What They Knew

by Marion Todd

  ‘Fair enough.’

  They stopped short of the salon and regarded it. ‘Sort of place my dad would go,’ Clare said, taking in the barber’s pole with its helix of stripes. The shop front had recently been painted in blue, similar to the shade found on the doors of university buildings and Clare suspected they were trying to cash in on the brand. A poster in the window announced they had been Barbers to Prince William. She glanced at Chris.

  ‘Fancy a trim to go with the new teeth?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  The windows were steamed up making it difficult to see how busy it was. Clare pushed open the door and immediately their ears were assailed by the hum of hairdryers. A faint chemical odour hung in the air: hairspray, maybe. An elderly lady sat under a hood-type dryer, reading a copy of My Weekly. Next to her a toddler was perched on a high stool, swathed in a black gown while a woman with a neat blonde bob trimmed his hair, exchanging a steady stream of chatter with the boy’s mother. Clare caught sight of herself and Chris in the mirror opposite and she thought how nice it would be to have her own hair cut. It always seemed to be at the bottom of her list of priorities. When had she last had it done? Was it October – or before that, even?

  ‘Morning,’ a woman with a silver-grey pixie cut said. ‘Can I help?’

  Clare noticed she had lilac highlights threaded through and she wondered briefly if it was time to add some colour to her own hair. Something fun to brighten up the winter days. Then she dragged her thoughts back to the investigation and took out her warrant card. ‘We were hoping to have a word with Michelle Delaney.’

  The woman frowned at Clare’s card then glanced across to where the child was now having a soft brush flicked over his neck. He was giggling and said that it tickled, and the woman said how good he’d been. The gown was whipped off and the boy was lifted down from the stool by his mother.

  ‘That’s Michelle. She’ll just be a minute or two. If you’d like to wait here…’ She indicated a bench seat with a padded cushion that reminded Clare of the pews in the church her parents still attended, back in Glasgow. She sat down and felt the cushion move. There was a table to the side with a pile of magazines. Opposite the bench was a set of shelves stacked high with bottles of shampoo, conditioner, hair dyes and a clear tub of liquid in which sat a comb and two pairs of scissors. The toddler skipped past, holding his mother’s hand and Clare felt a draught round her feet as they opened the door to leave.

  ‘Hi,’ a voice said, and Clare turned to see the blonde woman. ‘What was it you wanted?’

  Clare glanced round. The pixie-cut woman was hovering, and the My Weekly reader had set down her magazine and was now openly observing them. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  The woman turned on her heel and led them up the salon, past the checkout and through a beaded curtain. A door beyond led to what appeared to be a staff room. There was a sink against the wall and a table with an electric kettle and mugs next to it. A stack of chairs stood in the corner. ‘Seat?’ the blonde asked.

  Clare waved this away. ‘We’ll try not to keep you. You are Michelle Delaney? Is that right?’

  Michelle glanced at Clare and Chris then said, ‘Yes, that’s me. What’s this about?’

  Clare smiled. ‘Nothing to worry about, Miss Delaney. We’d just like some information – about people you were at school with.’

  Michelle’s eyes widened. ‘Must be fifteen years since I left school.’

  ‘Actually, it’s further back than that. Primary school.’ She fished in her pocket and took out the photo of the five children. ‘I wonder if I could ask you about this please?’

  Michelle took the photo and stared at it. ‘How old is this?’

  Clare ignored the question. ‘Do you recognise anyone?’

  Michelle studied it for a few moments then said, ‘That’s Alison. Alison Reid.’ She looked up. ‘I read about her in the paper. That she died.’ She glanced from Clare to Chris then back to Clare. ‘What’s this about?’ she asked again.

  ‘We’re just trying to identify everyone in the photo. So… the others?’

  Michelle looked back at the photo. ‘Well Ingrid, of course. And I think that’s Ruth next to her.’

  ‘Do you remember their surnames?’ Chris asked.

  Michelle’s brow furrowed. ‘I think Ingrid was Mc… something.’

  ‘McKinnie?’ Chris said.

  Her brow cleared. ‘Yes, that’s it. McKinnie. And Ruth was Ruth Williams.’ She smiled. ‘I remember now. Goodness, it takes me back.’

  ‘And the boy?’

  ‘John,’ Michelle said. ‘But I can’t remember his surname. Sorry. The other girl…’

  ‘Could it be Lexy?’ Clare prompted.

  ‘Yes! God you’re taking me right back. It is Lexy. Lexy Harris.’

  ‘Did you keep in touch with anyone in the photo?’

  Michelle shook her head. ‘Not really. Matter of fact, one of the girls – Jessica – she’s trying to get up a class reunion. But I don’t think many folk are interested.’ She handed the photo back to Clare. ‘Too long ago now.’

  ‘Would that be Jessica Peters?’ Clare asked.

  She nodded. ‘Yeah. That’s her. Honestly, I don’t know why she’s bothering.’

  ‘Have you had any other messages from Jessica? I mean, just between the two of you?’

  Michelle stared. ‘What? Like private messages?’

  ‘Yeah. Either WhatsApp or Messenger – anything like that.’

  Michelle shook her head. ‘No. I mean it’s not like we were pals at school. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She didn’t suggest you join a dating site?’

  Michelle laughed. ‘Think my boyfriend would have something to say about that.’

  The door opened a little and the pixie cut looked in. ‘That’s your ten thirty, Michelle.’

  ‘Be right out.’ Michelle put a hand on the door. ‘Was there anything else? Only I’ve a busy day today.’

  ‘Nearly done,’ Clare said. ‘We do need to speak to Jessica Peters. Would you know where she’s living now?’

  Michelle shrugged. ‘No idea. I mean, I think she went off to France.’

  Clare glanced at Chris. France was one of the places Jessica had emailed from. ‘When was this?’ she asked Michelle.

  Michelle frowned. ‘Probably when we were all about fourteen. I can’t honestly remember. She wasn’t in my classes at Albany High. So I didn’t see much of her once we left primary school.’

  ‘And, as far as you know, she’s still in France?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. When she was talking about the reunion I’m sure she said something about coming back for it. So she must still be there, mustn’t she?’

  Clare turned for the door but Chris stood his ground.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ he said, and Clare stopped, keen to hear what he was going to say. ‘Can you remember what colour Jessica’s hair was?’

  Michelle patted her neat bob. ‘Blonde, like me. Only hers didn’t come out of a bottle. Lovely blonde hair, she had.’

  Chapter 38

  They walked back to the car, dodging past a clutch of tourists who were listening to a guide pointing out a line of swagged urns over the entrance to the Younger Hall. As they cleared the group Clare said, ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Jessica Peters? Probably still in France.’

  ‘And San Francisco? Remember one of the emails looked like it came from there.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true. I mean she could have been on holiday – sent the first email before she left.’

  Clare glanced over her shoulder then stepped into the road to cross. ‘Yeah, but the two emails were sent pretty close together, remember.’

  ‘Maybe she was on a plane, heading for the USA – realised she’d forgotten something and typed the email. As soon as she landed and picked up Wi-Fi it would send.’

  ‘Suppose. Interesting about the blonde hair, though.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything,’ Chris said,
‘although, statistically, less than twenty per cent of Scots are blonde. So it’s worth noting.’

  ‘Sometimes, Detective Sergeant, I remember why I let you stay.’

  ‘I keep up.’

  ‘So it seems.’ She threw the keys to Chris. ‘You drive – I want to phone the DCI.’

  Chris clicked to unlock the car. ‘About the DCI…’

  ‘Yeah?’ Clare took out her phone and typed in the passcode.

  ‘Did you and he not…’

  ‘Just stop right there, Chris.’

  ‘If you ask me, Clare,’ he said, ignoring her, ‘he had a thing for you at one time.’

  ‘Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. It’s academic now. Geoff came back and whatever there was with the DCI… well, it went away.’

  ‘Sure?’

  She didn’t look at him. ‘Sure.’

  Chris put the key in the ignition and pulled on his seat belt. ‘Just checking.’

  The DCI was driving back to his office in Dunfermline, some forty miles south-west of St Andrews. ‘Go ahead, Clare.’

  ‘Al, I need a favour. I’m trying to track down Jessica Peters – remember, the one from the WhatsApp group? The one pushing the school reunion?’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘I think she may be in France and I need to get hold of her.’

  ‘You want a Europol request?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘How urgent?’

  ‘Pretty urgent. Next couple of days if you can. As far as we know, she moved there about twenty years ago.’

  ‘Okay, Clare. Email me the details and I’ll get onto it. I’ll check with border control too. See if she’s come back into the country recently.’

  ‘Cheers, Al.’

  Clare ended the call and directed Chris to carry on up North Street.

  ‘Where are we heading?’

  ‘The Kenlybank Hotel. I want to speak to your photo man.’

  * * *

  Clare had hoped to find Pawel Nowicki on duty at reception. He’d helped Clare with enquiries in the past and she had come to think of him as a friend. She asked for him when they arrived but the young woman behind the desk shook her head.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Pawel’s on paternity leave.’

  Clare was surprised. For some reason she hadn’t thought of Pawel as having a home life. He always seemed to be at the hotel. ‘Oh, how lovely,’ she said. ‘Please give him my congratulations.’

  The receptionist took out her phone and flicked until she found a photo. She held the phone out for Clare to see. ‘Paulina,’ she said. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous? Pawel’s besotted,’

  Clare looked at the baby. A little girl with a shock of dark hair, fast asleep, one hand curled up beside her face. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she said, handing the phone back.

  ‘So,’ the receptionist went on, ‘if it’s Pawel you want…’

  ‘Actually, no,’ Clare said. ‘It’s a member of your staff we’d like to see.’

  Chris took out his mobile phone and navigated to the photo he’d saved of Stoneman. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  The receptionist glanced at the phone and nodded. ‘Oh yeah. That’s Donny. Donny Cohen. He’s one of the staff. In the cocktail bar.’

  ‘Could we see him, please?’ Chris asked.

  The receptionist frowned. ‘I’m not sure if he’s in today. I don’t think I’ve seen him.’ She moved to a computer behind the desk. ‘I’ll just check…’ She shook the mouse to bring the screen to life then began tapping at the keyboard. ‘No,’ she said, after a minute. ‘Looks like it’s his day off. But he’s on early shift tomorrow if that helps.’

  Clare thought for a moment. She really needed to speak to Donny Cohen. See him face-to-face. If he was Stoneman she wanted to see how he would react to questioning. ‘Could we have his home address?’

  The receptionist looked at Clare. ‘We don’t normally…’

  ‘It is important,’ Clare said, not keen to say more than that.

  The receptionist hesitated then turned back to the computer and tapped the keyboard again. Then she took up a pen and began writing on a notepad. She tore a sheet off and handed it to Clare. ‘There you go. I hope everything’s okay…’

  Clare smiled. ‘Just routine,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Early lunch?’ Chris asked, as they walked back to the car.

  ‘You’re joking. It’s only just gone eleven. And we need to get hold of Donny Cohen.’ She put a hand in her pocket and brought out the paper the receptionist had given her. ‘Kingsbarns,’ she said.

  ‘I know it. Want me to drive?’

  ‘Go on then. Twice in one day, Sergeant. What a treat!’

  Clare settled back in the passenger seat to enjoy the drive. Kingsbarns was only about six miles south of the hotel, through flat farmland. The flooding was gradually drying up and she could see fields of winter crops greening up. Further on, a bright blue tractor was pulling a plough. It was still the depths of winter, particularly in Scotland, but she felt heartened at the promise of spring in a few months.

  Chris slowed as he approached the village. ‘Which street?’

  Clare scanned the paper. ‘Back Stile.’

  ‘I know it. It’s at the end of the village. Leads down to the beach.’

  He drove on slowly as Clare took in the village. It was an attractive collection of houses and low cottages, some built in a rough, honey-coloured stone with pantile roofs, others newer, finished in a white render. They passed a church with graveyard attached and an inn which had a board outside advertising meals. Clare’s breakfast seemed a distant memory now, but she couldn’t stop for a pub lunch in the middle of a murder investigation.

  As they neared the end of the village she saw fields ahead. Chris slowed further, signalling, then turned left down the quaintly named Back Stile. It was a narrow road and fifty yards on he had to pull into the side to allow a campervan to pass.

  ‘There’s a car park at the beach,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh I know this,’ she said. ‘I’ve been down here with Benjy. The Cheesy Toast Shack have a shed down here.’

  Chris smiled. ‘I know. It’d be a quick lunch, too.’

  ‘Let’s just see how we get on with Donny Cohen.’

  But, again, they were out of luck. There was no answer at Donny’s cottage. Clare walked round to the side and opened a gate that led to a small square of garden. There was another door, newer than the cottage, and she rapped on it but there was no reply. A neighbour was out in the garden next door, feeding chickens.

  ‘They’re out,’ he volunteered. ‘Away about seven this morning.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Donny and Lin.’

  ‘Any idea when they’ll be back?’

  The neighbour shook his head. ‘They had skis on top of the car. Probably gone up to Glenshee.’

  Clare thanked the neighbour and headed back round to the front. ‘Gone skiing, apparently,’ she told Chris. ‘The neighbour thinks Glenshee.’

  They climbed back into the car. ‘That’s the best part of a two-hour drive from here,’ Chris said. ‘So, if they came off the slopes no later than four they’d be lucky to be back here for six. Maybe later if they stopped somewhere to eat.’

  ‘Speaking of eating…’ Clare said.

  ‘Great idea, Inspector.’ And he pulled away down the narrow road again. It carried on with a smattering of cottages to the north and tree-lined fields to the south. The trees were bare and Clare could see the North Sea in the distance, sparkling in the midday sun. As they neared the beach the road crossed a golf course. A couple of golfers in padded jackets were walking along, golf bags on their shoulders. It was windier here and she admired their hardiness. And then the car park came into view, its blaze surface peppered with potholes.

  ‘Just watch the car,’ Clare warned. ‘Some of those look deep,’

  He swerved past them and parked in a spot overlooking the sea. The Cheesy Toast Shack Open sign was proppe
d up beside a gate. ‘Thank God for that,’ Chris said. ‘I wasn’t sure it would be open today.’

  ‘What you having?’ Clare said as they walked across to the gate.

  ‘Red Leicester and chorizo,’ he said without hesitation.

  ‘Ooh that does sound good. Make that two.’

  ‘I’m paying, am I?’

  ‘It’s your turn.’

  ‘I’m honestly not sure it is…’

  Five minutes later they were munching hot toasties. ‘Oh my God this is good,’ Clare said. ‘I don’t come here often enough.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Chris mumbled, through a mouthful of chorizo.

  ‘So Veganuary’s going well then?’

  Chris shook his head. ‘Honest to God, Clare, I never want to eat tofu again. Not as long as I live.’

  ‘Ach, there’s only another three weeks to go.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  Chapter 39

  Clare’s phone was ringing as they pulled into the car park back at the station. She glanced at the display. Sara.

  ‘I’m just outside, Sara. Be in shortly.’

  ‘Okay, boss. Um, there’s a woman here to see you. She said you were expecting her.’

  Clare racked her brains as she walked into the station. As she entered the public enquiry area she saw the woman. She was tall, warmly dressed in a long herringbone patterned coat with polished brown boots. She wore a brown felt cloche hat and was carrying a calf-coloured briefcase.

  Clare approached her with a smile. She was pretty sure she’d never seen the woman before so why was she asking for her? ‘DI Clare Mackay,’ she said.

  The woman smiled. ‘I’m Dr Holt. Sandra Holt.’

  And then Clare remembered. Her heart sank. ‘Oh, Dr Holt – I’m so sorry. You’ve come to examine Ruth Williams.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. Did you forget I was coming?’

  Clare glanced round. The station was quite busy. ‘If you’d like to come into my office…’

  In the privacy of her office Clare explained that Ruth had been found dead on Sunday. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. ‘I should have called to cancel. I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time.’