by Marion Todd
Clare indicated and turned right, past the entrance to the cemetery and began driving slowly up Sandylands Road.
‘Stop,’ Chris said. ‘That’s it – red door. Are they expecting us?’
Clare switched off the engine. ‘Yeah, I phoned ahead.’
‘Do they know?’
‘About Ingrid being murdered? I didn’t want to do it over the phone.’
‘Oh hell.’
The McKinnies must have been watching out for Clare and Chris. As they walked up the path a tall man with a shock of silver hair appeared in the doorway. Clare held out her ID badge and he simply nodded in response, standing back to admit them. He introduced himself as Joe McKinnie. He looked the outdoors type, dressed in cargo pants and a Rab bodywarmer. His face and hands were tanned and Clare felt his hand was calloused when she shook it.
‘My wife’s just making some tea,’ he said, indicating the sofa. ‘Please, sit.’
It was a cheerful room full of light wood furniture and bright cushions. There were oil paintings too, similar in style and she wondered if one of the McKinnies was the artist. Or Ingrid, maybe. ‘Lovely paintings,’ she said, breaking the silence.
‘My wife,’ Joe McKinnie said, his voice tired. ‘She’s the artist.’
‘She’s very talented,’ Clare said, and Joe simply nodded.
Her eye was drawn to one wall which was given over to a collection of photographs, fanning out from a central point. Portraits of the same child, by the looks of it, taken at different ages. Baby photos with a head full of curls, then gap-toothed school photos, gradually becoming older until the graduation shots, one a smiling Ingrid with a scroll and another flanked by Joe and Marie, clearly bursting with pride. How sad, Clare thought – their only child who now lay dead in the police mortuary.
The door opened and the small dark-haired woman from the graduation photo entered, carrying a tray with a teapot and mugs. Joe jumped up to take the tray from his wife. She was dressed in a thick grey jumper and jeans; her feet clad in pink furry slippers. Her face was attractive, her hair well cut but there were shadows below her dark eyes and her cheeks were tear stained. She sank down beside her husband, her shoulders sagging as though even the effort of sitting was too much. She seemed enveloped by her grief.
Clare introduced herself and Chris, and Marie looked from one to the other, her eyes full of fear.
‘Thank you so much for seeing us,’ Clare began. ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you at a time like this.’
Joe McKinnie glanced at his wife. ‘I er… I think we’re both wondering why you’ve come, Inspector.’ He took hold of his wife’s hand, clasping it between both of his. ‘We thought maybe… the funeral, you know – we’d like to begin making arrangements.’
‘I’m afraid not quite yet,’ Clare said. ‘In fact, I have some news about the manner of Ingrid’s death.’
Marie sat, unmoving, her eyes fixed on Clare’s.
‘Yes?’ Joe said, after a few seconds.
‘I’m so sorry to tell you that we think Ingrid’s death is suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’ Marie said. ‘In what way? What do you mean?’ Her voice was rising and her husband put his arm round her, rubbing her arm.
Clare hated this. The worst part of the job. The pain this couple had already endured must be immense and now she was about to make it so much worse. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid we believe Ingrid was deliberately killed.’
Joe opened his mouth to say something then seemed unable to form the words, his mouth resting in an O shape.
Clare went on. ‘We think that Ingrid had been drinking somewhere that evening and that someone put a substance called Rohypnol in her drink.’
‘Ohhh,’ Marie gasped, her hand going to her mouth. ‘You mean somebody…’
‘We don’t believe Ingrid was sexually assaulted,’ Clare said quickly. ‘We’re not sure why someone chose to doctor her drink, but we think whoever it was followed her on her way home and killed her, leaving her to fall into the Kinness Burn.’
Marie began to cry, her shoulders shaking while her husband sat staring at Clare and Chris in disbelief.
‘I think maybe we should have that tea,’ Clare said, rising to lift the teapot. She stirred sugar into Marie’s mug and put it down on a coaster. After a minute or two Marie lifted the mug and sipped, screwing up her face at the taste.
‘I don’t take sugar,’ she said, putting the mug down.
‘You’ve had a shock,’ Clare said. ‘It might help.’ She glanced at Joe and saw his eyes flicking left and right, as he tried to order his thoughts.
‘Inspector,’ he said, after a moment, ‘…what happened to Ingrid? I mean, how did she die?’
‘This is confidential at present, but she was asphyxiated.’
‘You mean strangled?’ Joe said, his voice sounding tight.
Marie emitted a loud sob and Joe pulled her in to his chest, both arms round her now.
‘Our daughter – was strangled?’ he said again.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Clare said. ‘And, if you are up to it, we’d like to ask a few questions.’ She indicated the mugs. ‘Maybe we should drink these while they’re hot?’
Joe lifted his mug and sipped but Marie pushed hers away.
She rose. ‘I’ll get another mug. I can’t drink that.’
Over tea and biscuits, Joe and Marie began to speak about Ingrid.
‘She was so bright,’ Joe said.
‘Very bright,’ Marie agreed. ‘She studied English at university, you know, Inspector.’ She indicated the graduation photos on the wall. ‘First class honours.’
‘She must have worked hard to be so successful,’ Clare said, smiling.
‘Oh, she did,’ Marie said. ‘Always a worker, our Ingrid. She won the English prize at school, you know.’
Clare steered the conversation round to Ingrid’s workplace. ‘Had she worked at Tradgear long?’
‘About eight years,’ Marie said. ‘She’d tried to find something where she could use her degree. But there was nothing she fancied. And she’d always been a keen climber so Tradgear suited her.’ Marie smiled at her husband. ‘She was good with the customers, wasn’t she?’
Joe nodded. ‘We heard her, a couple of times – when we popped into the shop, you know. Very knowledgeable. Made us quite proud.’
Clare let them talk on for a bit then she said, ‘Did Ingrid have a boyfriend?’
The couple looked at each other. ‘Not that we knew about,’ Joe said.
‘Not for a few months now,’ Marie agreed. ‘There was a lad – Kelvin – but he went off to Canada. Just before the summer, Ingrid said.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘I think he’s still there…’
Joe nodded.
‘If we could have his details – just to check,’ Clare said.
Marie rose. ‘I’ll get some paper.’
Clare waited while Marie jotted down what she knew of Kelvin then she carried on. ‘Friends? We believe Ingrid had been out somewhere in St Andrews on the twenty-eighth. Would you know who she might have been with?’
Again, the McKinnies looked to each other. Clare wondered how much they’d known about their daughter’s life.
‘Just folk from work, I think,’ Marie said, at last. ‘I mean, with her having her own place, well, we didn’t really know who her friends were.’
Clare asked a few more questions, then she said, ‘Did Ingrid ever mention a friend called Alison Reid?’
Marie’s brow creased as she considered this. ‘I’m not sure… I mean, there was an Alison,’ she said. ‘Long time ago now – when they were at primary school. I think she and Ingrid were friendly at the time.’
‘Did they keep in touch?’ Clare said, trying to keep her tone light.
Marie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. If I remember correctly, Alison went on to Albany High and we sent Ingrid to Melville Academy.’
‘Any particular reason?’
Joe frowned. ‘Reason for what?�
��
‘Sending Ingrid to Melville Academy?’
‘It is allowed, you know, Inspector. We worked hard for our money and we can spend it how we like.’
Clare held up her hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Oh, please – I wasn’t suggesting anything by it. Melville Academy’s a lovely school. I just wondered if there had been any problems – with Ingrid’s classmates, I mean. Sometimes children are moved because of bullying and the like.’
Joe nodded. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Sorry for snapping. I don’t remember anything like that.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Marie?’
Marie shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that. We just wanted Ingrid to have the best start in life.’
Clare smiled. ‘Of course.’ She glanced at Chris and they rose from the sofa. ‘Thank you both so much for your time. We won’t keep you any longer.’
Joe McKinnie saw them to the door. He put a hand on the Yale lock to open it then said, ‘Alison – why were you asking? Do you think she’s involved with Ingrid’s death?’
Clare looked at his face, lined with worry and her heart went out to him. His worst nightmare had come true and here she was compounding the misery. ‘I’m afraid Alison was also found dead.’
Joe’s hand went to his face. ‘Dead?’ he whispered. ‘Do you – I mean, do you think it’s anything to do with what happened to Ingrid? Is there someone going round doing this?’
‘At the moment, Mr McKinnie, we just don’t know. So, if you do remember anything that might help us – anything at all – you will let us know?’
Joe nodded. ‘Of course.’ He looked at Clare for a moment then said, ‘You’ll catch him, won’t you? This person – you will catch him?’
Chapter 19
Ingrid McKinnie lived in a compact semi-detached house with a dormer window built into the roof. The front garden had been tarmacked with a dropped kerb at the road to allow a car to be parked, although it didn’t look as if Ingrid had a car. The snow had melted off most of the tarmac, other than where her neighbour’s hedge had screened it from the winter sun.
A collection of different-coloured bins stood to the side of the house with a high wooden gate beyond leading, presumably, to a back garden. SOCO had closed the blinds against prying eyes, and the peeling paint on the front door made the house look rather forlorn.
The cold hit them as they stepped into the hall.
‘I can see my breath,’ Chris said, opening a door to the left. ‘I hope someone’s turned the water off so the pipes haven’t burst.’
They walked into a small sitting room and stood taking it in. It was comfortably furnished with a black leather suite and a long oak sideboard on which sat a pair of graduation photos, identical to those in Joe and Marie McKinnie’s house. Around the room were more framed photographs showing Ingrid in a variety of outdoor activities. One had caught her clinging to a rock face with an assortment of climbing gear hanging from a harness; another showed her standing on top of a snowy peak. Pride of place, over the gas fire, was given to a muddy but ecstatic Ingrid breasting the tape at a trail run. As Clare looked round she wondered why this vibrant woman had suddenly lost interest in climbing? Was it all down to her boyfriend going off to Canada? Clare stood on for a few moments, taking in this snapshot of Ingrid’s life, and her resolve to find the killer strengthened.
The kitchen was tidy enough but bore little sign of domesticity. The fridge and freezer were loaded with microwave meals, not unlike her own, Clare realised, her conscience pricking her. She really should do more home cooking. That pasta meal hadn’t taken long at all.
She pushed open the flap on the tall kitchen swing bin but found it empty. SOCO’s doing, presumably.
Chris emerged from under the sink and rose, dusting off his hands. ‘Water’s off now, at least.’
The bedroom, upstairs, had little in the way of personal things. No make-up or hair products, the only piece of jewellery a plain gold chain still in the jeweller’s box. Ingrid’s clothes were practical and the other bedroom had been used to store her climbing equipment. There were boots, crampons, a couple of ice axes and a bookcase loaded with climbing books and pink-covered Ordnance Survey maps. A black wetsuit hung from a wardrobe door and the wardrobe itself was home to climbing helmets and boxes of gear, some of which Clare recognised from the photos in the sitting room. Looking at it all, Clare could imagine the woman in the photos full of life and vigour, tackling whatever the outdoors could throw at her, and she suddenly felt sad.
‘Sometimes, Chris, I forget that the bodies we deal with are real people.’ She turned and went out of the room and into the bathroom. Other than the usual toiletries there was nothing of note. The final room was a small study where there were two boxes of paperwork. Clare lifted one and indicated that Chris should take the other. ‘Come on,’ she said, with a last look round the study. ‘There’s nothing here. We’ll go through this stuff back at the station.’
Chapter 20
It was quiet when they returned, most of the team out on enquiries. A message on Clare’s desk confirmed Diane had downloaded Ingrid’s laptop data and put it on the network for Clare to access. ‘Let’s do these boxes first,’ Clare said, and they carried Ingrid’s paperwork into the incident room.
‘What are we looking for?’ Chris said, tipping the contents of his box onto a desk.
‘Anything that might indicate money worries, red bills, bank statements showing she’s overdrawn, credit cards not paid off – oh, and anything that involves another person.’
They worked systematically for the next hour. Ingrid had been methodical and her papers were in a logical order.
‘Nothing here,’ Chris said, putting his hands up to massage his neck. ‘You?’
‘Not much. Looks like she was solvent, paid her bills, wasn’t extravagant. A couple of old photos in an envelope. Might be useful.’ She held them out for Chris to see. ‘Any in your pile?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Probably all digital now.’
Clare nodded. ‘I suppose so. Speaking of digital…’ she pulled a laptop across the desk and pressed the button to bring it to life. ‘Let’s have a look at her emails and social networking.’ Clare moved the laptop to the centre of the table so they could both see the screen and she called up the files Diane had downloaded. Ingrid’s emails ran into the thousands and Clare groaned as she saw how much data there was to trawl through. ‘Let’s limit it to the past six months,’ she said. ‘If that doesn’t show up anything we can go further back.’
She sorted the emails by sender and began scrolling. A good few hundred of them were from online shops and she scrolled quickly through these. The Tradgear emails were mostly from the company’s head office, relating to the usual employment matters. ‘Nothing there,’ she muttered, scrolling further down.
‘Stop,’ Chris said suddenly. ‘Go back up – yep, there.’
He jabbed the screen. ‘Isn’t that a dating site?’
Clare looked and she felt her face redden. He was right. It was a dating site.
It was Attracto.
She searched for further emails from the site and found around twenty. There were some concerning Ingrid’s registration, others with advice about staying safe and there were a few informing Ingrid that someone had Liked her profile.
‘We need to follow these up,’ Clare said, noting down the names.
‘Might not be so easy,’ Chris said. ‘I mean, what if they’ve not given contact details? They could be using a disposable email address.’
Clare thought back to the registration process she had gone through. She hadn’t been asked for her home address, only email and a mobile number. Anyone not wanting to be traced could even have had a pay-as-you-go mobile. She wondered if members received an email if they Liked someone else’s profile. If not, how would they know who Ingrid herself had Liked. ‘It would help if we had her login,’ she said.
‘Tell you what,’ Chris said, pulling the laptop towards himself and opening up the Googl
e search page. ‘We might see more if one of us was a member.’ He typed Attracto into the search box and clicked when the sign-up page appeared.
‘Oh,’ Clare said, wondering how to stop him. ‘I wouldn’t, Chris. I mean, Sara – she’d go mad if she…’
‘Don’t be daft. I’m only going to register for a look. I’ll delete it after.’
‘No,’ Clare said. ‘Leave it. We can get Diane onto cracking Ingrid’s password.’
‘Too late, I’m in. Ooh, look – it shows who’s joined in the past twenty-four hours.’ He began scrolling down then he stopped and stared at Clare.
She glanced at him quickly then looked away again. ‘Think I’ll just get us some coffee.’
‘That’s your Benjy, isn’t it?’ he said.
Clare scraped back her chair and walked from the room. Chris followed her into the staff kitchen and watched while she busied herself at the kettle, spooning coffee into mugs, all with her back towards him.
‘Clare…’
‘Just forget it, Chris. I’d had too much wine last night and it seemed like a good idea at the time. And anyway,’ she added, making an effort to sound bright, ‘I thought it might help us find out more about Alison.’
Chris was silent for a moment then said, ‘But Geoff…’
She turned to face him, her hands on the sink behind her. ‘What about him?’
‘I thought…’
‘Then you thought wrong.’
‘Did he…’
‘No. It was me. I decided it had gone on long enough. Him over there, thousands of miles away, me here – it’s stupid. It was stopping both of us getting on with our lives.’
Chris stood for a minute, processing this while Clare poured boiling water into mugs. Then he said, ‘Was he upset?’
She put down the kettle. ‘Not so’s you’d notice.’ She stirred milk into the mugs and handed one to Chris. ‘More surprised than anything else.’
‘He didn’t ask you to reconsider?’
‘Nope. And that – that dating site, well it was part curiosity after Zoe going on about it and part…’ she broke off, sipping her coffee as she thought, ‘…partly a feeling that life is passing me by, Chris. I’m not getting any younger and I don’t think I want to be alone.’