by Alex Walters
‘I can’t see it. We’re friendly enough with the neighbours when we see them, but we don’t know them well. There are only a couple immediately adjacent to us. Even if there’d been some sort of emergency, she’d have found the time to call or text. She knew I was waiting.’
‘Things happen, though,’ McKay said. ‘There’s probably some simple explanation that we haven’t thought of.’ He exchanged a glance with Grant. ‘Look, Isla, you make yourself a cup of tea or something, if you feel up to it. Helena and I will check with the neighbours. We’ll be right back.’ He was reluctant to leave her, but wanted to speak to Grant alone.
Outside, he said to Grant, ‘What do you think?’
‘I think we’ve a problem. Whatever the circumstances, I can’t see that Ginny would have gone off voluntarily without letting Isla know what was happening.’
‘Me neither. I’ll go and check with the neighbours, see if anyone saw anything.’
‘Okay. I’ll get an alert out in the area. I can always stand it down if you find Ginny sitting patiently next door with an ailing neighbour and a dead phone.’
McKay returned a few minutes later, stone-faced. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Both neighbours were in. Couples, about the same age as Ginny. Neither had seen any sign of her this morning. One of them heard a car pulling away at a silly speed earlier. Thought it was kids messing about. They get them up here joyriding on the back roads sometimes. Though not usually on a Saturday morning.’
‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘That someone’s snatched Ginny. It’s beginning to look that way, isn’t it? But why the hell would they want to do that?’
‘For the same reason they killed David Kirkland?’ Grant said. ‘And maybe the same reason they’ve been picking off Galloway’s cronies?’ She paused, thinking. ‘Doc Green reckons that Kirkland wasn’t killed here.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘He was killed elsewhere then his body was brought here. And before he was killed –’ She stopped, as if unable to say the words. ‘There were various lesions on the body. It looks as if he’d suffered some pain. The same was true of Ally Donald’s body, apparently.’
‘Jesus.’ McKay was staring at her. ‘So, if Ginny –’
‘Exactly.’
‘Christ. We need to find her. But why Ginny? I mean, we can connect all the others with Galloway, one way or another. But Ginny’s nothing to do with any of that.’
‘God knows. I don’t care at the moment. I just want to find her before any harm comes to her. I’ve put an alert out, for what that’s worth. I’ve set someone trying to scour the cameras on the main roads, in case they spot anything. And I’ve asked for a couple of the team to come up and speak to the rest of the neighbours. I’ll get an Examiner over to check over Ginny’s car and the area around it as a crime scene. But none of that feels very promising without more of a clue where we should be looking or what we’re looking for.’
‘Why the hell Ginny, though?’ McKay had hardly heard her. ‘There must be –’ He stopped, conscious of his mobile buzzing in his pocket. ‘Hang on,’ he said, thumbing the call button. ‘McKay? Oh, Josh.’ He’d almost forgotten his previous conversation with Josh Carlisle. Now it felt like little more than displacement activity, something to fill the time and allay his anxieties until Grant had arrived. ‘Okay. Right. That is interesting. Look, it’s not a priority now, but we’ll need to do some more digging there when we get the chance. You’ve asked them to send the details over? Good lad. And thanks.’
Grant was staring at him quizzically.
‘Josh Carlisle. It’s probably nothing. I was just filling the time ‘til you and Isla got here, really.’ He told her about his conversation with Kelly Armstrong, his request for Carlisle to dig out anything he could find on Callum Donnelly.
‘And?’
‘Donnelly’s Northern Irish. From Derry. And he’s got a record.’
‘What sort of record?’
‘Mainly petty stuff from years ago. Looks like he was mixing with the Provos at the tail end of the troubles. Just a kid, really. Involved in a couple of instances of what seemed to be sectarian violence, as well as a few bits of petty theft, drugs. That kind of stuff. Six months inside in his late teens.’
‘When are we talking?’
‘Twenty years,’ he said. ‘Donnelly’s in his late thirties now. The most interesting thing is that Josh reckoned there was a Special Branch flag on the file. We may get a call from our buddies down south.’
‘Twenty years,’ Grant said. ‘Jackie Galloway’s heyday. The time when David Kirkland was plying his mysterious trade up here. The time when Ginny’s father was supposedly killed in some hit and run incident.’
‘And when one Patrick O’Riordan, electrical fitter from Belfast, really was killed in a hit and run,’ McKay said. ‘Be interesting to see how the various dates align.’
He could see that Grant’s mind was running through the possibilities. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So, we’re pulling out some interesting jigsaw pieces. But how do they fit together?’
‘Christ knows,’ McKay said. ‘But it feels to me like it might be worth talking to Donnelly.’
Grant gestured towards the house. ‘Do you think –?’
‘That this has anything to do with Ginny’s disappearance? I haven’t a clue. But it feels like another piece of the jigsaw.’
‘Are you saying you want to go and talk to Donnelly now?’
McKay shook his head, though the gesture was one of despair rather than denial. ‘Christ, I’ve no idea what to do, Helena. But I want to be doing something. There’s nothing useful I can do here. It’s better for the Examiners to look over the car and the house, rather than me conducting more clumsy searches with my size nines. I could go and speak to more of the neighbours, but do you really think they’ll have anything useful to tell us? I’d just be going through the motions, and time’s running out.’
‘You really think that bearding Callum Donnelly in his lair might be more useful?’
‘Ach, I’ve no idea. But I’m not sure it could be less useful.’
‘Okay. Look, you go and do it. If there are any developments here, I’ll call you.’
‘Thanks, Helena. I’m probably just being a total numpty, but, you know –’
‘Aye, Alec,’ she said. ‘I know.’
53
McKay was crossing the Kessock Bridge when Helena Grant called. He assumed there’d been some development, and she was summoning him back. ‘Helena? Any news?’
‘Nothing here. But one or two things that might be relevant to you.’
‘Go on.’
‘First thing is, I had a call from the officer I’ve got working with the camera team. They’ve been looking at footage over Kessock Bridge at the appropriate times this morning.’
‘I’ll give them a wave. And?’
‘Vehicle behaving erratically. Speeding and then cutting up other vehicles, as if in a hurry.’
‘Sounds like just another day on the Kessock Bridge.’
‘Aye. Except that when we checked this vehicle had false plates.’
‘That right?’
‘Plates relate to a blue Ford Focus registered in Stirling. This was a silver four-by-four Kia. We’re trying to check the cameras further up the A9, but no luck yet.’ She paused. ‘Then, there’s the second thing.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I’m getting worse than you, Alec. Can’t stop digging. I was standing here, trying to offer some support to Isla, but both of us just wanted to be able to do something. So, I made a call to an old mate in Edinburgh who specialises in counter terrorism. As luck would have it, he was in the office and was able to do a bit more searching on their systems into Callum Donnelly. Like Josh said, most of his record is trivial stuff. But the old Special Branch flagging was interesting. My friend was being very circumspect but he reckoned Donnelly was once a – I think the phrase is “person of interest” to Special Branch. S
mall fry but looking to ingratiate himself with the Provisionals. There was some suggestion he might have been involved in the Manchester bombing, though he wasn’t one of the main suspects –’
‘That was a murky old business anyway, from what I recall,’ McKay said.
‘Aye, so I believe. It looks as if after the Belfast Agreement Special Branch’s interest in Donnelly lessened. There’s nothing recent on there. Nothing to suggest he was ever any more than a peripheral figure, even if he wanted to be more. He was only a kid, really. Late teens.’
McKay pulled over into the outside lane to take the right turn on to the Black Isle. ‘So, what does any of this have to do with Galloway, let alone Ginny?’
‘Christ knows. But there’s a third thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘I asked my mate about David Kirkland. Asked him bluntly whether he was Special Branch.’
‘And?’
‘I didn’t expect a straight answer, and I didn’t get one. But he didn’t leave me in much doubt that the answer would have been yes.’
‘So, what was his role? Why was he up here?’
‘The word used was “nursemaid.”’
‘“Nursemaid”?’
‘Witness protection.’
‘That would explain why he had bugger all to do with Jackie Galloway. Presumably just attached to Specialist Crime for want of anywhere better to put him. So, who was he protecting?’
‘That’s what I’ve been wondering. And the name that keeps popping back into my head is Patrick O’Riordan.’
McKay slowed as he headed through Munlochy, then pulled out on to the main road to Cromarty. ‘Any real reason for that?’
‘Bugger all,’ she said. ‘Your mate Fairlie found no connection.’
‘Craig’s the best,’ McKay said. ‘But only in a local context. And, to be fair to him, if it was that kind of connection, he might have decided not to probe too deeply. But we don’t have much, beyond the fact that he came from Belfast.’
‘And the way he died. But, aye, I know. It’s just the usual copper’s hunch.’
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, mind,’ McKay went on. ‘And if you’re right, the next obvious question is who killed O’Riordan. And why.’
‘We’ve a hell of a lot of questions,’ Grant said. ‘And bugger all in the way of answers. And meanwhile, Ginny’s out there, somewhere, facing Christ knows what.’
‘Tell me about it. What I’m doing feels like a wild goose chase, but I don’t know what else to do.’
‘There’s not much. I’ve got a team doing door to doors of the neighbours, but not hopeful they’ll tell us much. We’ve got an alert out on that vehicle. The Examiners are on their way to check out the house and Ginny’s car. Beyond that, I’m running out of ideas.’
‘Let’s hope this produces something. Text me the vehicle details. They might ditch the registration plates when they get up here, but it’s something to look out for.’
As he pulled up outside, the Caledonian Bar looked peaceful enough. Inside, the bar was quieter than the last time McKay had been in here, with just a couple of old boys in the far corner. A bored-looking young man was standing behind the bar, playing a game on his mobile.
‘I’m looking for Callum Donnelly,’ McKay said.
‘Aye, aren’t we all?’ the young man said. ‘Let me know if you find him.’
McKay drew out his warrant card. ‘Don’t get smart, son. I’m on a short fuse today. Do you know where he is?’
The young man looked unfazed by McKay’s credentials. ‘That’s what I’m saying. They called me in at the last minute, because that wee lass had let them down. Then, I get in to find a note asking me to open up and take charge. No sign of either of the bloody Donnellys. And no food prepared, so I’ve had to send people away if they’re looking to eat. Then, I get all the abuse for not being able to provide food –’ He stopped, clearly sensing McKay’s impatience.
‘Can I check through the back?’ McKay asked, moving towards the rear door.
‘Knock yourself out.’ The young man had already returned to his game, oblivious to McKay and what he might be doing.
The kitchen was deserted, with no sign of any food preparation. McKay made his way upstairs and peered into the two bedrooms. Both were tidy enough, with no evidence of any hurried departure. He hurried downstairs and checked the cellar. Again, there was no sign of anything disturbed or out of place.
He returned to the ground floor and found the exit into the rear yard. In Gorman’s time, this had been another gloomy space cluttered with junk. The Donnellys had cleared the rubbish and opened up the rear entrance to create a car park. At the far end, in the corner by the wall, there was a small outbuilding.
It was locked, but both the door and the lock itself were old and rusting, the doorframe warped by damp. McKay wasn’t a large man, but he leaned his full weight against the door, pulling the lock away from the frame. Almost immediately, it gave, and the door opened.
The space within was less tidy than the other rooms McKay had explored. There was a workbench scattered with nails and screws, shelves lined with paint pots, and below those a neatly stacked pile of logs, presumably for the woodstove in the bar. There were a couple of drawers beneath the worktop. McKay pulled them both open and peered inside.
One contained nothing more than a selection of battered-looking tools – a screwdriver, a hammer, a hacksaw. None of them looked recently used.
The second drawer contained a pile of newspapers, the upper ones at least looking relatively new. They were editions of various local papers, and at first, McKay assumed they’d been kept as protection while decorating. He pulled out the copy on top and flicked quickly through the pages.
On the inside first page, there was a report of Jackie Galloway’s death, a short innocuous piece which characterised the death as an apparent accident. McKay lifted out the second newspaper. A different journal, this time with Galloway’s death reported in a small column on the front page. McKay pulled out a handful more and skimmed quickly through them. Each newspaper included a story about one of the recent deaths – Galloway, Crawford and Graham as well as the supposedly accidental death of Davey Robertson some weeks before. The overall effect was chilling – a morbid equivalent of a proud parent collecting newspaper accounts of their offspring’s achievements.
Towards the bottom of the pile, the newspapers were older, dating back a couple of years. McKay turned the pages trying to identify any relevant story.
It took him a few moments to spot it. He’d been expecting another report of a death in the news pages, but there was nothing there. He turned a few more pages, skimming through the usual array of human interest stories that bulk out any local newspaper. Towards the centre of the paper, there was a pull-out special, a guide to careers aimed at school-leaving teenagers. There were pieces on options for university, technical training, apprenticeships and a range of possible workplaces. Almost lost among them was a short interview on the experience of being a woman detective in today’s police force. An interview with Detective Sergeant Ginny Horton.
54
McKay pulled out another newspaper from a month or two earlier. Now he had a better idea what he was looking for, it took him only a few seconds to find it, this time in the sports section. A short report of a local marathon, with photographs of the winning runners. In second place, Ginny. A third newspaper carried a similar report about a half marathon Ginny had run over in Nairn.
Other than the pile of newspapers, the drawer was empty. The remainder of the room was equally unenlightening. If he’d been hoping for some clue as to the Donnellys’ current location, it looked as if he’d be disappointed.
He dialled Helena Grant’s number.
‘I was just about to call you,’ she said. ‘Anything?’
‘Not a wild goose chase, anyway,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on here, but it looks as if Donnelly’s our man. Just wish I knew where the hell he was now.’
>
‘We might have a lead,’ she said. ‘That’s why I was calling. I’ve just had a call relayed from the Control Centre. They had a complaint phoned in from some irate cyclist who reckons he was nearly knocked off the road by a speed demon in a four-by-four.’
‘Our four-by-four?’
‘Looks like it. Being an irate cyclist, he made sure to take the number.’
‘Where was this?’
‘North side of the Black Isle. Up near Culbokie. Ten minutes ago, or so. Best thing is they seemed to be turning into a private road, so we may have them.’
‘Do they know they were spotted?’
‘Cyclist reckons they didn’t even notice he was there. Can’t be sure, though, obviously.’
‘Did this guy see who was inside the car?’
‘Not clearly. Had the impression there was more than one person. Said they seemed distracted.’
‘I bet they bloody did. Do we know the exact location?’
‘Pretty much. I’ll email you the map link. You can get that on your phone?’
‘Aye, no bother.’
‘I’m setting up roadblocks on the roads out of the Black Isle,’ Grant said. ‘I’ll get back up there as soon as I can.’
‘I’m on my way.’
The email arrived just as McKay was getting back into the car, and he spent an agonising few seconds trying to match the image to his knowledge of the Isle. Then, oblivious of other traffic, he U-turned and put his foot down hard as he headed back towards Avoch and took the right-hand turn up into the hills.
It was a single-track road over the top of the peninsula, initially through scatterings of relatively new bungalows and then out into more open country. The traffic was light, but the road was winding and narrow, and his frustration grew with every stab at his brakes.
At the summit, he took the left turn towards Killen. Once through the tiny village, another turn took him on to the road heading north towards Culbokie. Minutes later, he emerged on to the main road along the north of the Isle. He slowed, his eyes fixed on the roadside for the expected private road.