Faced with the results for ‘Children’s homes in Edinburgh’, he sighed. There was such a multiplicity of choices and, feeling momentarily weighed down by the hopelessness of it all, he did not even bother to copy them down. He could hardly check them all out, watch all of them. It would take months, if it could be done at all, and Lambie would not stand for that. Last night she had taken too much whisky, two tumblers both well-nigh neat, and become argumentative, shrill and hectoring. Not like the woman he knew and had married. The woman he loved.
The phone went again and he snatched it up.
‘Yes?’ He sounded irate.
‘It’s just me,’ she said, taken aback.
‘Lambie . . .’
‘You left so early.’
‘I had to. I’ve got my work to do, I’ve got to keep things going.’
While talking to her, unseen by her, he rubbed his tired eyes with the tips of his fingers.
‘What news, how are you getting on?’
‘I’m getting on fine, my sweet. Did you speak to the school?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Tonsillitis – that worked last time.’
The door opened and Jake began to come in.
‘Get out!’ the man shouted, then realising how it would sound down the phone, he immediately added, ‘Not you, Lambie, I wasn’t talking to you. Someone came in to my office. It’s busy here – it’s a dispatch day. We’ve orders going all over the place.’
‘But you have started looking – you are looking for her, too? I can’t lose her. I’ve got to go to the meeting, but I couldn’t bear to lose . . .’
The voice at the other end tailed away to nothing. Knowing the woman as he did, he could picture her in their kitchen, dissolving in her distress, her chin wobbling and tears starting to trickle down her cheeks. She would be biting her lip, trying and failing to stop herself from crying. Before too long she would start choking, unable to contain herself or breathe. Hysterical, enfeebled by her unhappiness.
‘Lambie, my darling, it’s alright,’ he said, his voice firm and confident. ‘Trust me. You know I will find her.’
Three-fifteen p.m. found him sitting in his Mazda 6 a couple of hundred yards from the low brick wall which enclosed the Cowan Lea Special School on Drum Brae Terrace. The school itself comprised an uninspired sixties building, flat-roofed and white-painted with a matching Portakabin tacked to one side. Around it was a small garden, the turf worn in parts, and dotted on the grass was the play equipment: a couple of swings, a roundabout and a slide. The only tree left on the site, a crooked Scots pine, had a circular tree-house round its trunk, a rope ladder dangling forlornly from its dark interior.
In the fifteen minutes or so that he had been parked, women had appeared from all four points of the compass and begun to congregate at the gates. Some of them were smoking, some chatting, others looking intently into the playground, ever watchful for the arrival of their own precious offspring. A solitary man, a small girl clutching his hand, joined the female crowd, getting nods of recognition from most of them. In her free hand, the little girl held the lead of a yapping Border terrier. As a white-faced teenager, pigeon-toed, bespectacled and with a strange bullet-shaped skull hurtled out of the gates towards it, the dog began pulling on the lead, rearing up on its back legs in its determination to greet its master. Eventually it broke loose, barrelling towards the boy, its lead dragging behind it.
No other child, he noticed, left the school unaccompanied; all the rest held the hand of schoolmate or a parent. Policy, no doubt; and that was, he determined there and then, how he would do it. If she was there, he would walk in, take her hand and lead her out. Knowing her, she would not protest or demur, or attempt to attract anyone’s attention. And no foster mother would be half as sharp-eyed, half as vigilant, as him. She would be too busy gossiping and socialising with the other women in all probability to notice them leaving together, and she would not be expecting that. No, she would be looking only for a lone girl.
His phone went.
‘Boss?’
‘Aha,’ he replied, never taking his eyes off the children in the playground.
‘Dunfermline wants to know if we’ve enough stock for the next two weeks. Hughie’s away and Davie’s just left. What should I say?’
‘Tell them that we’re OK. We’re OK. Right?’
He waited a second, then abruptly ended the call. Standing on her own he had spotted a tall, blonde girl. She had her back to him, her shoulders held unnaturally high, in a familiar way, and one arm moved every so often as if not fully under her control. He sat up, hunched over the wheel, willing her to turn round. Instinctively, he disengaged his seatbelt, opened the door, readying himself to move the minute he recognised her. His car keys were clutched in his hand, suddenly so tightly that it hurt, the metal digging into his palm. In his excitement he could hardly breathe. Let it be her. Let it be her. In less than a minute he would be beside her, hand in her hand, leading her back to the car. Then straight home to Lambie, with him triumphant and witnessing her joy.
‘Turn round,’ he ordered silently. ‘For pity’s sake turn around.’
As if they were connected, as if she had heard him and obeyed, the girl turned slowly in his direction. Seeing her, he closed his eyes. She was pregnant, her fringe had been dyed a shade of purple and she was massaging her awful, oversized belly in a circular motion with one of her hands.
‘Oh, mercy!’ he cried, his head slumping down, bowed down as if it was too heavy for his neck. Despair flooded over him, rendering him powerless, making him doubt everything, including himself. Head now in his hands, his features contorted in grief, his disappointment overpowered him, unmanned him.
A sharp knock on his window returned him to the present, and seeing an elderly woman looking in at him, her brows furrowed in concern, he wound it down.
‘I just wondered if you were OK?’ she asked, bending down slightly to get a better view of him.
‘Fine . . . thank you very much,’ he replied reassuringly, then, giving little thought to the lie, he elaborated, ‘well, I’ve a headache but I’ve taken something, it’s getting better.’
Satisfied, she smiled and set off down the street, pulling her shopping trolley behind her. As its rusted wheels rolled along the pavement they emitted a high-pitched shriek, tearing his already vulnerable nerves to shreds.
For another twenty minutes he remained sitting in his car, in the cold, now feeling stiff and uncomfortable, aware of an ache at the base of his spine. As his vigil came to an end, the stragglers departed. A thickset boy with a squint seemed unwilling to leave the playground, and had to be cajoled out of it by his mother. Shrugging her shoulders, she walked away from the gates, as if leaving him. A look of distress disfigured his large features, and he followed her, then stopped. She set off again, then halted, waiting for him to catch up. Using this method, the eccentric couple finally turned into Drum Brae Crescent and disappeared from view. Now, the playground was empty. Only a janitor and a teaching assistant remained near the school, talking, the assistant gesticulating at the litter near the front door as if ordering its removal.
He had failed. He drove back onto Drum Brae North, bringing his car to a halt by the line of bare poplars which mark the start of the descent onto the Queensferry Road. In his distress, the breathtaking view before him of the Forth and the blue hills of Fife left him cold, his eyes moving across it mechanically, blind to its beauty.
He punched her number in and waited, in vain, for her voice. After allowing himself a minute or two to collect himself, to ensure that his voice sounded strong, optimistic and confident, he pressed the redial button and began to speak into the answerphone. ‘Lambie,’ he said, ‘it’s me. She wasn’t there. But don’t you worry. She’ll be at the next one, I know she will. We’re getting closer all the time. Now, I’ll need to work late tonight, in the office. Be back nine, maybe. Or half-nine, ten at a pinch. But I love you. You know I lo
ve you. You and . . .’ He stopped abruptly. Starting to say his daughter’s name, his voice had begun to break.
‘Bye, bye,’ he ended, as brightly as he was able.
6
The dead woman had lived in Casselbank Street, a narrow, characterful thoroughfare at the bottom of Leith Walk, which was home to no less than three churches and a branch of the Cat Protection League. The League’s terraced building sported a jaunty sign above its door, making it look more like a pub than a charitable institution. Opposite her tenement block was one of the churches, proclaiming itself on a hoarding in exuberant, purple loops as ‘Destiny Church’. It had been constructed originally as a Turkish baths. With its pediments and lead-covered ogee domes, the building was eye-catching, looking both foreign and incongruously opulent in the small, unassuming Scots street.
A joiner, arranged by DC Cairns, was waiting in his van for the arrival of the policewomen, the engine still running. He had parked further up the road, opposite the columned and pilastered doorway of one of the few remaining Georgian houses in the location. Seeing the Scientific Support crew assembling outside the tenement, he threw away his cigarette and began to jog towards the group, keen to warm up. As each foot hit the ground, his work box swung uncomfortably against his thigh.
Seconds later, he and the rest of the party gained access to the woman’s flat courtesy of a bell marked ‘A. Anderson’. Waiting in the common stair they huddled together, talking in hushed tones as if in a church awaiting the entry of the minister. Alice went to speak to ‘A. Anderson’. The owner of that name turned out to be a red-faced, middle-aged woman with a strange, fixed smile and few teeth. In her soft Highland accent she described her upstairs neighbour, and the rictus remained on her face when an image of the girl, cold and dead, was presented to her. Holding the photo about a foot from her presbyopic dark eyes, moving it forward and back in an attempt to see it clearly, she identified her neighbour in a matter of fact fashion, apparently untroubled by the death.
‘Aha, that’s her, but it’s not like her. Not a good likeness. I’ve seen her a few times, not that I knew her. She’s new. This is all like on the telly, eh?’ she said, handing the image back.
‘Thank you for your help.’
‘No problem. You’d better watch out as she had a house cat,’ she added by way of a parting shot, nodding to herself as she turned back towards her red front door and murmuring, ‘as if there aren’t enough of them round here. Yowling and screeching at all hours, like banshees. I’d drown them, kittens and all.’
Two minutes of the joiner’s drill on the old, ill-designed mortise lock protecting the woman’s flat was all it took, before it fell, shattered, onto the stone flags of the common landing. Once inside they set to work immediately, photographing and videoing all four of the shabby rooms, searching for any evidence which might establish conclusively that Miranda Stimms had been its occupant, and if she had met her end there. The forensic team, in their distinctive white garb, moved around the cramped space, performing figures of eight like reel-dancers, expertly avoiding each other as they attempted to gather DNA samples and fingerprints from all possible surfaces. A couple of them stood over the unmatched dirty crockery littering the kitchen table: two cups, a saucer and an eggcup, droplets of bright yellow yolk staining its sides. The fridge had little in it bar a carton of milk, not yet sour, a half-tin of cat food and an opened slab of Red Leicester cheese. All, Alice noticed, picking them up in her gloves, reasonably fresh and bought from the Co-op. A cat-litter tray, unused, lay near the door. But of the cat itself there was no sign.
In the bedroom, away from the team, Alice peered into the only cupboard, a homemade hardboard construction which was missing one door. Inside was a solitary green coat hanging on a nail. The gloss-painted chest of drawers nearby, which still had the price ticket from Capability on it, contained more women’s clothing. Every item was clean and neatly folded. On the bedside table were two photographs in cheap, plastic frames. One, badly out of focus, appeared to show Miranda Stimms at the seaside, laughing, her arm tight around the shoulder of a girl in a hat, receiving a kiss on the cheek from her. The other was of a young man. He looked shy and was self-consciously pointing a finger at the photographer as if trying to think of a wacky pose, or just something to do before the shutter closed.
The only item of any value within the flat was a massive flat screen television in the sitting room. Its matt-black, state-of-the-art design was in stark contrast to the thin nylon carpet and patched curtains with which the room was furnished. Accompanied by a DVD player, this prized possession squatted on a low stool, and the leads from both had tangled together like spaghetti, their plugs jammed into a socket which, in turn, hung loosely from the wall.
Moving into the bathroom, the policewoman sniffed the damp, fungal air. Black mould disfigured the walls and ceiling, and the avocado-coloured basin was cracked, a tap dripping incessantly into its stained interior. A tooth-mug, on top of a mirrored medicine-cabinet, contained two identical, crossed, pink toothbrushes. As she tried to open the cabinet, one of its doors swung off its hinge to reveal inside a couple of deodorants and a bottle of cheap shampoo. A black cat with white paws arrived from nowhere, leapt up onto the lip of the bath and began tightrope-walking its way towards her. Brushing himself against her, he looked up at her with his bright yellow eyes.
‘I’ve got the post. One’s addressed to Miranda Jane Stimms,’ DC Cairns said as she entered, instinctively turning sideways, fastidious in her attempt to avoid touching the lavatory, ‘and I think I might have found where the deceased’s parents live.’ In her hand was an empty envelope addressed to James Stimms, ‘Fisher’s Rest’, Starbank Terrace, Edinburgh EH44 9MB, which she handed to the inspector.
‘Finally,’ Alice said, reading the address, ‘we’ll get her identified by a relative, and that’ll be good enough to get us a warrant for the PM. And after all this bother,’ she added, ‘it had better be a sodding murder.’
‘No sign of blood or guts in here or elsewhere.’
‘Perhaps Felix here has been cleaning up . . .’
‘You’re joking?’ DC Cairns said, looking at the beast in horror.
‘Am I? I wonder if he’ll be as well-fed with the Cat Protection League people,’ Alice said, giving the creature a stroke, unable to stop herself smiling as the constable shuddered visibly at the thought.
The view to the north for the inhabitants of the terrace of red sandstone houses halfway along Starbank Road was not such as might be found throughout much of the capital, a short one, one of high harled tenements, symmetrical Georgian squares, cosy post-war bungalows, factories or even municipal sports facilities. Instead, the great grey expanse of the Forth stretched before them for mile upon mile, finally losing itself in the hills of Fife. Theirs was a simplified horizon, grand, and austere, one which spoke of Newhaven’s fishing past. Not that in the absence of their sea view the locals could forget its history, living as they did in close proximity to places such as Fishmarket Square and Pier Place, with gulls instead of pigeons high above them and the salt-laden air reverberating with their raucous cries. That afternoon a gale was blowing, whipping up white horses and making the procession of clouds above scud past as if they were late for some grand occasion.
The woman who came to the door of Fisher’s Rest to meet them looked worried, and none of her anxiety was relieved once they introduced themselves. She was slight, little more than a perfumed wraith, neatly dressed, with the gold buttons on her cashmere navy-blue cardigan fastened all the way up to her neck. Her profuse grey hair had been newly permed, but in a style last fashionable in the fifties. Navy slacks, with a single crease on each leg sharp enough to inflict a cut, terminated in tiny, flat, navy shoes. Around her narrow waist was an apron, a perfect bow tied at the back, and in one hand she held a canister of air freshener.
‘Mrs Stimms?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re from the police. I’m DI Rice and this is my colleague,
DC Cairns. Is your husband about?’
‘James? No, he’s away at the moment. On a job out near Livingston and he’ll not be back until this evening. Do you want to speak to him?’
‘Could we come in and speak to you?’
‘Me? To me? Em . . .’ She hesitated, fine lines furrowing her brow, ‘Very well.’
The sitting-room that she showed them into looked as if they were the first human beings ever to enter it. Such a place in the sales showroom of a new housing estate would have some slight evidence of wear and tear, however minimal, but this displayed none. The beige cushions of the settee and matching armchairs were plumped up, the oatmeal carpet spotless and the ten folds in each of the cream curtains, both with a red piped tie placed exactly in the middle, were perfectly symmetrical. A ruler would have lain flat on the covers of the three piles of illustrated books on the coffee table, as if each volume had been chosen not for content but for its matching size in the array. In a cabinet, filling all five shelves, were cycling trophies. They alone provided some hint of the personalities responsible for such a temple of domesticity. And it was not just the lack of dirt, stains and creases on the pale-coloured furniture and elsewhere, the missing imprint of the living, which was remarkable, the very air itself felt dry, stagnant and unwelcoming.
‘Have you a daughter, Miranda?’ Alice began, taking a seat where she had been bidden. DC Cairns, also obeying instructions, sat in a nearby armchair. Alone, in the middle of the sofa and dwarfed by it, Mrs Stimms sat with her legs pressed tight against each other and folded to one side. Her hands, small and white, lay on her lap.
‘Aha . . . yes, I have, aha,’ she replied, nodding. Her complexion was unhealthily pale, and her large dark eyes flitted, covertly and frequently, between the inspector’s face and the floor.
Troubled Waters Page 6