‘You’re a nationalist then?’
‘I’m a Highlander,’ MacGregor said softly. ‘Last of the free.’ His smile spreading wide across his face again.
‘Free to run a bunch of businesses,’ Monica said dryly. ‘To be a sort of shopkeeper?’
‘We all have to eat, don’t we?’
Monica turned one of the pages over and began reading names from the long list: ‘Mountain Bar in Aviemore, Braemore Petrol Station in Ullapool, Cairngorm Hotel in Grantown …’ He stared back but didn’t reply. ‘It’s one of your newer acquisitions I’m interested in though.’ MacGregor’s eyes didn’t move from her face but something shifted in his body language and she sensed he was surprised by the turn the questioning had taken. ‘A few months ago. You purchased a garage from Sebastian Sinclair. Do you remember him now?’
MacGregor didn’t respond.
‘Several days ago we visited your garage as part of our investigation into the murders of the same Sebastian Sinclair and Theo Gall. What do you think we found?’
Still MacGregor didn’t respond. Monica nodded to Khan, who slid two pictures of the blue BMW out of the file. ‘This car belonged to Sebastian Sinclair. Do you have any idea why it ended up at your garage?’
MacGregor’s face had tightened. Monica waited a long thirty seconds then nodded to Khan again. She placed three photographs of the inside of the garage down on the table. Sprays of gore across the groundsheet. Tools carefully set down, each a few inches apart from its neighbour.
‘These were taken inside your garage. We should have the DNA back any time.’
She let what she’d said sink in then stood up and cleared the photos from the table.
‘I’ll leave you to have a think about that. When I come back I’m going to be asking you questions about Annabelle Whittaker. She’s a young woman who recently went missing. We found her car at your garage too.’
CHAPTER 64
On a normal day Monica could rely on Crawford to look for any opportunity to niggle at Fisher, who he seemed to regard as a rival in some status contest playing out exclusively in his own mind. Today is not a normal day, Monica thought as she walked back into the Incident Room, still feeling a desire to scrub herself clean after being in that confined space with Francis MacGregor. Crawford even seemed to have taken pity on his colleague and had donated Monica’s untouched coffee to him. Fisher was gripping the cup of tepid liquid like it was some kind of life raft. The two detectives were sitting side by side, similar neat suits and precise hairstyles. Monica was reminded of playing cards. A jack of hearts and a jack of clubs. Though Fisher’s encounter with Annabelle seemed more typical of a situation she’d imagine Crawford would find himself in.
‘Where are we up to?’
Crawford leaned back in his chair and glanced at DC Khan, then Monica.
‘I gave the mobile provider a bollocking,’ he said, in his element with an audience. ‘Told them Fisher sent the request through last week and if it had gone missing it was their problem.’ Monica clocked the second quick glance in Khan’s direction. Clearly Crawford was after her attention.
‘And what did they say?’ Monica dropped her coat over the back of a chair and sat down beside him. She looked at her long legs, her thigh muscles visible beneath the tight black material of her trousers. For a moment her mind flickered back to Theo Gall’s brother the previous evening at the morgue. Could Gall really have put on a significant amount of weight while he was missing? It seemed unlikely.
‘The phone definitely belonged to Annabelle,’ Crawford said, bringing Monica’s mind back to the present. ‘I got a hit on the location. It’s not exactly conclusive though.’
‘How so?’
‘Out in the sticks. Near Little Arklow. The mast covers a wide area though. Could be coming from anywhere down there.’ Little Arklow again, Monica thought. Of course.
‘Does Francis MacGregor own property there,’ Monica asked, ‘other than the garage?’
Crawford shook his head. ‘Just the garage, and the land around it has been thoroughly searched this morning. If she’s close to the garage then she’s really well hidden.’
He swung his laptop round for the others to see and ran the cursor over the map on the screen. The browny colour of contour lines, dense where they indicated steep hills, the blue of rivers and the green of forestry plantations. ‘The mast’s here,’ he said, pointing to a spot on the map in among a forest. Monica could see immediately that the area of their focus was into the hundreds of square miles. She knew from previous investigations that theoretically a mobile phone could ping a tower from as much as forty-five miles away. Even the more realistic maximum of twenty miles gave them a massive area to cover.
‘Khan, dig into any reports from this area from the last month. It could be something small, something that seems insignificant. Someone might have seen Annabelle by the road, might have—’
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ Fisher said. His voice cracking, the composed facade he’d struggled to maintain finally breaking completely. ‘It’s my fault.’
Monica glanced up and nodded to Crawford and Khan. She needed a moment with Fisher. They nodded back and walked off across the office to the coffee maker. Earlier she had persuaded Hately to let her keep Fisher on the case in a strictly office-based capacity. She turned to face him. ‘It’s not your fault. You haven’t done anything to her.’
‘I’ve tried to do things differently, but it’s like I’m destined to screw everything up, just like the rest of my family. I thought things would be different when I joined the police, like I had something I could be a part of … I can’t believe what happened with Annabelle, and now it’s part of a double murder investigation … bringing my stepfather who I can’t stand right into my work life …’
‘Everyone has problems with their family.’ If she took a mental step back Monica could even see dark comedy in the situation, although it was anything but funny when looking at Fisher’s distraught face or remembering the flesh and blood on the floor of the garage. ‘If you knew half of how things were with my family …’ She glanced around to check no one was in earshot. ‘My dad was a controlling man – with me, with my mum. He was a prison officer.’ As she spoke Monica realised she’d wanted to say these things out loud to someone for a long time. ‘He … he broke the rules. Put me in a situation when I was a young detective. Your age. I’ve regretted it every day since. This job isn’t easy. We all fuck things up, Fisher. Focusing on the worst possible outcome with Annabelle isn’t going to help anyone. We need to focus on finding out where she is and who took her there. Can you do that?’
Fisher met her eyes. She could see a mixture of relief and hope in them. ‘I managed to get hold of … I found her Instagram account and there was a—’
‘Fisher, take a breath,’ Monica said. ‘You found her Instagram account?’
He picked up his phone, clicked open an app. ‘I don’t use it, but I was searching through to see where she’d last posted. I found this.’ He held the screen up so Monica could see it.
The image showed a slim woman in her early to mid-twenties. Her hair was brown and she was dressed in black leggings and a tight long-sleeved T-shirt that exposed her flat stomach. The garment had BRAT written on it in red letters. Her scarlet lips were set in an exaggerated pout. Over her shoulder Monica could see the blue BMW, the same one they had found at the junkyard. The words under the photo read, ‘Look ugly today but who cares! Heading beyond the wall!! Road trip to the frozen north xx.’
Monica felt her skin tingle with the eerie sense of being close to something like death. Something like tragedy.
‘Is the location tagged?’
‘Stirling,’ Fisher said. ‘Almost a week ago. After that nothing.’
‘And you said that you got hold of someone?’
‘Well, yes … I still haven’t got Joel or Annabelle’s mum yet, but a bunch of Annabelle’s pictures on Instagram are tagged to a cafe in Bethnal Green in London, a
volunteer-run sort of place. I called them up, and they said that she does the odd day in there, helping out as some kind of recovery thing.’
‘OK,’ Monica said softly. ‘Was there any connection between Annabelle and the Sinclairs? Francis MacGregor?’
‘I don’t see how there could be. She told me at the wedding that she’d never been up here.’
‘Anything else from the cafe? Anything that might be useful to us?’
‘Nothing,’ Fisher said. ‘Just that she said she’d be away for a while. They thought maybe she’d gone on a road trip. They said Annabelle liked to drive.’
‘DI Kennedy? Ma’am.’ Monica heard her name and turned to see a uniformed officer standing in the doorway. ‘It’s Francis MacGregor, ma’am,’ the woman said. ‘He wants to talk. He says you’ll want to hear it. He knows who’s responsible for the murders at the garage.’
CHAPTER 65
For a long time after the visit to the St Magnus cavern Annabelle lay still on her bed. It seemed that her mind had lost all ability to judge its position in space or time. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else, and she had risen gently out of it, like a ghost. She had become something very small and separate, watching the meat and bones called Annabelle from the corner of the room.
As if through a dream she felt a hand on her cheek and was back in her body.
It was Marcus. ‘Shhh …’ She hadn’t even realised he was in the room. ‘It’s time for your examination.’ She lay rigid until he nudged her again. Then he started to pull her good leg over the side of the bed. ‘Come on, Annabelle. It’s your chance to show the Doctor how well you’re doing.’ The tension in his voice cut through her dissociated state, and she let him help her to sit up at the edge of the bed and slide the crutches onto her arms. Finally she made herself raise her head.
The Doctor was standing out in the tunnel, arms folded impassively across his stomach. His body language was something like that of a busy hospital consultant, keen to get on with his rounds. Although this doctor was wearing filthy overalls under his white lab coat. Smeared in black grease and stained dark with what looked like dried blood. His face was mostly covered by the surgical mask. With a feeling of pure horror Annabelle saw a gym bag on the ground beside him. It was open. She could see it was filled with tools.
‘He just wants to see how well you’re recovering. That’s all,’ Marcus whispered. Annabelle was shaking, jaw locked with fright. Somehow she managed to put her weight on the crutches. Under his breath Marcus said, ‘Come on, don’t be silly now.’
She clamped her teeth as hard as she could and managed to take the few steps out of the room into the corridor. Focusing all her effort on the crutches, eyes on the floor, the Doctor’s worn black boots at the edge of her vision.
‘Well done,’ Marcus said from over her shoulder. ‘Now try walking a little down the tunnel.’
Annabelle did what she was told and managed a few steps down the slope. She raised her head slightly and saw that further down the candlelight was flickering again. Could Scott really still be in there, despite what Marcus had said? Maybe he would understand how she felt? Scott?! It’s Annabelle! The words were almost out of her mouth and she had an overwhelming impulse to hobble towards the light. To at least try to escape, however pitiable the attempt. What if there was no reply though? What if Scott was gone? What if she really was alone down here? The idea was somehow more frightening even than the thought of what the Doctor might do if she tried to escape.
‘Now turn and come back, Annabelle,’ Marcus called. She stared down into that dark abyss, further down the tunnel. Remembering Marcus’s story about Grandad Slate and how he’d crawled among those tunnels for six months. Surely it wasn’t true, surely it had been a story to scare her? But even crawling through those tunnels would be better than being stuck in the cell.
‘Come on. The Doctor’s in a hurry.’
She turned back. It was no good; she wouldn’t make it ten feet before they caught her. And who knew what they would do to her then? She stopped outside the door. Still with her head down. The Doctor took a step towards her, so close she could smell the oil and blood. He leaned into her and then she felt his hands on her arms, on her remaining leg. She was shaking but didn’t lift her head. Please, make him stop touching me. Maybe if she could get back into her room and under the covers it would all be different in the morning.
Finally he stepped away from her.
‘On you go now,’ Marcus murmured, directing her into the room. He stayed out in the corridor with the Doctor. They were talking, but so quietly that Annabelle couldn’t even make out the occasional word. She sat down on the edge of the bed, propped the crutches against the wall, careful not to make a sound as she did so. Silently she rolled into the foetal position and dragged the blanket over her.
Much later she finally opened her eyes. Marcus was sitting by the side of the bed. She could read the concern in his eyes.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
Annabelle’s mouth was dry as sandpaper.
‘I’m afraid it’s your arms,’ he said gravely.
‘My arms are fine,’ Annabelle managed to whisper.
Marcus shook his head sadly. ‘The Doctor says that they’re infected. That they need to be treated …’
CHAPTER 66
MacGregor hadn’t been lying when he said he wanted to talk. He started up almost as soon as Monica and Khan were sitting back down across the table from him in the interview room.
‘You might not believe it but there was a time when the Highlands were an interesting place. Had a bit of class. The big clan houses would have the whole extended family out for the parties. Hundreds of people, going at it for days. Bastards made on both sides—’
‘I don’t see what this has to do with the garage.’
‘You wouldn’t, would you? Too tied up in your brain. She might get it though.’ He tilted his head to look at Khan. ‘I think you’d get on the back of my motorcycle, wouldn’t you? I think you’d—’
Monica slapped her hand down hard on the table. ‘Listen, if you’re just going to waste our time trying to cover your—’
‘I met the Big Boy, the old Sinclair, at one of those ceilidhs. That’s what I was getting at.’
He had Monica’s attention now. ‘Go on.’
He let that wide smile spread across his face. ‘Told you you’d want to hear.’ He shrugged his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair. ‘This is the Highlands – supposed to be a fucking tradition of storytelling.’
‘Tell me your fucking story then,’ Monica replied, and for a moment, despite everything she knew about the man, Monica couldn’t help feeling a ghost of attraction. His endless enthusiasm was bizarrely appealing. She glanced away, reminded herself of the smell of Beverly MacIntosh. Just what was behind his wide smile.
‘The late 1970s, back when I was just a sprat. Believe it or not but they’d do business at those things, back then. Last of the clan culture it was. Before the communists finally killed it off with their inheritance taxes. No sense of aesthetics. Just resentment and a desire to destroy. I was there with my own little clan. The Red Death. There were all kinds of people there for those parties – rock stars, actors, Jimmy Page, Mick, Marianne. All sorts.’ MacGregor paused, clearly expecting some kind of reaction to the name-dropping, but Monica stared expressionlessly back at him. ‘Well,’ he went on. ‘The Big Boy Sinclair – not that he was called that then, you understand – he was having some difficulties at the time.’
‘What kind of difficulties?’
‘The Traveller kind. You know?’
Monica nodded. Traveller communities, ‘Tinks’, were a feature of Highland life. First in line to blame for petty crimes and acts of vandalism. Sometimes justifiably, more often not. ‘What happened?’
‘He’d bought a plot of land for his first big housing development outside Inverness. Only thing was is he’d got it cheap ’cause there was Travellers on it.’
/> ‘They weren’t keen on moving?’
‘That’s right. You should be a detective.’ That wide grin again. ‘They liked it, so why should they move? This was your old-fashioned Tinks, selling fucking clothes pegs they’d made by hand, dishcloths, that kind of thing. Dirt poor. Sinclair didn’t have the know-how to negotiate with them, so I agreed to step in and help with his problem.’
‘You moved them on?’ Monica dimly remembered Crawford mentioning Khan was from a mixed Pakistani and Traveller background. She resisted the urge to check her face for any response to MacGregor’s unpleasant implications.
‘With the help of my lads,’ MacGregor said. ‘The Big Boy took care of me after that. And I was able to help him take care of problems when they arose with his businesses. Win–win.’
‘What kind of problems?’ Monica asked, wondering briefly why this connection had never been picked up by CID. Then reminded herself that they were talking about forty years ago. Probably the information was lost as detectives retired. Or was buried somewhere down in the basement files.
‘This and that,’ MacGregor said, his eyes deadpan. And Monica wondered what myriad dark activities were covered by his clipped phrase. ‘But that was a long time ago.’
‘Why the garage then?’
‘I mourned for him in my way, when he died. End of an era really. But then out the blue I get a call from his girl.’
‘His girl?’
‘The one back from America.’
‘Heather Sinclair?’
‘Bingo.’
‘When was this?’
‘A few months back.’
‘What did she want?’ Monica remembered Heather Sinclair in her office, the panorama of the Cairngorm Mountains.
‘Advice.’
‘Be specific.’
‘Her brother was a waste of time. The Big Boy had been good at handling him, Heather had less patience. I met her down at the Coylumbridge Hotel. I thought we were going to have a nice dinner, a nice chat about her dad. It wasn’t long before Christmas and the place was done out like it was Santa’s own gaff. I love Christmas me – teddy bears, candy sticks, weep every time I see It’s a Wonderful Life. Had the feeling that old Innes Sinclair would have wanted me to go. Turns out I was wrong.’
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