by Alex Gray
‘So it wasn’t until you heard the news that you realised what you had seen?’
Annie’s eyes sparked angrily at the patronising sound in Weir’s voice. He obviously thought that Miss Lindsay was nothing more than an attention-seeking timewaster. The old lady’s mouth hung open, an expression of horror on her face.
‘You mean if I had let someone know-?’
‘Don’t worry.’ Annie patted her shoulder, glad that the woman had misinterpreted Weir’s insinuation. ‘You’ve let us know now. That’s what matters. Now, do you think you might recognise the car she was driving?’
Detective Constable Irvine looked as if she were seething as she sat beside her neighbour. The rest of the team had come up with zilch so Dorothea Lindsay’s witness statement was all that they had to add to Sally MacIlwraith’s version of events. So far Weir had rubbished the old lady’s account, laying it on thick how decrepit she was and that she was, in his opinion, simply milking the situation for her own benefit.
‘What was your impression, DC Irvine?’ Lorimer spoke quietly, neither dismissing Weir’s report nor obviously deferring to the other officer.
‘I thought she was telling the truth,’ Annie blurted out. ‘It made sense. All the other parents were down at the bus stop or in the back court. Young Sally said as much too, didn’t she?’
‘But there was no mention of red hair. Surely the kid would have remembered that detail?’ Weir protested.
‘She certainly hasn’t picked out any specific types from all the images she’s been shown,’ DS Wilson added.
‘We could try again. See what she makes of pictures of red-headed women,’ Annie suggested, ‘including ones with henna-dyed hair.’
‘Right.’ Lorimer smiled. ‘That’s an action for you to follow up, DC Irvine.’ He nodded towards her, seeing a blush of pleasure spread across the woman’s face. Any detail like this was vital in the early stages of a case; it narrowed the huge area of possibilities into something a bit more manageable.
‘We’ve had several sightings of a white Mazda hatchback that was in the area. I want each and every one of you to see if there are any links between the owners of these cars and the list of women under investigation,’ Lorimer rapped out. Members of his team looked back at him, each face sombre. Some cases gave rise to a modicum of levity, but never one involving a child.
‘The search has spread out now to the woods next to Dawsholm Park and the Vet School. We’re still hoping that she might be found safe and well,’ he added grimly. ‘Right. Everyone report back here by five o’clock. Tomorrow’s press conference will include a live televised plea from the child’s mother. If she’s still missing,’ Lorimer added. He gave a curt nod before the officers dispersed. Anyone looking his way might see a flint-faced senior detective simply dishing out orders, but those who knew him better could sense his anguish. Childless himself, Lorimer could nonetheless empathise with the agony of loss that the young mother was going through. And he could even understand how another woman, deranged with grief, might have snatched little Nancy Fraser away from her own home. Hadn’t he seen Maggie go through the terrible pain of miscarriage, time and time again? Each one harder than the last until their decision to leave things as they were — a marriage where there would never be any babies now.
Julie Donaldson linked her arms with her pal, pulling her towards the shrubbery.
‘Got something to tell you.’ She smirked, watching Sam’s face as the two girls walked out of earshot from the rest of their group. Morning break had brought the pupils out to the playground in huddles; some younger boys were kicking a football about whereas the girls were mostly grouped together in chattering cliques, sly glances being cast at anyone outside their orbit.
‘What is it?’ Sam Wetherby shrugged off her friend’s hand, dropping her school bag onto the ground. ‘Did you get off with someone at SU camp, then?’ she said, rolling her eyes.
Julie’s dark eyes snapped. ‘What’s it with you and Scripture Union?’
‘Och, nothing. Keep your hair on.’ Sam attempted a smile as she saw Julie’s mood change. The last thing she wanted was her pal going off in the huff with her. ‘Come on, then, tell us what it is.’
‘Shouldn’t really,’ Julie mumbled. ‘Might get him into trouble.’
‘Jules!’ Sam squealed. ‘Don’t tell me! You’ve done it, haven’t you? I mean, really done it?’ Sam’s eyes were on her friend’s face now, a mixture of awe and anticipation in their expression.
‘What if I have?’ The tone of pretended nonchalance was all part of the game; she’d tell Sam but wanted to let her wheedle it out of her if she could.
‘Go on, who was it? One of the seniors? Someone in Tim’s class? Not Kenny Turner?’ Sam spoke in a breathy undertone, thrilled and shocked at the same time.
‘Promise you won’t tell. Promise!’ Julie had grabbed Sam’s arm, her grip fierce on the thin white cotton sleeve.
‘Hey!’ Sam pulled away, rubbing the sore place where Julie’s nails had left their impression. ‘Okay, I promise,’ she said, seeing a sudden change in her friend’s face. Julie was scared. That was something she’d remember later on.
Cupping her hand over Sam’s ear, Julie whispered eagerly then stood back, her eyes shining as she watched the disbelief in Samantha Wetherby’s face.
‘It’s true,’ she said, nodding. ‘Honest to God.’
‘What are you going to do about it, then?’ Sam asked, a frown of doubt creasing her forehead. ‘If that’s really true then he should be fired. It’s against the law,’ she added pompously. ‘Anybody can tell you that.’
For a moment Julie looked blank then as Sam picked up her bag and began to walk away, she pulled her back. ‘It is true,’ she said. ‘Only. .’ Her voice trembled and she shook her head, tears starting up in her eyes.
‘Jules.’ Sam was back at her side, a new tone of concern in her voice. ‘What happened? What really happened?’
‘Oh, Sam.’ Julie flung herself into the other girl’s arms, sobbing now for real. ‘It wasn’t proper sex. He raped me.’
Maggie Lorimer glanced up as the whispering began. This close-reading test had to be done today in order to gauge exactly what level her Standard Grade pupils were going to achieve. At the back of her room she could see the two heads bent together: Samantha Wetherby and Julie Donaldson, the girl she had seen tearing downstairs away from Eric. Clearing her throat in an exaggerated manner caught their attention and she noticed with relief that Samantha moved away. The last thing Maggie wanted was to reprimand them in the middle of a test. But just as Julie glanced up at her, Maggie caught something in that girl’s expression that she didn’t like at all — a knowing, self-satisfied little smile that was hiding something. For two pins Maggie would have wiped that sly look off her face, but experience told her to let it pass and preserve the peace and quiet for the rest of the class.
When the bell rang Maggie called out, ‘Stop writing now, please. Make sure your names are on the papers and hand them down to the front.’
As Julie and Samantha passed her at the classroom door Maggie was tempted to pull them back. What was all that whispering about? Maggie wondered, watching the two girls walk along the corridor, seeing Samantha sling an arm around Julie’s shoulders as if she were consoling her friend. There was something going on, that was for sure. And it had absolutely nothing to do with their English close-reading test.
CHAPTER 8
It was only the second day of term but already Kyle felt as if the summer holidays were a distant memory. Write about the best thing that happened to you during the holidays, the teacher had asked them. Their regular maths teacher hadn’t left any work and the man at the front of their class was from the English department, covering just for this period. Mr Simpson was okay, really, a bit old and frayed at the edges but a good sport and always ready for a bit of a laugh. A short bald man, Simpson had the sort of merry face that Kyle associated with Christmas. Put him in a red suit and he’d make no
t a bad Santa Claus. Kyle had been in the top maths class at the beginning of June when the official new term had begun and they’d gone up to Fourth Year. But his teacher wasn’t here this period. Had some sort of meeting, Simpson had told them. He supposed it would be okay doing English during a maths period, since they were expected to be working towards a really good folio this year. He was glad the older man wasn’t his regular English teacher. Simpson always took the dunderheads, the ones who weren’t expected to go on to gain any useful qualifications like Advanced Highers. The bright kids in Mrs Lorimer’s class were the ones who would rise to these lofty heights in Sixth Year, maybe go on to university. Would that be him in a couple of years’ time if he worked harder at his other subjects? Or did his ambitions really lie elsewhere?
He chewed his pencil. The other kids seemed to be really into this bit of writing, Kyle thought, glancing at his classmates bent over their jotters, earnestly scribbling away. They’d probably be telling all about holidays in Spain or Florida. He’d overheard plenty of them boasting about family fortnights that always seemed to have been somewhere with sun, sand and sex, if you believed them. He grinned to himself; they wouldn’t be letting their teachers know anything about their quick fumblings down on a darkened beach. But what could he write about? The only place he’d been apart from his gran’s in Partick was to Dawsholm Park, near the Vet School. And being back home with his da, of course, though that was the last thing he’d ever write about. Then it came to him. The Argo. He could write about that, surely? The best thing that happened to you, Simpson had written on the old chalk board in his fine, sloping handwriting. He’d had a great fight that night, hadn’t he? Scored more points off Gordon than he’d ever done before. And it had been a proper fight, not just a three-minute bout. With growing excitement, Kyle began his essay: The best thing that happened to me. .
‘Whit ur ye doin?’ Da had pulled his jotter away before Kyle even realised he was in the room.
‘It’s homework. I’ve to finish it for the morrow,’ he replied, willing his da to hand back the blue-covered jotter. It was still in pristine condition, with just his name and English section on the front. By Christmas it would probably be covered in doodles and graffiti like everyone else’s but for now it was clean and fresh, and Kyle didn’t want his da to muck it up. ‘Can I have it back?’ he muttered.
‘No yet, want tae see whit ye’re doin. Ah’m no havin any snotty teacher tellin me ah dinna take an interest,’ he sneered.
Kyle’s heart sank. His father had never attended any of Muirpark’s parents’ evenings in his life, but the boy remembered how his Year teacher, Mrs Lorimer, had pointedly reminded him about the one coming up this term. Kyle’s face had been bruised enough lately, the old man taking his temper out on his youngest son. He’d not be letting on about a parents’ night to Da, that was for sure. Kyle shuddered to think of Tam Kerrigan sitting with his teachers, glowering at them, inwardly sneering at their correct pronunciation. Mrs Lorimer meant well enough, he knew, and was simply doing her job but most of the teachers didn’t have a clue what really went on nowadays in the Kerrigan household. Only Finnegan in PE seemed to understand Kyle and the kind of home-life he was now leading.
So Kyle held his tongue and waited for his father’s reaction. The old man’s lips were moving as he read the couple of paragraphs Kyle had managed to write so far, his finger tracing each line. Old man Kerrigan’s education must have been pretty patchy, Kyle thought suddenly. And he’d never taken any opportunity to try to improve himself in the jail, had he? All his stories about the Bar-L were big-man stuff, if you accepted half of it: wheeling and dealing with the Glasgow gangsters who had gained a notoriety that the likes of Kerrigan aspired to. That was the only kind of education his father had gained.
‘What’s this? Who wis ye fightin? How did ah no hear aboot it if it wis that special? Eh? No tellin yer auld man whit ye’re up tae? How’s that, then?’
The swipe came before Kyle had time to duck, a hard blow catching him just below his right eye.
‘Wee nyaff!’ His da threw the jotter on the floor and shambled off, cursing as he went. Kyle caught the tail end of his muttering as he disappeared down the hall, ‘No bliddy son o mine. .’
Sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand against the stinging pain, Kyle trembled, hearing the familiar words. No son of mine, his da had said often enough since he’d been home. And was it true? Kyle didn’t feel as if he belonged in this family of drunkenness and drug dealing, but was that really what Da meant? Or had he actually been fathered by another man?
Kyle turned slowly to face the wardrobe door with its rectangle of mirror. He lifted his head, considering the boy that stared back at him. Fit, he was certainly fit, he told himself, appraisingly. Beneath the washed-out black T-shirt he saw a muscular pair of shoulders that gave him the appearance of the man he might become, strong and ready to defend himself. Kyle’s eyes stared at the face in the mirror; it wasn’t a weak face, though the full lips and thick eyelashes were sort of girlish. They’d ragged him about being a cute wee boy in primary school but he’d grown into his looks now. His skin was clear and fresh, not acne ridden like Tam’s had been all through his big brother’s adolescence. The figure in the mirror was stroking his chin and he could feel the stubble, a testament to his burgeoning manhood. His forehead creased, leaving eyebrows like twin arcs above a pair of sea-grey eyes as he came to the same decision as the boy in the mirror.
One day, he thought, his jaw hardening, one day Da would come on to him and he’d give him back everything he deserved.
Dawsholm Woods were beginning to look tired of summer, Kyle thought as he watched a chestnut leaf float silently onto the path. Everything was too full, blowsy and dusty, the air thick with thistledown. There was a smell of decay and something rotting within the trees, maybe a dead animal that hadn’t been cleaned up by foxes and magpies. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. They were into the second half of August already and soon all the deciduous trees would turn russet and brown, carpeting the walkways. As a wee boy Kyle had loved to kick his way through the fallen leaves, hearing them crunch beneath his sturdy shoes. And he’d gathered chessies, made conkers, rattled them against the ones made by his pals, glorying in the frosty evenings when Hallowe’en and Guy Fawkes Night came around again.
Now the thought of darkening nights and shorter days simply depressed him. Summer had meant time spent with Julie or mucking around in Gran’s back garden, waiting for Da to get out. It was, he thought, a symbol of all that he had lost. He kicked a pebble into the long sweep of grassy undergrowth, a fierce anger beginning to burn through his veins. Why did he mind so much about Julie? Couldn’t he be like his pals and play the field with other girls? There were plenty who would go out with him; being in Fourth Year had given them all a new kind of status. Even the girls in Third Year wanted to hang out with them.
But, try as he might, he couldn’t forget those moments when Julie had deliberately caught his eye across the classroom. A wee flirt, he’d told himself, and there were other names for girls like her. But the image of the girl with her long blonde hair and knowing smile made Kyle aware of the hard-on tightening his jeans and he allowed his mind to savour just how he might assuage these feelings of hopelessness.
CHAPTER 9
It was the robin trilling its note deep within the hawthorn bushes that made Maggie realise that summer was waning. That distinctive sound, clear in the morning air, was redolent of frosty mornings and the crispness of autumn leaves underfoot. August might still be summer across in Florida where she’d spent so many months teaching, but here in Scotland there were hints, like the robin, that the seasons were changing. Even the hills were different, their flanks clad now in sweeps of purple as the heather came into flower. It wouldn’t be long before the bracken turned from green to tawny brown, weaving the landscape into muted shades of tweed. Yet there was always something about a new term at this turn of the year that made Maggie Lorimer feel fresh and r
eady for new challenges. She’d felt the same even as a young child, school bag over her shoulders, new pencils rattling in their tin box, new school-shoes shining like polished conkers. For Maggie it hadn’t been the excitement of seeing her friends again so much as the thrill of learning new things and having a different teacher who would take her another step along what was becoming an adventure.
How many of her own pupils ever felt like that? Maggie wondered, closing the back door on a cold wind that wafted in from the garden. Kids these days were far too aware of their appearance ever to let down their guard and admit to being enthralled by something as uncool as a school subject. She flicked the switch on the kettle, listening to its faint hum as the water heated quickly. Bill must have taken a cup before he’d left, she thought with a pang. He’d let her sleep a bit more as he’d left early for work. Maggie smiled. Och, maybe he’d be back tonight at a reasonable hour. Then her smile straightened out as she remembered why he’d slipped out before she was even awake. That poor wee girl. What sort of night had her mother spent? And had she been able to sleep at all? Maggie poured boiling water into the pot of red-bush tea, the steam fogging up her glass-fronted cabinet, her mood soured now.
Then she heard it again — the robin’s whistle right outside her kitchen window, pure and fresh like every new morning. And a strange feeling of optimism surged through her. They’d find that little girl. Of course they would.
‘Juli-ie! C’mon, you’ll be late for school!’ Mary Donaldson shouted up the stairs. But there was no answering reply, no, Okay, I’ll be right down or even a muttered, Keep your hair on, a phrase that Mary always pretended not to hear. With a sigh, the woman clumped up the two short flights of stairs, several treads creaking under her weight.