by Tana Collins
Carruthers could feel his brows knit together as he listened. He asked a few more probing questions then thanked Stevenson and hung up. He stood up to get a fresh coffee whilst he digested the latest news. Picking up yesterday’s dregs he headed to the bin with it. He had just started to walk away from his desk when his phone rang again. He doubled back and snatched the receiver.
‘Detective Inspector Jim Carruthers,’ he said. He winced as he said it. His demotion still rankled him. Thank God due to budget cuts the station hadn’t yet got a new DCI and Carruthers was, for the time being anyway, allowed to keep his office. Felt a pain somewhere in his chest every time he thought about his demotion that had nothing to do with a family propensity to heart disease.
‘Inspector Carruthers?’ The faltering voice on the phone was female, heavily accented and sounded Eastern European.
‘Yes, speaking. Who am I talking to?’ He pulled his chair up and sat down on it. Placed the cold coffee back on the table.
‘I don’t want to give my name. I watched the news last night. I think I know who the girl in the picture is.’
‘Where are you calling from?’ He wondered how she’d got his number. The number given out on the TV had been for the incident room.
‘Please, I don’t want to say. I’m scared. Just listen. I think her name is Marika Paju.’
He grabbed a pen and paper. He asked her to spell it out to him. ‘How do you know her?’
‘We worked together. I was lucky. I got away. I can’t tell you any more. It’s too dangerous. I’m sorry for Marika. She was my friend. But I told her they would never let her go. You should tell her family. They are good people.’ The line went dead.
Carruthers swore. Putting the phone down he bolted out of his office shouting for Harris. ‘Quick, we need to put a trace on a call that’s just come in.’
At that moment Fletcher passed. Carruthers called her into his office. ‘We’ve got a possible name for the dead girl. Marika Paju.’
‘Marika Paju?’ said Fletcher. ‘I’m pretty good with names but I have no idea which country that name comes from. Sounds Eastern European, though.’
‘The voice of the girl I spoke to was heavily accented. Could it be Polish?’ said Carruthers.
‘Hang on.’ She reached for his phone and made a call.
As he waited, Carruthers sat again at his desk. Playing with his pen as he waited.
‘It’s Estonian,’ Fletcher said when she put the phone down. ‘Just spoke to that new girl in records, Paulina. She’s Lithuanian but her boyfriend, Daniel, is Estonian and started in records a couple of weeks ago. As luck would have it he was standing right next to her.’
‘How on earth do you women find out all these things about colleagues?’
Fletcher laughed. ‘We listen. And ask questions. Lots of questions.’
Carruthers digested this. For once he was grateful for Fletcher’s nosiness. ‘OK, Andie, this might be a long shot but I want you to get in touch with the Estonian authorities. See if they have anyone by that name reported missing and send the dead girl’s photo over to them. The woman on the phone sounded scared. I need to ring the NCA again. A request for data on a missing person like this normally moves through Interpol.’ He repeated the brief conversation to Fletcher. ‘It’s not much to go on but it’s all we’ve got.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. We have a possible name, at least,’ said Fletcher.
‘Might be a false one.’
The phone on Carruthers’ desk rang. He picked up.
It was Dougie Harris’s voice. ‘That call you wanted traced. It’s come from a phone box a couple of miles outside Castletown. I know the one. Unfortunately being rural there’s no CCTV on it.’
Carruthers thanked Harris and ended the call. He threw his pen down. Took his glasses off and cleaned them. Carefully laying them down on his desk, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
‘You look tired,’ said Fletcher.
He looked at her without moving his hand. ‘I am tired.’
She walked round his desk and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll make that call to Estonia,’ she said. Carruthers sighed, stood, grabbed his wallet. He’d slept later than he’d meant this morning. Hadn’t had a chance for breakfast. Or even coffee. He couldn’t function without a hit of caffeine first thing in the morning. He left his office and went to the canteen. Took his bacon roll and double espresso back to his desk. He had just put the scalding cup to his lips when Harris stuck his head round the door.
‘Well, at least we have something to go on, now,’ said Fletcher. She turned to Watson. They were standing on yet another doorstep. So far even with the extra information, the door-to-door had drawn a blank. She was starting to feel tired. ‘Looks like the girl may be Eastern European after all,’ she said. ‘Jim got me to phone the Estonian authorities about her. They’re looking into it and getting back to us. And Interpol are on the case.’
Despite the blue sky there was a strong easterly bringing a welcome cool wind. Fletcher always enjoyed getting out of the office but especially now as the air con still hadn’t been fixed. However, this was the twentieth doorstep they were on. She hoped the weather might be turning a bit cooler. Hadn’t had a chance to listen to the weather forecast.
‘Yes, but nobody seems to know who she is,’ said Fletcher. ‘Neither the name Marika Paju, nor the photograph has rung any bells.’
‘Perhaps she hadn’t been in the country long,’ said Watson, knocking on another door.
Fletcher pulled a face. ‘Or perhaps somebody kept her hidden away. Nobody knows the extent of sex trafficking in the UK. You know how it is. Girl from poor family promised well-paid au pair or bar job in another country. Ends up working as a prostitute. It happens, and more frequently than we like to think. Perhaps she managed to get away from her captors.’
‘To end up dead on a Scottish beach,’ said Watson. ‘I wonder if her pregnancy had anything to do with her death? Mackie wasn’t able to rule out suicide, was he? She wouldn’t be the first to top herself in those circumstances. And if she is that girl, Marika Paju…’
Fletcher nodded. ‘She may well have been in Scotland without family, without the support network of people to look after her. If she was working as a prostitute and found herself pregnant she’d more than likely be made to have a termination, although according to Jim, she was early stages of pregnancy.’
As she spoke, Fletcher thought of her own circumstances the year before. She had only just managed to get her head around the fact she’d fallen pregnant when she’d found out that Mark was not the solid, dependable man she hoped he’d be. He’d left her when she’d lost the baby. She’d recovered down at her parents’ place in East Sussex. What would she have done had she not had their support? She swallowed hard. Had suicide ever entered her mind during those terrible months? No, she couldn’t say it had, although she’d still been a mess when she’d finally returned to work.
There’d been a couple of incidents when she’d lost control. She felt the heat rise to her face when she thought of how she’d slapped Jim at work. What had she been thinking? What had she said when he’d told her to go for counselling? That she’d rather poke her eyes out with a stick. The situation hadn’t improved. She’d come dangerously close to completely losing all sense of perspective. In the end he’d given her an ultimatum. See a counsellor or take a further extended period of time off work. Finally she’d seen a counsellor.
‘Andie?’ This from Watson. ‘You OK? You seem miles away. I know it can get to you. You have to build some sort of wall. Not get too involved.’
Although Fletcher smiled at Watson the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was picturing the dead girl on the windswept and lonely stretch of beach, and despite what she’d said to Carruthers about being OK, she knew that it would be an image that would haunt her for a long time, especially now she knew the girl had been pregnant.
Several hours later, Carruthers and Fletcher were standing in his office. Carru
thers spread out the photographs of the stolen paintings in front of him and looked at each in turn. Where would these paintings be now, he wondered?
Fletcher echoed his thoughts. She picked up a photograph of the Vettriano. ‘I wonder if this is still even in the UK? Perhaps it’s already been shipped overseas.’ She turned to Carruthers. ‘Where would it most likely go, do you think?’
He shrugged. ‘The US? If it is overseas I wonder how they transport works of art?’ That was something he hadn’t considered. Who would buy such well-known pieces and how would they be transported? John Stevenson had said something about briefcases but Carruthers wondered about other methods of transport. A question played on his mind. As he leant across his desk to pick up his phone, Harris walked in.
‘Boss, like I said earlier, I’ve been going over the various tradesmen again that the victims used. I think I might have something. The roofers the McMullans used were Forth Roofers. They were also used by the Warristons.’
Carruthers put his coffee cup down. His earlier cup had grown cold so he’d had to fix himself another. ‘Good work. As soon as Gayle gets back, go over and interview them, will you? Find out what sort of outfit they are. How many do they employ? Where they were when the McMullans were getting robbed? In the meantime find out all you can about them.’
He returned to look at his photographs. Frowning, he picked up the phone and rang John Stevenson.
‘I’ve got a question,’ Carruthers said. ‘How would works of art generally get transported out of the country?’
‘A number of ways. We’ve known them to be carried in diplomats’ bags.’
‘Diplomats’ bags?’ said Carruthers.
‘Think about it,’ said Stevenson. ‘Makes perfect sense. Diplomats don’t get their luggage searched. They can take the paintings out of their frames, roll them up and get them out of the country that way. And it’s not just artworks we’re talking about, Jim. Drugs, guns, diamonds.’
Carruthers scratched his chin. Lurking somewhere in the back of his memory he did remember hearing about a diplomat being stung by a hidden camera whilst in the throes of negotiating a fee for taking stolen items out of the UK. Was it a diplomat from one of the African countries? He couldn’t remember the details except when it came to light the staff of the embassy of that country had distanced themselves from the man arrested claiming that he was just a junior member of staff.
Brown walked in, interrupting Carruthers’ train of thought. ‘Boss,’ he said, ‘we’ve just had a phone call. Lad from Windygates has gone missing. It was his grandfather on the phone. Says it’s totally out of character.’
‘How long’s he been missing?’ asked Carruthers. His ears pricked up. The first anonymous call had come from a phone box in Windygates.
‘They last saw him yesterday morning. Didnae come home after work.’
Carruthers wasn’t unduly worried. Most mispers turned up and the boy hadn’t been missing that long, no more than twenty-four hours. ‘Where does he work?’
‘Boss, yer going to love this. Barry Cuthbert’s estate. He’s an assistant gamekeeper.’
Carruthers’ gut twisted. He knew the answer to his next question. ‘Name?’
‘Joe McGuigan.’
‘That’s the lad we interviewed yesterday.’ Carruthers leapt up and grabbed his mobile, jacket and bagged binoculars. He felt alarm bells ringing. ‘Right, tell Andie to meet me round the front. Fill her in. We’ll go straight to the grandfather’s home. In the meantime make some enquiries about this Joe McGuigan, will you? And I want a list of all those who work at the Cuthbert estate.’
‘We don’t normally do this,’ said Brown. ‘He’s no’ been missing that long.’
‘I realise that but I’ve got a bad feeling. And, Willie, whilst we’re gone, check out whether McGuigan or Sturrock are on file.’
Carruthers ignored Brown’s grumbling about being overworked, thinking he’d been in the company of Harris too long, paid a quick visit to the Gents then headed out into the car park. Fletcher came running out of the building, her shoes clacking on the gravel, black shoulder bag over right shoulder, bottle of water in hand. She brushed a tendril of hair away which had been blown across her face as she opened the driver’s side door.
‘What’s going on, Jim? How’s this all connected? There is a connection, isn’t there?’
Carruthers jammed his mobile into his shirt pocket, climbed into the passenger seat, slammed the door, buckled up and passed the bagged binoculars to Fletcher. ‘Put these in your shoulder bag, will you? I wish I knew. C’mon. Let’s get going. As you drive, you can fill me in on the research you’ve done on local airfields and flying schools.’
Carruthers brought out his police badge and held it up to Mrs McGuigan. ‘We’re here about your grandson. Can we come in?’ He assessed the older woman as he spoke. Comely and homely were two words that sprang to mind. She was wearing a patterned apron and had her grey hair swept up in a bun.
‘Oh lord,’ she said running her wet hands on her apron. ‘Have you found him? Is he OK?’
‘May we come in, please?’
Mrs McGuigan opened the door wider and, taking off her apron, stepped aside. Carruthers and Fletcher walked into a carpeted hall that looked like it was something out of a 1970s film set. Perhaps they didn’t have much money to do it up, he thought. They were taken into a small cosy sitting room. The furniture was dated but the room was spotless.
‘You said he didn’t come home after work yesterday,’ said Fletcher, remaining standing, taking out her notebook. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘About seven o’clock in the morning.’ Mrs McGuigan dabbed at her eyes with a screwed-up tissue. ‘He had breakfast with us.’
Mr McGuigan appeared from another room. The thin stooped man put his arm round his wife. ‘We’re early risers.’
‘Does he live here permanently with you both?’
‘Yes, his parents got killed when he was five,’ said Mrs McGuigan. ‘We’ve looked after him ever since. He’s a lovely boy. Really, no bother.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Carruthers. ‘How old is Joe, Mrs McGuigan?’
‘Nineteen. It’s his first proper job. We’re so proud of him.’
‘How did he seem when you last saw him?’
‘Look, sit down, will you?’ Mrs McGuigan pointed to a couple of battered old armchairs.
Fletcher and Carruthers both sat. The McGuigans sat on the sofa.
‘That’s one of the reasons we’re so worried,’ said Mrs McGuigan. ‘He’s not been himself for a few days. Bill here got the impression it was something to do with his work but he was very tight-lipped about it. Wouldn’t say what was bothering him. He used to tell us everything but not anymore. Instead of talking to us he just got on with his chores.’
‘Chores?’
‘We find it a bit more difficult to keep the house clean. My husband’s eyes aren’t so good and my hip plays up. Can’t afford a cleaner. Joe does a lot for us.’ Carruthers was starting to form the impression that Joe McGuigan was a decent young man thanks to the love shown him by his grandparents.
‘Why did you think it was his work that was bothering him if he didn’t say?’ said Carruthers. ‘Could he not have had a falling out with a pal?’
‘No. It was definitely work. He’s normally so chatty about it but… well, the last few days he stopped talking about it. And then a couple of days ago he came home from work and he was really quite upset. He also seemed anxious.’
Around the time the girl was killed. ‘And you don’t know what had upset him or made him anxious?’
‘No.’
‘How long had he been working on the estate?’ asked Fletcher.
‘About five months.’
Not long, thought Carruthers. He was starting to put two and two together and he wasn’t liking the result.
Changing tack he asked, ‘Does your grandson own a pair of binoculars, Mr McGuigan?’
‘Well, ye
s, being a gamekeeper…’
‘He’s also a keen birdwatcher,’ said Mrs McGuigan.
‘Is he?’ Carruthers turned to Mrs McGuigan. ‘If he was ever asked to take part in killing birds of prey he’d be upset?’ Upset, thought Carruthers, if he was indeed a keen twitcher the boy would have been devastated. He thought of his own lapsed RSPB membership.
‘Of course he would.’
‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’ said Mr McGuigan. ‘I mean, you’re not accusing him of something, are you?’
Carruthers ignored the question. ‘This is a sensitive question but do you know whether your grandson has ever been asked to do anything illegal whilst working on the Cuthbert estate?’
‘Like what?’ asked Mrs McGuigan.
‘Well, like poison birds of prey? We’re not accusing him, Mrs McGuigan, we would just like to know how he would feel if he were asked to?’
Mrs McGuigan looked at her husband before answering. Carruthers could tell they were both genuinely shocked. ‘He’d be terribly upset,’ she said.
‘He’s never been in trouble with the law before?’ asked Fletcher.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Can we see his binoculars now please, Mrs McGuigan?’ asked Carruthers.
Mrs McGuigan stood up, smoothed down her skirt and left the room. Carruthers could feel the pulse in his neck throb. What was the betting she’d come back with an empty case? For once he hoped he was wrong. Carruthers tried smiling at Mr McGuigan but all he got in return was a worried look.
A few minutes later the door opened and Mrs McGuigan re-entered the room. ‘He must have them with him,’ she said. ‘It’s not unusual. He often takes them to work. All I’ve found is the empty case.’ She held up the black casing.
Fletcher fished the plastic bag containing the binoculars from her bag and passed them to Carruthers. Carruthers with sinking heart handed them to Mr McGuigan. ‘Are these your grandson’s binoculars?’