‘Were there any objects left around? Anything on her person?’
‘I didn’t look,’ he said. ‘I just yelled and then I heard Jimmy banging on the door downstairs.’
‘Not easy to get over a thing like that.’
The man started polishing the bar, didn’t meet his eyes. ‘Worse for her.’
After a respectful pause, Mal returned to his questions. ‘Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to harm Laura? Anyone strange hanging around, showing too much interest in her perhaps?’
‘You mean a boyfriend like?’
‘Or just a punter with an eye for the ladies. Was there anyone odd here that night? A stranger perhaps?’
Keith shook his head. ‘I looked out for her. Everyone knew that. No one would’ve dared…’ He trailed off as if realising the ridiculousness of the statement given the circumstances.
‘She wasn’t with anyone?’ Mal said. ‘Romantically?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No way. She wasn’t like that.’
Christ, Mal thought. No wonder this guy had been top of the suspect list. Not only did he find the body but he was channelling full-on creep mode.
‘What was the nature of your relationship?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘How d’ye mean?’
Keith’s accent got more pronounced the more agitated he became. The plummy tones that he’d used to greet Mal as a customer had fallen away and he sounded more Glescae than borders.
‘You were fond of her, that’s obvious. Was that reciprocal?’
He flushed red. ‘We were pals.’
‘You didn’t want more?’
‘Christ, man. She was the age of my daughter.’ He was flushed, looking like he wanted to take a swing.
Mal held his hands up. ‘Fair enough.’
‘I think you should leave,’ he said. ‘On your way.’
Mal slid from the stool and thanked him. He didn’t hold his hand out as he figured the guy was more likely to punch him than shake it at this point.
Chapter Eight
Melody Wainright had been working in her parents Gas’N’Go station since she was eleven. Out in the middle of the Iowa fields, she thought she had seen every kind of driver that existed on the planet, but when the door opened on the cherry-red cab of the Western Star she did a double take. It wasn’t just that the trucker was female, although that was still fairly unusual, but that she was very slight. As she jumped delicately down from the cab and landed in a crouch like a cat, Melody could hardly believe she could reach the pedals. Perhaps she used blocks under her feet like Short Round in Indiana Jones.
Melody pushed the magazine she’d been reading underneath the counter and pulled on the gloves she used for pumping gas.
The woman was young, too. She looked the same age as Melody but she guessed she must be a year or two older in order to have her haulage license. She had very long dark hair, which was braided in one thick plait, and was wearing skinny black jeans, a tight black t-shirt and thick-soled army boots. It was the kind of look Melody had seen on the gothically-inclined kids at school, but on the trucker it looked utilitarian rather than fashionable.
‘Melody, right?’ the trucker said, smiling.
‘How do you know that?’ Melody took a step back. The smile was not a good one. She could see that the trucker meant it to be a good one, something to put a person at their ease, but it hadn’t worked.
‘My daddy knows your daddy and he said I should look you up if I was in the area. And,’ the trucker shrugged a little, as if to indicate uncertainty, ‘here I am.’
Melody knew something wasn’t right. There was a certainty deep inside, but she’d been brought up to be polite. Not just to customers, who were the lifeblood of their store, but to neighbours, teachers, church folk and family. Melody’s father still believed in corporal punishment and she’d had her manners beaten in from an early age.
‘May I use your restroom?’ The trucker had moved closer and Melody took another step back. ‘And I’d sure like to stock up on supplies while I’m here. I ran out of bottled water a while back and I’m thirsty as a dog. I got money, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not looking for handouts.’
As the trucker spoke, she reached into her pocket as if to show Melody her money, but she brought out a knife. ‘I can see you’re not buying this,’ she said, and then sprang forward.
Melody was already running. She had a few steps head start and was taller, longer-legged. She’d almost made it to the safety of the store, where she could’ve locked the door, pulled the security shutters and phoned the police, when she felt a hand on her shoulder and was jerked back.
She landed heavily on the ground, the breath knocked out of her lungs. She rolled over to face her attacker, bringing up her arms and legs in a defensive move just quickly enough to block the trucker, who was bearing down. There was a flash of silver in the trucker’s hand and Melody twisted to the side just as she stabbed. The blade struck the concrete and a tiny chip flew into Melody’s cheek.
Melody had been training in self-defence for years. Her father had paid for the lessons, thinking it would be a good idea for his daughter to be able to fight off would-be suitors or deal with dodgy patrons of the Gas’N’Go. Melody had happily learned the moves, knowing in her heart that she would be ready if her daddy ever decided to teach her any more manners.
She put her forearm up to block the next blow and bent her legs into her chest. If she could plant them on the trucker, she could use her strong thigh muscles to push her attacker away. Or, if the trucker came in too close, she would bring her closer with her legs, grab her hands and use her own momentum to flip her overhead. Melody had done the move several times in class but had never tried with a properly murderous opponent. She got her feet onto the truckers mid-section, but the girl pushed them apart and slipped between. In a single second, she was lying across Melody and the knife was at her throat. Melody went still. ‘Please,’ she said.
This close, Melody saw the delicate features and pale skin of her killer. Melody had thought she had hazel eyes, but now she could see that one was green. She looked so young, so pretty; it didn’t seem possible that she was doing something this brutal. Perhaps she was frightened. Melody’s terrified brain scrambled for reason. There had to be a reason for this to be happening. For this pretty girl to want to hurt her. ‘I can help you,’ she began.
‘It’s really nothing personal,’ the trucker said, and slit Melody’s throat.
* * *
Mary King’s alehouse was squashed between a tattoo parlour and a Mexican restaurant on Cockburn Street. Its wooden front was painted black and faded gold and a couple of tables were placed somewhat hopefully on the pavement outside. It wasn’t her only hostelry, of course, just her current favourite. She had always kept her money in tangible assets, property and pubs. Times changed and fashions came and went, but people always needed a roof over their head and liquor in their blood.
Mary King didn’t put on airs and, as a point of pride, she put business first and foremost. Always had, and that was her secret. She was a man of the people. Well, a woman of the people. Creature of the people. Whatever.
Take the lowlife who was sidling into her bar at this very moment, Mary King thought. Many folk would think themselves above Robbie, a little man who drank meths for breakfast and had just enough wit to lace up his own shoes, but not her. Not auld Mary. She knew Robbie’s value right enough.
Robbie was looking around the bar, his tongue anxiously wetting thin, chapped lips.
Mary King contemplated the scene with satisfaction, as her tongue played with one of the many piercings in her bottom lip. The fire was lit and gentle light flickered over the rows of wine bottles, the smell of garlic was thick in the air, and every single one of the creatures lounging at the tables would kill for her without thinking twice. Without thinking at all, in fact.
‘You have something for me?’
Robbie shuffled forward. If he ow
ned a cap, he would have been holding it in his hands. ‘Missus.’ He swallowed and tried again. ‘Missus King, I got information.’
‘Isn’t that wonderful?’ Mary King looked around, enjoying the rapt attention of her audience. The Sluagh were all very fine, of course, and she wouldn’t think for a moment to disrespect Pringle’s choice of army, but a human who could see her true self was delicious. The Sluagh were, she was forced to admit, loyal but dull. Humans like Robbie were physically repulsive and weak as kittens, but there was something about them, some sort of energy, that made their attention something worth having.
She drank in a little more, watching Robbie sag towards the floor. She ought to be careful. If she took too much of his spirit he would die before he had given her his present.
‘Spit it out, Robbie,’ she said.
‘Mal Fergusson. He’s looking for a girl.’
‘And?’
‘He’s freelance, like, but he does work for Him. I thought you would appreciate it, ken?’
‘Him?’ Mary King was no longer feeling the glow of happiness. If Pringle was engaging the services of a mercenary like Fergusson, he was up to something. She had heard rumours, but had dismissed them. They had an agreement; Mary King had the unquiet spirits and property, Pringle had his beloved Sluagh and peace in which to play golf. They both had money and influence, more than enough for a thousand lifetimes, and as long as they stayed out of each other’s business, all could remain in balance. If Pringle was looking to make a power grab it could be he was sick of harmony and wanted something a little more one-sided.
‘What sort of girl?’ she said. ‘What does Pringle want with a mundane?’ Want enough to jeopardise the pleasant arrangement she and Pringle kept with the mundane law enforcement; they didn’t bother them as long as they kept civilians out of their business.
‘He didn’t say.’ Robbie had gone beyond nervous and was, in fact, half dead. He was swaying on his feet and speaking automatically, the words coming from deep in his subconscious with no layers of thought or control to filter them.
‘Right, then.’ Mary King snapped her fingers. ‘You can go.’
Robbie was holding his ground. He licked his lips. ‘Something for my trouble, Missus?’
They could always surprise you, mundanes. She nodded to one of her audience and he fetched a bottle of wine from behind the bar.
Robbie narrowed his eyes as if he were considering arguing. Remarkable. But then his innate sense of self-preservation kicked in and he turned to leave.
‘Wait.’ Mary King had a thought. ‘Do you know any girls?’
Robbie shook his head too quickly.
‘One girl?’
Robbie looked at the floor as he spoke. ‘There’s a pretty one at Greyfriars. Speaks to the ghosts, like.’
‘Really?’ That was power. Could be the girl Pringle wanted. ‘Tell me everything you know.’
‘She’s pretty,’ Robbie said, smiling for the first time.
‘What else?’
‘I think she’s a student.’
‘A student?’ Mary King’s interest waned. A pretty student did not sound important.
‘And she takes the tours. Out of Greyfriars.’
Mary King took a moment to understand his meaning, and when she did her disappointment was complete. He was talking about the idiotic but necessary tourist ghost shows. Robbie had a crush on a mundane. ‘Get out,’ she said.
* * *
Rose woke up with a start. She opened her eyes, which felt sticky with sleep, and tried to move. Immediately, there was a stabbing pain in her neck and she realised that she’d fallen asleep at the table again. She moved upright from her slumped position and looked around, trying to gauge how early – or late – it was. The beige curtains were glowing faintly orange from the streetlight outside and there was the swish of cars on the road. Evening, then, most likely. It felt like evening and her stomach was growling with hunger. Dinner time, perhaps.
She stretched her back and rolled her shoulders. The stabbing pain receded a little. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes but there was a great deal more of it than she expected. Her whole face felt unpleasantly sticky, in fact, and there was stuff on her hands, too. She looked at them in the half-light and her stomach lurched. It wasn’t sleep-drool or eye gunk. Her hands looked black. And the smell that was coming from them was familiar in a horrible sort of way.
She stumbled to the hallway and into the downstairs loo. It was a tiny room with a mirror over a comically-small sink, and a plastic air freshener that lived on the cistern and smelled like the worst kind of fake lavender that had ever been invented. She pulled the light cord and blinked in the brightness. Her hands were covered in dark brown and the mirror confirmed that the same stuff was smeared on her face and neck and down the front of her t-shirt. It was mostly dry, flaking in places. A couple of patches were thicker and stickier. Her brain supplied the knowledge she had been trying to avoid. Blood. In the small room, the smell of iron was overwhelming. Bile rose in her throat and she leaned quickly over the sink to throw up. It splashed up the sides of the tiny basin.
Oh God, oh God. Was she hurt? There was so much blood. She was sore and scraped and tired, but nothing felt serious. After running the water to rinse the basin and washing her hands, she went upstairs to the big bathroom and stripped. She took a long, hot shower, keeping her eyes closed. She didn’t want to see the blood swirling down the plughole. It had to be someone else’s blood.
After shampooing her hair twice and scrubbing at her skin with a flannel until it was pink and slightly sore, she stood under the scalding water and tried to calm her mind.
There had been blood. It wasn’t her blood. She wasn’t hurt. At least, not like that. There were scrapes along her forearm and scratches like someone had caught her with sharp fingernails. A vivid purple bruise on one knee.
But where had the blood come from? More importantly, who had the blood come from? Perhaps she had a part-time job in a butcher shop and she’d blanked it out. Or, she’d done a bad thing. And she couldn’t remember what it was.
Once she was swaddled in her towelling dressing gown, she made a mug of tea and got into her bed. She pulled the duvet up and concentrated on the hot drink until she felt strong enough to attempt rational thought. She could call Astrid, but she didn’t know if she’d be able to say the words out loud.
She forced herself out of bed and picked up her skinny jeans. They were crispy with dried blood and she felt the panic rise up again. She knew she had to speak to Astrid. She felt that she had just been with her, that something important had happened. Before waking up with the blood. Something else. Something which made her hands burn with remembered pain and her skin itch all over. She felt a lump in the jeans pocket and pulled out her phone. A slip of card came out with it, and she stared. It was a small rectangle with a few letters printed on it. She didn’t recognise it, but she knew the word ‘carnet’. It was French for a book of tickets.
* * *
Freya McDonald’s family home was a two-bed semi on a nineteen sixties estate on the edge of town. Being such a tiny place, it was more a couple of cul-de-sacs than a full scheme, but Mal noted the usual suspects: rusted out car, forlorn-looking play equipment, and forest of Sky dishes.
He knocked on the door, hoping to get Freya rather than her mum. The young woman who opened the door could have been either, and he had learned not to make assumptions. ‘I’m looking for Freya McDonald,’ he said. ‘David from the pub gave me this address.’
‘Nice of him,’ the woman said. ‘What do you want with her?’
‘I’m not from the papers, but I’d like to talk about Laura Moffat.’
The woman sighed. ‘I bet you do. I’m not interested.’
‘I’m writing a book on recovering from trauma. It’s on the psychology of overcoming extreme experiences, trauma.’
‘It was traumatic.’
‘Absolutely. But Freya, by all accounts, has dealt with it extremely well
and I’d like to profile her in the book. With her permission, of course. It’s not really about Laura, it’s not about the horror of that event, but about the psychological aftermath for those left behind. It’s a self-help thing. Providing hope and guidance for others, you know?’
He couldn’t tell if she was buying this particular brand of bullshit, but after a moment she opened the door a little wider. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
The kitchen was overflowing with dirty dishes and a box of cereal with the top still open sat on the tiny beech-effect table. She didn’t apologise for the mess and Mal found himself adjusting to the fact that this was a surprisingly mature Freya, rather than a youthful mother.
‘You not in college today?’
‘Gave up,’ she said, flicking the switch on the kettle. ‘You might not want to use me as a case study after all.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. You’re still walking, talking and breathing. After what you’ve been through.’
She widened her eyes. ‘You know, so many people don’t understand that. It’s not just the shock at the time, I feel it now. I feel, like, if something like that could happen to Laura, then what’s the point? You know?’
Mal didn’t know, but in his role as self-help guru he nodded understandingly. ‘Did they offer you counselling?’
Freya turned away and poured hot water into two mugs. ‘Sugar? There isn’t any milk.’
‘No thanks,’ Mal said, as Freya dumped a generous amount from a paper bag into her own mug and stirred vigorously.
‘The polis sent a woman round and the college told me I could see the student counsellor, but I didn’t bother in the end.’ She handed Mal a mug which had a ring of dirt around the inside.
He set it on the table and got out his notebook. ‘Is this okay?’
‘I think so. I want full copy approval before it’s published though.’
The Lost Girls Page 9