quiet night at the Cross Keys on a Tuesday.

  ‘Here’s what I think,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t exist. No matter what he said about himself online to get Laura in that frock, I think the truth is he’s a skinny wee woman that dresses like a secretary and lands three out four fish she casts for.’

  ‘Or four out of four and one of them hasn’t made a ripple,’ Ty said. ‘This is good stuff, Tash, and I’m going to pass it on and keep your name out of it. I’m going to look like a genius! But I need to tell you, no one’s obliged to admit they had Laura Wade on their books, and if we go in saying a kidnapper passed herself off as a hot guy they’re going to try even harder to hide that they were involved.’

  ‘Huh,’ I said. ‘That’s disappointing. I mean, I’m glad it’s not North Korea and all that. But.’

  ‘I will pass it on though,’ Ty said. ‘Cybercrimes have got a lot of pull one way and another. And God bless Austerity Britain, eh?’ I had no idea what that meant. ‘You can still get work as a CI. So I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some string they can tug somewhere.’

  ‘If it’s even a real site,’ I said. ‘I mean, it might be and I hope they do the decent thing if it is. But it might be a total scam, you know?’

  ‘If she piggy-backed on the NLL and the Family Forest,’ he said, ‘chances are she piggy-backed on a real lonely hearts too.’

  ‘Yeah maybe,’ I said. ‘What’s a CI?’

  ‘Confidential informant. Like you.’

  ‘Me? I’m a concerned citizen.’

  ‘Nah, you’re a CI. I paid your room bill.’

  ‘That makes me something right enough,’ I said. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Pass,’ he said. ‘So.’

  I roused myself. The guy was parked at the side of the road getting late for his shift and I was standing dripping on the carpet.

  ‘So,’ I agreed. ‘Right then, let’s crack on. Sorry. You’re not late, are you?’

  ‘I meant,’ he said, ‘so is there any chance you’re going to tell me why you’re digging into this?’

  I did hesitate. But in the end I went with ‘No. Sorry.’

  And he said, ‘I hope you won’t be.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I meant to head straight for Grangemouth. But the A89 turn-off caught me by surprise and I told myself I could go the back roads just as easy as the motorway. Maybe Ty letting me know that no one was watching the back roads made them more appealing. Or maybe it was the sun hitting the red slope of the shale bing full-on, making me think of those scientists, all the flowers and insects somehow managing to thrive in the slag. I flicked my indicator and headed for what, somehow, after a week in an Airbnb, felt like home.

  I was right to come, because my little corner of downtown Hephaw was a shot in the arm this morning: someone had watered the hanging baskets at the Paraffin Arms, and it was too early for the bus-stop drunk. Hollywood Nails even had customers in both pedicure chairs.

  I slapped yesterday’s paper and today’s, a pint of milk and a packet of bacon on the counter at Adim’s.

  ‘Has anyone been looking for me?’ I said. ‘Anyone asking?’

  ‘Not so far,’ Adim said. ‘If they do I’ll say you’ve been in and done your walk of shame and now you’re going up to cure your hangover.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ I said, unconvincingly even to my own ears.

  ‘You were in here for juice and crisps for your wee road trip yesterday before you set off,’ he said. ‘Or did you forget?’

  ‘I’m wearing jeans and a black shirt,’ I said. ‘Walk of shame!’

  ‘Same earrings and you’ve never dried your hair with your own drier, state of it,’ Adim said. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You were the one telling me to pay attention.’

  ‘Are you gay, Adim?’ I said, for revenge on him.

  ‘Am I shite!’ he said. ‘I’ve got four girls. There’s nothing I don’t know about straighteners. It’s a conveyer bel
t on school mornings, and I’m a ninja with them.’

  ‘Four girls?’ I said, feeling my face fall.

  ‘So whatever it is you’re doing,’ he answered, ‘more power to your elbow.’

  I’ve always been a sloppy drunk and even worse the next morning. That and the deadline roaring up towards me at last, after months of preparation, forced two fat tears out of my eyes. ‘Sorry,’ I said, swiping at them. ‘I’ll be taking over the title of local weirdo from them at the wee house.’

  ‘Who?’ he said. ‘Oh, the fairytale cottage wifies. Yeah, right enough, Goldilocks would pass on their porridge.’

  We both laughed and then both fell silent.

  ‘I’m going away again,’ I said. ‘I need to do something. I think. If I’m not in for my paper tomorrow … don’t keep it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He rubbed his arms under his shirt sleeves as if my voice had made his flesh creep.

  I couldn’t tell which bit of it he was even talking about, so I answered: ‘I don’t know.’

  At Hollywood’s front door, I sniffed the air, wondering if I was imagining something rotten nearby. Maybe there was a bad drain. Or maybe that faulty gas line I’d suspected was right enough.

  Inside the salon, I met a wall of air freshener so aggressive I coughed. Aisling and Renny were still busy with what looked like a mother and daughter, so I sat and flipped through a Hello in the reception seats until they were free. I didn’t know what I was doing in there. I couldn’t bear to think I was saying goodbye.

  ‘And don’t come back!’ Aisling said, turning the sign to closed and locking the door after the women had waddled off in their complimentary flip-flops.

  ‘Toenail fungus?’ I guessed. The mother hadn’t seemed the sort for a pedicure, with her bristly mottled legs, the imprint of her sock elastic still showing even after a massage.

  ‘Yukko. No, just crap tips and they sat sniff, sniff, sniffing the whole time,’ said Aisling. ‘I felt like asking them to try it my end. Who comes for a pedi with cheesy feet?’

  ‘They’re going to her hen-do at a spa,’ Renny said. ‘The mum told me. Told me right out. They didn’t have the brass neck to take those trotters away to a posh hotel so we got the prize of chiselling off the top layer.’