Monica nodded. Although she would have preferred to see MacGregor locked up, he was currently low on her list of priorities.
Crawford went back to the phone. ‘What did you say?’ Monica caught the change of tone in his voice. He turned to her, covered the phone’s receiver. ‘The DNA results from the garage have just come in this minute, finally.’ Then back to the phone again: ‘No, I’ll wait.’
For thirty seconds neither of them spoke. Monica turned left at the archway that marked the exit from Sinclair Enterprises property, back towards Inverness. Crawford was tapping the fingers of his free hand impatiently on his knee.
‘Yeah, I’m still here,’ he said, eventually. ‘Really?’ She heard the deflation in his voice. He turned back to Monica. ‘No match with Sinclair or Gall from the groundsheet.’
‘So it was Annabelle?’ Monica felt a drop of pure horror. Were they were too late? Was she already dead?
Crawford shook his head, still with the phone to his ear. ‘No, it wasn’t her either. The DNA all came from one person. A male.’
Monica tried very hard not to show her growing impatience as Lydia, the mother of Munyasa, Lucy’s friend, made small talk. After dropping Crawford back at headquarters she had raced across town to the house at Clachnaharry, at the head of the Caledonian Canal, to collect Lucy. Lydia had somehow sat her down and thrust a mug of coffee into her hand before Monica had the chance to muster a meaningful excuse.
‘ … and I just think it’s terrible,’ Lydia continued. ‘They come speeding through like it’s a racetrack. Someone’s going to be killed sooner or later.’
Monica nodded and glanced through to where Lucy was still sitting on the carpet beside Munyasa. Shoes off and no sign of her jacket or little bag with the cat pictures on it. She looked fine, happy even, the way she was smiling. Glasses perched on her nose. Focused on the toy cars they were pushing around on the carpet. Monica’s mind drifted back to those stacks of rusting cars at the dump. The two blue BMWs. She was sure that what had happened to Sinclair and Gall was not random. They were chosen specifically for some reason. But how could Annabelle have been targeted when she seemed to have driven up from London impulsively and was unknown in the area? And the DNA in the garage, male but not belonging to Gall or Sinclair. Not matching anyone on the database. Just who was it then?
She cleared her throat. ‘It’s a dangerous road,’ she offered, hoping Lydia hadn’t changed the topic in between. She glanced down at her mug. Here you are, she thought. Look, you’re doing it: having coffee with one of the other mums, being normal.
‘Well, that’s what I said,’ Lydia replied. ‘They should at least have a crossing up there – it’s dangerous, for the wee ones especially.’
Finally Monica succeeded in catching Lucy’s eye and gestured outside. ‘We’d better be making a move, Lucy. Granny’s made dinner.’
‘Oh, you must think I’m a right bore. Bending your ear like that,’ Lydia said, standing up and dusting the front of her jumper down for crumbs from the biscuits she’d been nibbling. ‘It’s just that road up there. The speed some of these boy racers go along it. Like they want their own personal racetrack.’
CHAPTER 70
All the coldness of the world had returned to that small room when Annabelle came back to consciousness. Slowly she remembered: Your arms need to be treated. The words carried the weight of a butcher’s block as she lay motionless. Stripped of the opiate softening. Not daring to move. The same way your leg was treated. Not to even twitch a finger in case there was no response from her body. In case she no longer had any hands.
The tears flowed though. Hot and slow down her face.
The tingling started in her left arm. Could it be a ghost pain? Like her missing leg? Still she was too afraid to move. What if there was no response? What if she lifted her arm and there was only emptiness? The discomfort grew though, like a muscle cramping. Finally she couldn’t bear it any longer and opened her eyes. A candle was burning by the side of her bed. When you look down you’ll see bandages. You’ll see two shortened limbs. Two stumps above the elbow. She lifted her head, and by the flickering light she could see a pair of arms. Lying still on the blanket in front of her. Pale white, like wax where they stuck out from the vest top she was wearing. She turned the strange things over, saw the familiar mass of scars she always tried so hard to ignore.
Annabelle began to cry harder, her body racked with sobs. She hugged herself tight using her newly discovered body parts.
‘Not my arms, not my arms,’ she whispered to the uncaring walls and to the dark void surrounding her. The only reply came from inside her head in a shaky, disjointed voice. Well, it can’t be helped. You need to do something. You need to do something. You need to do something. You need to do something. You need to do something.
‘That’s easy for you to say!’ Annabelle shrieked. The words seemed to pummel at her brain. ‘So easy for you to say!’ The room seemed to expand and then to contract. A moment later Annabelle was lying on the floor. A guttural screaming echoed in the room, she saw the square of carpet, reached up and tore it from the wall. THEYR EATING ME. She ripped and clawed at the next square. More concrete, more dark stains revealed.
She realised the screams were hers. You’re losing your mind, the voice inside her head chipped in sardonically. If you ever had one to begin with.
She screamed again and tore at more carpet. At some point she must have stopped, because when she looked around, panting for breath, Annabelle could see the lights had come back on, and she was surrounded by a mess of squares and patches of dried glue. Her hands were coated in blood from her torn fingernails. The door into the room was already opening.
Marcus stepped in, holding the familiar dinner tray. His mouth fell open in a comical expression of horror. ‘What have you done? The Doctor—’
Annabelle heard the laughter and realised it was coming from her mouth. He stared at her with a look of sheer hatred and set the tray down on the table. Annabelle braced herself against the wall and managed to push up onto her single leg.
Marcus’s eyes flicked around the room at the mess of carpet, then settled on the writing scratched into the wall. ‘The Doctor’s just coming. You’ve only made things worse.’ He shook his head quickly and stooped to start tidying the squares of carpet into a pile. ‘For both of us.’
Annabelle’s eyes dropped to the tray. The pile of beige food on the plate. The heavy ceramic mug beside it.
Do it. Do it right now.
She reached for the mug. Felt it hot and smooth in her hand. The crown of Marcus’s head was right in front of her.
‘He’ll be arriving any minute …’
Not there. The temple.
‘Did you hear what I said, Annabelle?’ Marcus paused what he was doing.
Before he could look up, Annabelle had gripped the body of the mug tight in her hand. Then she swung it, just like she’d practised with the imaginary knife, as hard as she could at the side of his head. The rim of the mug connected with his temple. It made a thunking sound. A spray of hot tea splashed against the wall. Marcus dropped to his hands and knees. Annabelle fell beside him, the momentum of the swing unbalancing her. She grabbed his far shoulder and desperately swung the mug again. This time it hit behind the ear, and Marcus’s face dropped into the pile of carpets. He groaned, his body horribly still.
Again.
She swung it again, and it made a squelching sound like stepping in mud.
Again.
She looked at the mug in her hand. The white ceramic at the rim was smeared with blood.
Again.
She looked at Marcus, the back of his faded camouflage jacket, the shapes of his rounded shoulders. He had wet himself, and the stain was spreading across the carpet beside his prone body.
Annabelle dropped the mug and with shaking hands she went through the pockets of his jacket. Her fingers closed around the cold metal of Scott’s folding knife. She pulled it out and pushed it into the pocke
t of her tracksuit bottoms. Then she took the torch from around his neck and put the loop of string over her own head. Now you need a phone. Then you can lock Marcus in here, look for Scott, sneak outside and call the police. She glanced over to the crutches, propped by the chair. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine opening the door to Miss Albright’s flat. Seeing Mr Pepper growling up at her with excitement.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t find a phone in any of Marcus’s pockets. Forget the phone. All you have to do is walk to a road. Someone—
A sound echoed down the tunnel and Annabelle froze. A sound she had never heard before because her cell door was usually closed. After a moment she realised it was wood on wood. The outside door into the shed, squeaking as it was opened.
CHAPTER 71
Monica watched as Lucy dug into the plate of cauliflower cheese her mum had placed on the table for her. It smelled delicious, and Monica knew she should have been hungry herself, but for some reason her appetite often deserted her when she was engrossed in a complex investigation. It wasn’t unusual for her to go without food for forty-eight hours at a stretch. The detached sense of otherworldliness this fasting provoked had even led her to useful insights in more than one murder investigation.
‘Crawford called,’ Angela said. ‘He’s going to the gym now, but he’ll be back at the office soon.’ Monica nodded, not really hearing what her mum had said at first as she watched Lucy struggling to balance a piece of cauliflower on her fork. The vegetable tottered, threatening for a moment to fall on the floor.
‘He called here?’ Monica finally took on board what she’d said. Felt herself bristling at the ongoing leakage between her work and home lives. She took a breath and recalled her emotional response to the memory of her father’s controlling behaviour during the interview with Heather Sinclair. The sense of sadness and outrage on her mum’s behalf so easily slipping over into misplaced anger.
‘That’s right,’ Angela said, either missing or pretending to miss, Monica’s tone. ‘He said he tried your mobile but there was no answer. Thought you might be dropping Lucy off here,’ she added primly. Monica nodded slowly, tapped the pockets of her coat and realised she had indeed left her phone out in the car.
‘I like Crawford,’ Lucy piped up from the table. She was now lining the piece of cauliflower up with her mouth. ‘He used to have a dog that slept on his bed when he was my age. It was so big that he couldn’t move and sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be able to get out from under it.’
Monica watched her daughter as she put the forkful of food into her mouth, wondering for a moment if she should suggest to Lucy that she stop exaggerating things. Surely there came a time when it was better for her to differentiate reality from what was going on in her head?
‘He’s nice, isn’t he, Lucy?’ Angela chipped in. ‘Your mummy’s lucky to have him as a partner. So they can look after each other when they’re out helping people at work.’
Monica sighed. At least Lucy seemed to have forgotten about Long John for the time being; she hadn’t even mentioned him the night before when Monica had asked about the key. The kid had probably found it at the back of a wardrobe or in a chest of drawers when she was playing. Monica felt in her pocket for the address book and for a moment thought about giving it to her mum. Asking her why she had allowed John Kennedy to exert such control over her life, stopping her from seeing friends, family, keeping her address book locked away from her. Monica could barely remember her mum’s friends or extended family ever visiting the house, and certainly never without her dad being there. Had she really been frightened of John Kennedy? Had he ever threatened her? Had he ever hit her?
Instead she stood up and glanced at the clock above the cooker: 5 p.m. A fresh stab of guilt when she thought about Annabelle. If only they had taken the text message more seriously … If only they’d chased it sooner … Was Annabelle still alive? Surely the chances were slim.
It was almost completely dark when Monica pulled the car up outside the warehouse down in the Carsegate Industrial Estate, the other side of Rapinch from the metal bridge that led over the River Ness close to the port. She recalled that the warehouse used to house a fish-handling facility back when she was a kid. The stink from the place had hung over the nearby housing scheme, and seagulls would gather on the roof, waiting for the fish heads to be dumped outside.
There was no signage on the building, and for a moment Monica thought she might have the wrong place, but then the door swung open. Crawford came marching out, carrying a duffel bag almost as large as he was over one shoulder. He spotted the Volvo and held up a hand before making a detour to sling the gym bag into his own Audi. Then he jogged back and got in beside Monica.
He had just showered and smelled of shampoo and cologne. Despite the evening chill he was wearing just a white shirt and trousers, carrying a grey wool coat folded over his arm.
‘Still roasting hot from training,’ he said by way of explanation. He pulled down the passenger mirror for his habitual hair check. He does look good, Monica thought. Maybe exercise really was beneficial? ‘Boxing then wrestling,’ he added when Monica showed no signs of asking. ‘Two most important disciplines for the street. Bruce Lee said someone with six months’ training in boxing and wrestling could beat a life-long traditional martial artist. Can you believe that? Bruce Lee?’
Monica said that she wasn’t sure she believed it, and she felt a little surge of affection for her colleague. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing if he came around sometimes? It cheered her mum up, and Lucy obviously liked him. Kids were supposed to have some kind of male figure around, weren’t they?
‘Have you heard anything?’ Crawford asked finally. Seeming to conclude from her silence that Monica wasn’t interested in discussing the street effectiveness of the martial arts.
‘Still nothing,’ Monica said as she pulled the car into the road. Pleased they could focus on the case again. Everything else could wait. ‘Right now we need to speak to Karen Sinclair. From what Heather said earlier, it sounds like she has family down near Little Arklow. I want to know what she thought about her husband’s plans for selling up and moving to Vietnam.’ About who was coercively controlling her – if it wasn’t her husband, she thought to herself.
From outside the Sinclairs’ house above Inverness the city spread out below them. Just as impressive as their last visit, but this time like a bed of embers in a fire burned low. The red lights on Kessock Bridge stood out against the black sky. The gate was open, and Monica pulled into the empty driveway. In front of them the large house was completely dark.
‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,’ Crawford said as he got out of the passenger side of the car then pulled his coat on.
You think so? Monica thought, getting out herself. She strode up to the front door anyway, the motion-sensing lights clicking on and illuminating the grass of the front garden. The cul-de-sac of newbuild mansions were surprisingly close together, given the size of the houses.
‘Places like this give me the creeps,’ Crawford said. ‘Like they’re trying too hard, like they’re hiding something.’
Monica pushed the bell and heard it ring inside the house. There was no response, no lights coming on, no sign of movement. She leaned in closer to look through the glass in the door. Trying to see the shadowy lobby inside. In the light from the porch Monica could just make out the interior of the house.
‘Do you—’
‘Can I help you?!’ Monica jumped at the voice, loud and close. She turned towards the row of trees beside the fence that separated the Sinclairs’ garden from their neighbours’. The speaker was on the other side, a female voice that carried the weight of middle-class respectability.
‘We’re police,’ Monica shouted back. Funny how after all these years a posh accent could still make her feel like a child. ‘We’re trying to track down your neighbour, Karen Sinclair. Do you know her?’
‘I’d like to see some proof of ID first,
’ the woman replied.
Of course you would, Monica thought as she walked off the porch, back out past the Volvo, into the street and down the neighbour’s driveway. The woman had retreated inside and was now standing with the door chain on, the wide porch of her house illuminated.
Monica glanced at the nameplate beside the door – MR & MRS TEY – held her warrant card out at arm’s length.
‘“Detective Inspector Monica Kennedy”,’ the woman read out loud. ‘There were journalists here earlier, you see. Asking about Sebastian …’
Crawford had walked up behind Monica now, holding his own ID open. The woman glanced at him then back up to Monica.
‘It’s actually his wife, Karen Sinclair, we’re trying to trace. Do you have any idea where she might be?’
The woman shook her head. She had brown hair cut into a bob and was probably in her early seventies. ‘They keep themselves to themselves, generally.’
‘Do you remember when you last saw Karen?’
‘I went to the door the day after I heard about Sebastian going missing.’ Her eyes flicked to the right, towards the Sinclairs’ looming house, and she lowered her voice. ‘I was a midwife. I’ve seen a lot of death, a lot of tragedy …’
Monica could hear her uncertainty. ‘Karen’s reaction was unusual?’ Mrs Tey shifted uncomfortably and pulled her cardigan tighter. ‘Something disturbed you?’
When she met Monica’s eyes there was something very close to fear on her face.
‘I’d never seen Karen’s family before. When I went over they were in a sort of old minibus, loading things from the house into it. This was just after Sebastian had gone missing.’ Involuntarily her eyes went back to the hedge and the dark house beyond it. ‘I couldn’t understand it. Clearing the house out like that.’
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