Her first impression of the contents of the notebooks was that McCreadie, or J. D., wrote the way he spoke. It was as though you were right there with him in the interviews, sharing his thoughts and his observations, especially on the emotional impact of dealing with a child’s abduction. She wondered if McCreadie had ever been married or had had kids of his own. Was that why this particular case haunted him so?
She recalled again that terrible room with the body of the seventeen-year-old boy, mutilated and abused. The horrifying thought that the victim might turn out to be her own son. It was that discovery that had set her on the path to finding Liam.
A missing child, a murdered child, like Mary, became like one of your own, at least until you found their killer.
McCreadie had never had that release, coupled with the fact that he hadn’t been permitted to continue to pursue the case. How difficult that must have been for him. No wonder he had never forgotten it.
As she continued to read McCreadie’s account of the disappearance of Mary McIntyre, a notification arrived indicating a result was back on a DNA test she’d submitted. Opening it, Rhona saw another bit of the jigsaw puzzle snap into place. The dress, despite being small in size, had also been worn by Mary McIntyre.
So, two girls had worn that dress, or been made to put it on.
The question now was, who was the other girl, and was she still alive?
39
Marge, now they knew Karen’s address, seemed puzzled when Magnus urged her to wait before rushing round there. ‘Why? We need to check she’s all right. I know what state she was in when she left here, Professor, and with respect, you don’t.’ The strength of Marge’s feelings was obvious on her face and in her stance.
‘We have to inform the police first,’ Magnus said.
‘But they can’t get there before us.’ Seeing Magnus perhaps wavering, she added, ‘Can we call them when we get there?’
Magnus considered this suggestion and found it sat well with his conscience. He would call McNab once they were sure they were at the right house.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘My car’s parked back at the Community Campus.’
‘Right.’ Marge had already donned her jacket. ‘I just need to lock up and we’re off.’
‘Has anyone tried calling Karen in the last hour?’ Magnus said as they walked swiftly in the direction of the car.
‘Beth tried her mobile number again as soon as they found the address. It went to voicemail.’ As they reached the car, she added, her voice grim, ‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been too late to help someone, Professor. I don’t want that to happen again.’
The daylight was beginning to fade as they made their way back to the roundabout from where Magnus had admired his view of the castle. He’d already programmed in the postcode Marge’s friend Beth had sent them, and a female voice was telling them where to go.
The voice directed them to a turn-off from the main road which took them towards what looked like a row of farm cottages.
‘She did say she had a view of the castle,’ Marge told Magnus, ‘but then who doesn’t round here? Oh, and they had a dog that Jack walked round Castle Hill, which is right there.’ She pointed across the road.
‘Does she still have the dog?’ Magnus asked.
‘It died when Jack got really ill. Karen was relieved, because she said she couldn’t leave Jack alone to walk it.’
The way grew narrow here, more of a farm track than a road. Magnus could only hope a vehicle didn’t appear coming the other way. Eventually the track did a ninety-degree turn and ran along in front of some houses, then came to a dead end.
There wasn’t a number on any of the cottages, just names, and none of them matched the one that Beth had texted Marge.
‘Maybe we got it wrong,’ Marge said, her voice heavy with disappointment.
‘Or we missed an entrance on our way up here.’ Magnus began to turn the car round. ‘Let’s take another look.’
With the encroaching darkness, the distant castle was now lit up, the golden Great Hall looking like something out of a fairy tale. Retracing their route, Magnus tried to watch both the road and the hedges to either side. Still, he would have missed the entrance had it not been for Marge’s eagle eye.
‘There, just ahead, the sign,’ she said. ‘Rowan Cottage.’
Magnus made an abrupt turn left onto a gorse-lined track, the dark buds just waiting to open.
They trundled on and, like the other route, the track eventually turned left and came to an abrupt halt outside a house. A house which was in darkness, apart from one light to the left of the single-storey building.
‘She’s there,’ Marge said. ‘Thank God.’
Magnus was saying the same thing internally, although at the same time reminding himself that wasn’t necessarily true.
‘What about her car? Is it there?’
There was a carport to the right side of the cottage.
‘It is,’ Marge said in delight. ‘Karen didn’t drive all the time Jack was ill. But she’s back driving now. She comes to the meetings by car.’
Magnus was beginning to allow himself a sigh of relief.
‘Okay, I’ll phone DS McNab before we go in.’
But Marge was already out of the car and heading for the front door as Magnus dialled the number. It rang long enough for Magnus to think McNab had seen his name on the screen and had decided not to answer.
Then, ‘What’s up, Professor, cos I’m about to eat?’
‘It’s Karen Johnston. I’ve found her – or at least the recovery cafe women did.’
There was a moment’s silence, through which Magnus heard music and perhaps a woman’s voice.
‘You found her address or you’ve actually found her?’ McNab eventually said.
‘I’m outside her house now. Marge from the recovery cafe is with me.’
‘Great. Send me the address and ask the lady to get in touch with Police Scotland in the morning and someone will be round.’
He couldn’t blame McNab for not knowing the intricacies of this story, because he’d only recently learned of them himself, so Magnus chose not to try and fill him in. Instead he said, ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’
‘The morning will be fine,’ McNab said, obviously keen to get off the phone and back to his evening’s entertainment.
As Magnus got out of the car, Marge suddenly appeared back.
‘She’s not answering the door. I’ve knocked and called for her. Something’s wrong, I can feel it.’
Magnus followed her back and added his attempt at getting an answer. When that didn’t work, he said, ‘Try her mobile again. See if we can hear it ring.’
Marge did as requested and they both listened. At first all they could hear was the distant rumble of traffic from the main road, then Magnus did hear something.
‘That’s it,’ Marge agreed. ‘That’s her mobile. God, why isn’t she answering?’
Lots of possibilities flitted through Magnus’s mind, most involving suicide, but he didn’t voice them.
Instead, he headed for the lit window but found the curtains drawn. ‘I’ll check at the back,’ he told Marge. Using his phone torch, he picked his way along a gravel path and round to the back door. A small scullery window shared light from what he now assumed was the kitchen.
He tried the back door, expecting it to be locked like the front. It wasn’t. He shouted to Marge. When her own phone torch turned the corner, he could make out her face, which now appeared more determined than frightened.
‘This door isn’t locked,’ he told her.
‘I’ll go in first, Professor,’ Marge told him in no uncertain terms. ‘Karen won’t be afraid of me.’
Marge pushed open the door.
‘Karen,’ she called. ‘It’s me, Marge. I just wanted to check you’re okay. The girls are worried about you.’ Her voice, firm and clear, seemed to resonate in the emptiness.
Magnus followed a little behind, conscio
us that the scene that could meet Marge might be worse than terrible. As he entered the kitchen proper, he saw with relief that it was empty. There were two high-backed easy chairs, one on either side of an oil-fired range. A mug stood on the right-hand corner within reaching distance of whoever had sat there. Beside it sat the mobile.
The other chair housed a jumper spread out against the seat back, the sleeves along the arms. Below, a pair of trousers had been placed as though someone was wearing them, a pair of slippers below.
He turned, hearing a small distressed sound from Marge.
‘She can’t let him go,’ she said.
Magnus pulled himself together. ‘I’ll check the other rooms.’
He entered the hall, with its porch leading to the outside world. Crossing it, he opened the far door and clicked on the light. His immediate impression was of abandonment and cold. The open fireplace, he guessed, hadn’t been used for some considerable time. The room was empty.
What about the bedroom?
Off the hall was another smaller passageway, leading towards the back of the house. Magnus followed it past a bathroom to a final door at the end.
He hesitated. If Karen was in the house, it had to be in here. Gently, he turned the handle and opened the door. From where he stood he could clearly see the bed and the humped shape of a duvet, which, he knew, would have to be checked.
In that moment, Magnus wished he had left this to the police. Then, gathering himself, he flicked on the light and tugged the duvet off the foot of the bed. It slid to the floor, its shape crumpling to nothing. Exposed, the bed did hold a figure, or the stuffed version of one.
A pair of men’s pyjamas, filled with what looked like more of Jack’s clothing, had been arranged on the right-hand side of the otherwise empty bed.
The psychology of loss Magnus knew about, but he had never seen this form before. The clothes on the chair, the stuffed figure in the bed. At that moment he fully understood Marge’s fear for her friend’s state of mind and her safety.
‘Professor.’ Marge’s urgent and definitely frightened voice broke into his thoughts.
Magnus retreated, closing the bedroom door behind him.
On entering the kitchen, he found Marge in the doorway of the scullery, her normally ruddy complexion drained of all colour.
‘Something’s happened in there. There’s blood splattered all about the place and there’s a knife lying in the sink.’
Magnus took Marge’s place in the doorway.
They had passed through the scullery without giving it a second thought, keen to check the kitchen and the other rooms. With its own light now on, Magnus could clearly see what Marge had described. His first thought was that they had entered via a crime scene.
‘We don’t touch anything else,’ Magnus said. ‘I’m calling 999.’
40
The call from Professor Pirie had interrupted the sequence of planned events for the evening, but only briefly, and only during the meal. McNab had even managed to be upbeat and civil in his response to the professor’s phone call, mainly because Ellie had been watching and listening to the interchange and McNab knew she liked the Orcadian.
Having dispensed with the interruption satisfactorily, McNab had got back to his plan, which had involved him serving up spaghetti from a local Italian restaurant together with an Italian red wine recommended by the proprietor.
They’d completed the meal with a whisky, a fine malt from the Spey Valley. Aroused more than inebriated, they’d then swiftly made their way to the bedroom, where McNab had got to examine the wonderful artwork on Ellie’s body close up. After which he’d fallen into a sound and satisfying sleep.
Which had lasted until now, when it was being shattered by the incessant drill of his mobile.
Reaching out groggily, McNab glanced at the screen to find an unidentifiable number.
‘DS McNab,’ he said, rising swiftly and heading for the sitting room.
‘DS Jones here, Stirling. It’s with regard to Karen Johnston, or Karen Marshall, who I understand you’re looking for?’
‘Go ahead,’ McNab said.
‘Professor Magnus Pirie called 999 last night and was subsequently put through to us. He’d been attempting to make contact with Mrs Johnston and found evidence of a possible assault at her cottage.’
‘And Karen?’
‘She wasn’t present. We’re searching for her now.’
‘Karen Johnston is a potential witness in the Mary McIntyre murder enquiry. I should have been informed of this last night,’ McNab said. ‘Is Professor Pirie still there?’
‘The professor went home after he and Ms Marge Balfour had given their statements. I believe he’s expecting you to call.’
I bet he is, thought McNab.
Ringing off, McNab listened for a moment in case his raised voice had wakened Ellie, but when all was quiet, he went and closed the bedroom door. Now wide awake, he realized the thing he needed was coffee, so he set about putting on the machine. Then he had a swift shower.
Dressed, with one strong coffee drunk and another poured, McNab decided he was now able to talk to Pirie.
The call was answered immediately, suggesting Pirie was not only up and about, but already had the mobile in his hand.
McNab got in first. ‘Why didn’t you call back when you found a crime scene at the house?’
There was a short silence as though Pirie was working out the least confrontational thing to say.
‘I explained to the local police about Karen. They said they would deal with it and contact you, which I’m assuming they did?’
‘I would rather have heard last night,’ McNab said, although that wasn’t strictly true.
‘I apologize. I should have called when I got back, but it was very late and you sounded as though you had company.’
McNab couldn’t argue with that. Plus he’d been drinking so would have had to organize a driver to take him to Stirling. None of which he told Pirie, of course.
‘We need to talk,’ Pirie said. ‘There are things Marge told me about Karen that I believe may be pertinent to the investigation.’
‘Okay,’ McNab said cautiously. ‘Where?’
McNab sent a message to Ellie, indicating he had to go into work and he would see her later, then slipped quietly out. The Merchant City was quiet at this hour, so parking wasn’t a problem, although the cafe, where they’d arranged to meet, was open and reasonably busy. As McNab entered he spotted Pirie in conversation with two young women, student types like most of the others in there.
The females were smiling and nodding at whatever words of wisdom Pirie was bestowing on them. Not for the first time, McNab wondered why he’d never heard of Pirie having a partner, since the Orcadian was obviously a big hit with the women.
Spotting McNab’s entry, Pirie said his goodbyes and came across.
‘What’s with the fan club?’ McNab said.
‘Students in my forensic psychology class,’ Pirie said. ‘I’ve ordered for us.’
They took a seat near the window, McNab conscious of the fact that the two girls’ interest in their professor also now appeared to encompass him.
‘They knew you were a police officer as soon as you walked in,’ Pirie said with a small smile.
‘Maybe I’ve just arrested them, or one of their pals,’ McNab offered, taking a mouthful of the strong Americano that Pirie had chosen for him.
‘You underestimate your effect on the ladies,’ Pirie countered.
McNab could have said, ‘Much like yourself, Professor’, but didn’t. Instead he said, ‘So what do I need to know?’
The tale Pirie told him featured a child’s diary written by Karen at the time of Mary’s disappearance. It continued with the trauma of a woman who had apparently foreseen the discovery of her pal’s body, only for that to come true. Then the recovery women’s attempts to help Karen Marshall remember more about the day on which her pal had disappeared, only for Karen to run from them, taking t
he diary with her.
‘You’ve seen this diary?’ McNab finally interrupted.
‘No, but Marge has, although she hasn’t seen its contents. Karen asked Marge to look after the diary for her, as its presence in the house was haunting her. Then she changed her mind and took it back.’
‘So no one has read it?’
‘Correct. Although Karen says what she wrote down back then isn’t the whole story. There are days she left empty. Days when something happened that she can’t remember. That’s why she was getting the women to ask her questions, to help her try.’
‘So why did she run away from the meeting?’ McNab was trying to absorb what was beginning to sound like a visit to a therapist.
‘You know how McLaughlin told you that Mary was pregnant when she disappeared?’ Pirie was saying.
‘That wasn’t identified at the PM,’ McNab reminded him.
At this point Pirie began to tell a story about white dresses and virginity and whether God would forgive Mary. With every word spoken, McNab felt his distaste rise.
Pirie was watching him, waiting for a response.
‘You’re saying there’s a likelihood that Mary McIntyre was being sexually abused when she went missing?’
‘Marge thinks Karen believes that.’
McNab contemplated all of this, then got back on firm ground. ‘Tell me about the possible crime scene.’
Pirie began to describe his arrival at the cottage, how he’d found the back door unlocked and had entered via the scullery.
‘The light wasn’t on in there, so we didn’t spot the blood at that point.’
He talked about the kitchen. The mobile phone, which they’d heard ring from outside. The chair dressed in Karen’s husband’s clothes.
McNab interrupted him there. ‘How long ago did he die?’
‘Sometime within the last year, I believe. Dementia. Karen never went out of the house towards the end.’
McNab stopped Pirie again when he reached the bedroom scene. ‘She’d created models of her dead husband on the chair and in the bed?’
‘The clothes were laid out on the chair as though he was wearing them. The dummy in the bed was a pair of stuffed pyjamas . . .’
The Innocent Dead - Rhona MacLeod Series 15 (2020) Page 19