‘Okay,’ Rose said, obeying. She liked shopping with Astrid. It involved looking at things, mostly, rather than buying anything, but it was soothing. Astrid had definite opinions about everything and Rose could just go along for the ride, nodding and saying ‘uh-huh’ every so often. It was relaxing.
At that moment a woman walked past. She had a port wine mark on her cheek and the stain reminded Rose of blood, splattered over skin, the thick smell of iron. She doubled over, suddenly sick.
‘What is it?’ Astrid was by her side, her hand on her back.
‘I’m fine,’ Rose said. ‘Just a stomach cramp.’ There had been blood. She had seen blood in the lecture theatre, a hallucination or waking dream. The professor with his throat slit and the blood pouring over his checked shirt, soaking it in seconds. Another image, sharp and clear, snapped into her mind. Paris. On the metro.
‘Did we go to Paris?’
Astrid tilted her head to one side. Didn’t answer.
‘On, like, a mini-break?’ Rose was trying to make her question sound normal but as soon as the words were out, she knew they were ridiculous. University students didn’t go on mini-breaks. They went travelling. During the summer holidays or on gap years. She rubbed her hands down her skirt, worried that they were still sticky with blood. Then she remembered her tattoo and pulled up her sleeve to check. The rose was faded. The skin had healed so that the pink ridges had flattened into silvery lines.
Astrid was watching her carefully. ‘We’ve never been to Paris.’
She was lying, Rose thought, with a sudden burst of clarity. Then she realised that was ridiculous and shook her head to clear the thought.
Astrid reached out and touched Rose’s arm. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit spacey.’
A familiar calm swept through Rose. She felt sleepy and content, and as if all was well with the world. With her world. They would go shopping together. It would be fun. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just sleepy.’
Astrid moved back, but kept her hand on Rose’s arm. The pressure was gentle but insistent, and Rose felt the contact like a lifeline. Something to hold onto.
Astrid was smiling properly now. There was a touch of something else around her eyes. Relief? ‘You’re always tired,’ she said.
Underneath the blanket of calm, Rose was still thinking. Paris. Walls made of bones. A man with murder in his eyes.
* * *
Mal checked into a cheap hotel in Craigmillar and fortified the room by shifting the furniture and hanging protection charms above the door and window. He wanted to keep moving and use his flat as little as possible, at least until this job was over. It was too easy for Pringle to find him at home and he could do without another kicking. He would prefer to put off explaining his latest failure for as long as possible. Ideally, until he had turned it into a success.
He lay on the bed with his arms folded behind his head and watched television. At least, he pretended to watch television. Usually, he watched for a few minutes and his exhausted – or slightly drunk – brain gave up to oblivion, but tonight his mind wouldn’t stop playing reruns. The girl, Aislinn, with blood running down her forearms, dripping heavily on to the floor. The light in her eyes moments before, the smile of pure joy.
He hadn’t killed her, he told himself. She’d done that herself. She was a few twigs short of a bushel. That was probably always going to be her end, one day or another. Better she’d had a taste of freedom from that antiseptic place of misery first. He told himself these things over and over again, but he knew they were lies.
Finally, he sat up and clicked off The Bourne Identity. He got dressed quickly and went to a bar down the street, one that opened late and served decent booze. He would get drunk, really, really drunk, and then he’d be able to sleep. Well, pass out, but who cared. He could’ve drunk in his room, of course, but he always tried not to do that. It smacked of failure and desperation, alcoholism and misery. Whereas, he told himself as he pushed open the door to the dank little watering hole, drinking amongst miserable strangers was a positive life choice. Practically fucking healthy.
The guy behind the bar had long hair cut into a style that had last been fashionable in the nineteen eighties and had looked good never. He had a rabbity face and pale eyes that looked like they didn’t see enough sunlight. Or, Mal assessed as he ordered single malt and a pint of beer, like they’d shrivel up in the light of day. According to his father, vampires existed. They were a kind of demon, but not worth bothering with. Pathetic creatures with none of the superhuman strength or sex appeal of the movies. Vampires did feed on blood, but very rarely. Mostly they ate nothing. They were dead and, it turned out, that really took the edge off a person’s appetite.
A couple of drinks later and Mal was expecting the bar – and the world – to be looking a little brighter. Instead, his mood had bottomed out. He looked around the room to see if there was anyone worth fighting. Instead, he saw Robbie, an informant with an addiction to the supernatural. For a charm or two, Robbie would spill his grandmother’s guts. Of course, Mal wasn’t exactly sitting pretty on the moral high ground, a thought which did nothing to improve his mood.
Robbie hadn’t clocked Mal. He was too busy concentrating on his drink and had his back to the room. When Mal slid into the seat next to Robbie, he wasn’t moving quite as smoothly as usual and rocked the table with his knee, but the little shit still looked gratifyingly alarmed.
‘Mal. Long time no—’
‘Got anything for me?’ Mal said.
‘What you looking for?’ Robbie licked his lips.
‘A girl. One who isn’t really a girl, ken?’ He didn’t know he was going to say the words until they were out there, but they felt true. He needed to be busy. Otherwise he’d stay in this bar, drinking and fighting, until he died. There was a pit beneath him that had opened up the day Euan got hurt, and he knew he could just slide in, easy as falling asleep.
Robbie shrugged. Just a little gesture, but it made Mal want to grab the back of his head and smack it repeatedly into the table. Something in his expression must’ve translated, as Robbie hurriedly straightened up. ‘I’m sorry, man. I don’t know what you want me to say. There’s stuff going on, there’s always stuff, but—’
‘I’ve got two missing girls. They disappeared in a puff of smoke.’ Mal turned his hands palm up. ‘Minus the smoke.’
Robbie nodded, opening his mouth to speak.
Mal raised a hand. ‘If you say there are always missing girls, I will do something impolite.’
‘Not missing. Can’t help you with lost girls.’ Robbie licked his lips again. Obscene. ‘Dead girls, though—’
Mal put down his glass. ‘Tell me.’
‘There’s always dead girls,’ Robbie said automatically, and then looked panicked. ‘I mean—’ He stopped speaking, the brief moment of panic already clearly replaced by avarice. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘The usual,’ Mal said. ‘If it’s good information.’
‘There was a lassie, Laura Moffat. Killed where she worked and polis are stumped.’ Robbie paused for emphasis. ‘And gossip says she’s no the first.’
Mal was about to say that didn’t sound unusual, but Robbie barrelled on. ‘It’s unusual ’cause they weren’t, you know, violated or nothing.’
‘Mundane girls?’ Mal was trying to work out why Robbie thought this was his kind of job.
He shook his head. ‘Mebbe not. And if it was them, there’s gotta be some kind of power thing. You know what their kind are like.’ He managed to affect a superior expression when referring to demonic kind.
Mal nodded. ‘Any scrap of mojo and they want to hoover it up like it’s coke and it’s nineteen eighty-eight. Where?’
‘Laura was in Peebles. Hit before that was France. Hospital in Paris.’
‘What makes you think they’re the same guy?’
‘Just passing on the blether,’ Robbie said. ‘Man who telt me about the wee French girl said it was strang
ulation. Nasty way to go.’
‘Your contact have any thoughts on the killer?’
Robbie shook his head. ‘Only that he had to be pretty feckin’ strong. It was a bare-hand job, not with a wire or rope.’
‘So he didn’t see it happen? That’s speculation?’
‘Aye.’ Robbie had his hand out for payment.
Mal closed his eyes, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. He was wasting time with the likes of Robbie just to avoid being alone with his thoughts. He had to get his house in order.
* * *
The next day, Mal was still in pain from his kicking at the hands (and feet) of Pringle’s crew and he had a headache pulsing behind his eyes. He was strong from training and, thanks to a few basic charms, his healing was accelerated, but he still hurt. His dad used to say ‘hurting is good, it reminds us that we’re human.’ He meant it in a practical sense of not pushing your physical limits, keeping yourself safe in the field, but Mal preferred to think of it in more philosophical terms. Although these days that was less comforting. He didn’t hurt so much anymore, not emotionally.
Of course the one thing guaranteed to make him feel something was a trip to the hospital to see Euan, but he had woken with something else on his mind. A sense of purpose that he hadn’t felt in a long time. As he shaved his bruised face, taking more care than usual, he thought about the lost girls.
Maybe he could look into the death of Laura Moffat, check to see if it was his kind of case. And if it was, he could do a bit of old-fashioned monster-hunting. He was too late to save Laura, too late to save Aislinn, but if he killed whatever got Laura he’d be balancing the scales a bit. Inch a little closer to the brother Euan had known. Mebbe.
He risked a trip back to his flat to pack. He showered and drank a mug of very strong coffee with a handful of painkillers, then sat in his favourite chair with Monty perched on his knee and rang his friendly official contact. DS Robert Ingles used Mal when he needed to know things that he couldn’t officially find out, and in return Ingles would let his fingers dance over the police database on occasion while narrating his findings out loud. ‘I want to know about Laura Moffat. She lived in—’
‘Peebles. I know. I remember her,’ DS Ingles said, sounding grim. ‘Don’t tell me that’s one of yours.’
Mal stamped down on his irritation at the sergeant’s tone. It wasn’t like Mal made these things happen. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Could be. What do you know?’
‘Poor wee girl was just eighteen. In college, worked part-time at her local.’
‘And that was the place?’
‘As long as you’re going to share,’ he said. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Probably a wild goose chase,’ Mal lied.
‘You’ll have to buy me lunch, then,’ Ingles said. It was a well-worn line and both men knew it was never going to happen. They weren’t pals, weren’t even colleagues. Mal wrote down the Moffat family’s address and the name of the bar.
‘Who found her?’
‘Owner of the pub when he went to open up next morning. Keith Roberts.’
‘She’d been left to lock up on her own?’
‘No. There was a senior member of staff, Jim Pennycuick, but he was in the cellar changing the barrel when he apparently decided to take a nap. Didn’t wake up until the proprietor started screaming the next day.’
‘A nap?’
‘He’s rather fond of the product, as they say.’
‘I assume he was—’
‘Cleared? Aye.’ The DS gave a short laugh. ‘Thought we were onto a winner there, but no.’
‘How so?’
‘He didn’t fit.’ Ingles sounded distracted, as if someone was trying to get his attention in the office. ‘Gotta go,’ he said, and finished the call.
It wasn’t much to go on. And Ingles had told him nothing which suggested something supernatural had happened, but Mal wanted to be busy. And, a small part of him admitted, he was keen to delay looking for his disappearing girl. She was clearly not human, or had some kind of power that wasn’t entirely of the mundane world, but she looked human. He remembered the way her eyes had widened in fear and his jaw clenched. It wasn’t going to be easy to hand her over to Pringle. It wasn’t going to feel good, and it opened up all the messy questions about his current situation he would prefer not to answer.
It was freezing in the car and Mal was glad he had worn his jacket. He got the heater going after a few muttered swear words. There was thick grey cloud shrouding the city and the verge alongside the city bypass was encrusted in a hard frost. It looked dirty in the dark light, but as he pulled away from Edinburgh and into Midlothian, the sun appeared, turning the frost picturesque. He drove to Peebles, through affluent villages and friendly foothills sprinkled in snow. He parked on the wide main street of the town, near the mercat cross. It was a grand affair, set on top of a hexagonal stone structure, with three fish carved into one side.
Peebles had a well-to-do air, with a fine-looking hotel on the high street and individual shops with brightly painted fronts. He walked down Northgate and turned into a smaller side street to the pub. The Traquair Inn had a whitewashed front and a planter with heather by the door. It also did an all-day breakfast. Sitting at the bar, Mal ordered a bacon roll. It was a small area, clean and bright for a pub, and there were a couple of tables occupied by people enjoying fry-ups. The smell of grease was overlaid with last night’s beer and a top note of lemon air freshener.
He waited until he’d finished his breakfast before asking questions. The food was good, and he didn’t want to get thrown out before he’d eaten. The guy behind the bar was in his late forties to mid-fifties, with a moderate paunch. He looked well-tended, like he had a loving wife and played golf on Sundays.It was a fair bet this was Keith, owner and manager.
‘That was great,’ Mal said when the guy took his plate. ‘Can I get an orange juice?’
He waited a beat while the man located a carton from one of the fridges. ‘Is this your place?’
‘Aye,’ Keith said, pouring out the juice.
‘I’m actually writing a story and was hoping I could ask you a couple of questions about Laura Moffat.’
‘Journalist?’ Keith looked more interested than offended and Mal expected the next question to be ‘how much are you going to pay?’
Mal shook his head. ‘I’m writing a book.’
Keith glanced around the pub, as if checking for people listening. ‘I don’t want any bad publicity. It’s not good for the trade.’
‘I totally understand,’ Mal said, not believing him for a second. People loved a grisly story. He made to slip off the stool. ‘Thanks for the breakfast, anyway.’
‘Hang on,’ Keith said. ‘You’re not going to drop this, are you? You’ll be asking around?’
Mal spread his hands. ‘I’m sorry, it’s my job to do the research. I don’t want to be inaccurate—’
‘Aye, that’s what I’m worried about. I don’t want you speaking to one of the nutjobs. They’ll sell you a pile of shit and call it gold.’
‘I just want the truth. Police haven’t solved it and the family deserve some closure.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You know her folks?’
Mal thought about lying for a split second, but a place like this it was risky. Too small. He shook his head.
‘She doesn’t really have any. Didn’t have, I mean. Orphan with a brother up north somewhere, but I don’t think they were in touch. He came to the funeral but no one round here recognised him.’
‘That unusual?’
‘Round here?’ He gestured around the tiny room. ‘It’s no exactly a metropolis.’
‘Did you know Laura well?’
He nodded, eyes suddenly very soft and serious. ‘Since she was wee. She got fostered by an English couple and stayed in the town from when she was eleven or so. They moved back down south when she was seventeen and she elected to stay put.’
‘So that’s her
family, then.’
‘No really,’ he said, and Mal waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.
‘Where did she stay?’
‘With her pal. Freya McDonald.’
‘They rent a flat or something?’
‘Nothing like that round here. Besides, neither of them was earning properly. They both stayed with Freya’s mum on Glen Way.’
‘That night—’
He held up a hand. ‘Don’t ask me why I left her to lock up on her own, I’ve told the polis that until I’m blue in the face. She wasn’t on her ain.’
‘But the guy…’ Mal pretended to consult his notes. ‘Mr Pennycuick.’
‘He was a drunk,’ he said shortly. ‘Aye. But a decent enough man and I didn’t know he was drinking on duty.’
Mal tried to control his incredulity. If he had an alcohol problem, how could anyone expect him to resist while behind a bar for hours at a time?
‘I’m surprised they didn’t arrest him, though. I’d have thought he’d be a prime suspect.’
‘He was, right enough,’ he said. ‘But thing is, he couldn’t have done it.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘When I came in that morning, the door to the cellar was locked.’
‘And he was inside?’
‘You’re no getting it. It was locked from the outside.’ He paused for maximum effect, to let this nugget sink in.
Mal obliged him by whistling through his teeth. ‘That’s weird.’
‘I didn’t even really twig until they started asking all the questions. I was a bit distracted, as you might imagine.’
‘You found her, then?’
‘Aye.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not something I’m ever going to forget.’ He gestured around the room. ‘Had to get the room gutted. New flooring, new bar. Even got new curtains.’
That explained the cleanliness.
Mal looked down at his notebook, breaking eye contact in the hopes of setting his interviewee at ease. ‘She was stabbed, is that right?’
‘She was gutted,’ he said, unconsciously repeating the word. ‘There was blood everywhere. She was on the bar, laid out, like.’
The Lost Girls Page 8