by Mary Birk
“Trying to be more healthy. More fruits and veg, salads, things like that. Looks like you guys got breakfast from the café.”
“Yeah, Frank and I were here early.” His eyes stayed fixed on her carrots. “Lizzie Frost’s mother will be here in about half an hour. The guv’s coming in to meet with her. We’re expecting the search warrants for Brighton’s and Webster’s houses and workplaces any minute now.”
“Do you need help serving them?”
“I’ve got them covered. You stay here and help Reid if he needs it.”
Allison nodded. Intellectually, it made sense that one of them stayed behind to help the Superintendent, but on a more visceral level, she felt even more left out. She finished her report on the car service company inquiry. That had been such a promising lead, but such a disappointing fizzle, though it had smoked out Peter MacTavish’s relationship with Tabby Low. She wouldn’t want to be in the man’s shoes when his wife found out. Thinking about the MacTavishes led her mind around to their posh neighborhood, and the surprisingly nice Mr. Carlson. He’d be disappointed, too, if he knew his little notebook hadn’t been as much help as he’d thought.
She wondered how long he’d been keeping track of strange cars, and if he’d ever actually got a chance to use the information he kept so assiduously. He’d probably redoubled his efforts since he thought he’d gotten key evidence. Doodles would appreciate the extra walks, to be sure.
Allison leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes, trying to come up with any other way to find out what happened to Tabby Low. She’d been on the curb when Ron Carlson and Doodles passed by, then gone when they came back around, though the car service car had been there. There was no bus stop anywhere near where Tabby had been standing, so she had to have been waiting for the car Peter MacTavish had sent for her. She had to have gotten into another car, either because she thought it was the car MacTavish had sent, or because she’d been forced to do so. If only Ron Carlson had managed to get that car’s number.
Allison sighed, then a thought, or rather, an image came to her. Ron Carlson’s little notebook with its lists of numbers. Not just the registration number of the car that had been sitting on the street after Tabby was gone, but other cars he’d seen in the neighborhood that night. What if one had been the car that took Tabby away? It could have passed Carlson before or after abducting Tabby Low.
Afraid to let herself hope too much, Allison quickly found Ron Carlson’s telephone number. As soon as he picked up, she told him what she needed: any other car registration numbers he’d taken down that night. There were only four, and she jotted them down, and thanked him.
Three of the registration numbers turned out to be legitimate visitors of local residents. When she ran the fourth number, the breath sucked out of her chest. Albert Braytoun. Braytoun’s driver’s license photo showed dark hair, dark eyes. His address was in a Glasgow neighborhood popular with immigrants from Eastern Europe. He was twenty-nine, and definitely the guy with Lizzie in the CCTV film. What’s more, his car looked just like the one used to abduct Lizzie Frost.
She rang Harry right away, catching him before he got to Tim Brighton’s house.
“What do we know about him?”
“Not a lot. He’s English, from Newcastle. Moved here a few years ago. No record that I can find. I emailed the Newcastle police to see if they have any more on him. It looks like the father’s dead, but the mother works at a restaurant down there.”
“Send some uniforms to the address on his registration and see if he’s there.”
“Will do.”
* * * * *
Harry decided to serve the search warrant for the home of Cassandra Conrad and Tim Brighton himself, but sent another team, headed by DS Don Dyksarma from Glasgow City Centre to serve the one for Tim Brighton’s office. He wanted the warrants served simultaneously.
A sign in the front of the house advertised the name of the alarm company that monitored the house’s security system. He had one of the officers call the company to notify them that they would be entering.
Once he got the call from DS Dyksarma saying his team was in place outside Tim Brighton’s offices, Harry called Brighton, and informed him that they had warrants for his office and home, and were on the premises, ready to serve the warrants, and would appreciate Brighton allowing the police to enter without having to damage the doors. Brighton left his secretary to oversee the search at the office, and asked Harry if he would wait the ten minutes it would take for him to get there and unlock the door for them and turn off the alarm.
Harry agreed, and in short order the computers were confiscated, along with a selection of what looked to be pornographic films that were hidden in the back of Tim Brighton’s walk-in closet. Sado-masochistic paraphernalia was found in the wife’s closet, as well as some in the husband’s. Not illegal, but if they’d been used on Susan Clark, they’d be evidence.
Harry took Brighton into custody on charges of having sex with an underage female, and handed him over to PC Barlow and another officer. They’d take him to the nick to be booked while Harry headed across town to check on the search warrants being executed at Mac Webster’s shop and house.
PC Jim Boyle and the other officers with him were finishing the search at the store when Harry pulled up.
“Find anything?”
“Hard to tell yet. We’ve copied the shop computer’s hard drive, and have Webster’s laptop ready to take in. We’re heading to the house now.”
“You’ve got someone there to make sure the wife doesn’t get in? We don’t want to chance her destroying any evidence.”
“Aye.”
“I’ll give Webster a ride over there.”
A white-faced Mac Webster sat quiet on the way to his house. Mo Webster was standing by the officers who guarded the front door. When her husband and Harry got out of the car, she hurried over.
“What’s going on, Mac? The police won’t let me go inside.”
Her husband didn’t answer, and Harry motioned for the officers to start the search. Mo Webster swung around to face Harry. “What are you looking for?”
Harry handed her a copy of the search warrant, watched her scan it.
“This is about Kristen? What happened? Did you find her?”
“Sorry, I’m not at liberty to say right now. If you’ll excuse me.” Harry moved past her and into the house, watching as the search was executed. He nodded at PC Mike Barlow who was coming out of the bedroom with a video camera and a digital camera. In the back garden, officers were crisscrossing the turf with a cadaver dog. Harry met the eye of the dog’s handler, got a shake of the head. Not finding anything.
After they were finished, Harry went up to the Websters who were ignoring the curious neighbors who’d lined up on the other side of the street to watch.
Mac Webster asked, “DS Ross, can you take me back to get my car?”
“Sorry, no. We’re arresting you on charges of having sex with an underage girl. These officers here will be taking you in to be processed.” Harry read the caution language to Webster.
Mo Webster looked incredulous. “You’re arresting my husband? You think he and Kristen . . .?”
“These charges don’t pertain to Kristen Daly.”
“Then who?”
“I believe your husband knows her as Lily White.”
Mac Webster said, “Lily? This is about Lily?”
Mo’s expression registered her husband’s obvious recognition of the girl’s name. Her voice quavering, she asked, “Mac, who’s Lily?”
Harry turned to her when her husband didn’t say anything. “An underage prostitute, ma’am. Fourteen years old. She says your husband is one of her regular customers.”
“Mac, is this true?”
“Mo . . .”
“You bastard!”
Chapter 44
ALLISON SAT ACROSS from Superintendent Reid in the chair beside Lizzie Frost’s mother, Priscilla. Mrs. Frost wore a dark pantsuit, cut well,
but not expensive. Her too-short prematurely grey hair, contrasting with her virtually unlined face, had the unexpected effect of making her look younger rather than older.
“You’re absolutely sure it’s Lizzie?” Mrs. Frost asked, in a don’t-protect-me voice.
“Unfortunately, yes.” The Super’s face looked haggard.
“May I see her?”
“Of course. I’ll take you over.”
“Do you know what happened?”
The Superintendent took a deep breath, then spoke in that caring, strong, voice Allison had heard him use before in these kinds of situations. “We believe so, at least part of it.”
“Tell me.” The woman’s clear blue eyes never left his face.
“She may have been kidnapped to be sold into prostitution.”
Mrs. Frost flinched, as if she’d taken a hard blow, though her face remained composed. “Where was she found?”
“In a field outside Glasgow.”
“Why Lizzie? Why did they pick my daughter?”
“We’re not sure, but we believe she was one of at least four girls that have been targeted and sold because of the perceived value a particular sector would attach to her innocence.”
“In English, please?”
“She was targeted because she was Caucasian and a virgin.”
Mrs. Frost looked stunned. “Do you have any evidence to support this theory?”
“The chat room where she found out about the job advert, the one for girls that were committed to remaining chaste until they married, is the same one where all the girls who were kidnapped found out about their jobs being available. We’re convinced the chat room was used by certain unscrupulous persons to identify and lure young girls like Lizzie to sell them into sexual slavery.”
Mrs. Frost brought her fist up to her chest. “Oh, my God. I encouraged her to participate in that chat room. I thought, finally a place where Lizzie would meet other girls with the same values.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It isn’t your fault. Predators can find their victims anywhere.”
The woman nodded, but Allison didn’t think she looked convinced. “How did she die?”
Allison couldn’t believe the woman could be so composed while talking about her daughter’s murder. But then she glanced down at Mrs. Frost’s hand and saw that she was pressing her nails into her hands so hard that Allison thought she might draw blood.
“Mrs. Frost. There’s something I need to show you. We have to keep it in evidence for now, but I want to know if you can identify it as belonging to Lizzie.” He reached into a large brown envelope that sat on the desk and pulled out a small plastic bag. “Do you recognize this?”
“Lizzie’s rosary. Where did you find it?”
“She swallowed it.”
“Why would she do that?”
Allison watched, mesmerized by Mrs. Frost’s cool demeanor, until the woman’s veneer began to break. Her lips trembled and her whole body started shaking as if from a chill that came from deep within her.
“I’m guessing so it couldn’t be taken away from her. The crucifix lodged in her throat, and she choked to death.”
Mrs. Frost folded her hands in her lap. “Was she raped?”
“No. It appears she died immediately, before anything else could be done to her.”
Finally, Priscilla Frost broke down, and began to sob. The Super went to her, and put his arms around her. She leaned against him, his strength seeming to give her strength, and eventually her crying subsided.
She wiped the tears from her face with a tissue the Super had given her. “She was a martyr.”
“Yes, I believe she was. I have a priest waiting outside to talk to you. Would you like to see him before we go over to see Lizzie? He’ll come with us, if you like.”
The woman nodded. “Please.”
* * * * *
When Harry got back from a morning of serving search warrants and arresting perverts, Allison wasn’t at her desk. Frank said she’d ducked out after the Superintendent took Lizzie’s mother over to see the body.
Wondering where she’d gone, Harry walked around his desk to hers and glanced at her desk calendar to check, pretending to look at a report. By the slot for noon, there was an address. The clinic. Good for her. He wondered if she was skipping lunch as part of her slimming program. He couldn’t believe she’d think she needed to lose weight. Had one of the blokes she’d been seeing said something to her? Whoever it was, he had to be a blind arsehole. Her body was perfect. She was perfect.
Her phone rang, and without thinking, he picked it up. A voice he recognized as Don Dyksarma asked for Allison.
“DC Muirhead is away from her desk. Can I help you?”
“Harry? Is that you?”
“Aye, Don. What can we help you with?” He disliked the foppy prick, knew he’d had a messy divorce with his ex, laden with mutual accusations of mistreatment.
“I was looking for Allison.”
“As I said, she’s away from her desk right now.”
“Will she be back soon?”
“I don’t know. The DC doesn’t post her movements on a minute-by-minute basis as far as I know. Perhaps you’d want to follow her on Twitter.”
The man on the other line was silent for a moment, then sounding slightly embarrassed said, “Ask her to call me, willya?”
“Pertaining to what?”
“Just ask her to call me.”
“Personal or work?”
An exasperated sigh. “Just ask her to call me.”
“Happy to leave her a message so she knows what it’s about. Got a pencil at the ready.”
“What are you? Her guardian troll?”
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone says you’re trying to keep her for yourself. Guarding the treasure, so to speak.”
“Bollocks.”
“Yeah? Then give her the message.”
Harry slammed down the phone, mortified. He went around to his own desk, dropped into his chair, hunching over in front of his computer screen. Was there really talk about him and Allison? He’d have to take care people weren’t getting the wrong impression.
He got control of himself and wrote a message to Allison. Dykarsma called. He would like you to call him back. It sounded important. Harry
When Allison returned from lunch, she smoothed her curls back into place from where the wind had disarranged them, put her purse away in her desk drawer, then looked at the note. She picked up the telephone and dialed, speaking softly into the receiver.
Later, washing up, Harry glanced in the lav mirror. He’d never really thought about his looks. He looked like his da and his uncles. But now, looking critically at his reflection, he had to agree with Dyksarma. Troll he was.
* * * * *
The woman brought Tabby the lovely little blue pills periodically throughout the day. Tabby’s revelation about not being a virgin had shocked the woman, who’d warned her not to tell anyone else, that something awful would happen if the man in charge found out.
Then the doctor came back. She could tell it was his voice outside her door talking to the woman and she immediately began to tremble. What if he did a real examination this time, and found out the truth?
Tabby stayed still, trying to listen.
“I need to re-examine her.”
“You already examined her.”
“She was in an awkward position. I need to make sure she’s untouched.”
“Are you telling me your certification was no good?”
The doctor sputtered indignantly, but Tabby couldn’t catch his words. The woman’s angry voice responded, but Tabby could only make out enough to be clear she wasn’t giving in. But what if the doctor convinced whoever was in charge that he needed to examine Tabby again? He’d find out she wasn’t a virgin, and that she wasn’t worth as much money as they’d thought. What would happen to her then?
After some more angry shouts, the doctor went away, and the woman slipp
ed in.
“He’s gone.”
“But won’t he come back?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“What are we going to do?” The tremble in Tabby’s throat made her words come out in short, shaking breaths.
“We’re going to pretend nothing’s wrong.”
“But eventually, they’ll find out.”
“Not if I can help it. In the meantime, we’ll go on as if things are normal, as if I’m getting you ready to be sold to one of our high-end buyers.”
“But, aren’t you?”
“No. I’ve got a plan.”
Five times a day Tabby had to watch a short film about the place of women in the household and how to act around men, although none of the instructions seemed to apply to her guards. With other men, she was to keep her eyes down, never look them in the eye unless she was told to do so, and to keep herself covered up and modest except when she was to be naked at the man’s command. This seemed a little unnecessary as she hadn’t been wearing any clothes at all since she’d arrived here.
Obviously, the plan was for her to be sold to a man who had these kinds of beliefs about the place of women. Probably not here. At least it didn’t seem that they were planning to kill her, or hurt her—unless they found out she wasn’t a virgin. That thought made her think about Peter. More and more, she was coming to the conclusion that he hadn’t had anything to do with her being kidnapped. The strongest piece of evidence for that being, he knew she wasn’t a virgin. But maybe he’d been trying to trick her kidnappers and told them she was. Tabby’s head hurt from trying to figure it all out.
The door opened, and the woman came in, this time with no hood, but wearing a veil over her hair and across the bottom of her face. Some fabric was draped over one arm. The man with the machine gun came in as well, and the woman put the fabric, which turned out to be a grey gown, over Tabby’s head. She wasn’t given any underwear, but by now Tabby was used to being totally naked, so having the gown on was a big change. The woman fastened shackles around Tabby’s feet and braided her hair, putting the braids on top of her head and covering Tabby’s head with a grey veil. Finally, the woman hooked a small black veil across the lower part of Tabby’s face.