by SJI Holliday
The two policewomen turn to greet them.
‘Hello, sir. I’m Sergeant Zucarro and this is Constable Evans. We’d just like to have a quick word before you address the school, then, if you don’t mind, we’d like to say a few things too. Then we’ll leave you to it.’
‘Will you need to talk to any of the pupils individually?’ Jon asks.
‘At this moment in time we’re not really sure what we’re dealing with,’ the sergeant says. ‘The SIO . . . sorry, the Senior Investigating Officer, said to just come and ask if we could be of any assistance at this stage. There’ll be detectives taking over from us, I expect—’
‘Detectives?’ Polly interrupts. ‘So it’s a murder inquiry, then?’
The constable gives the sergeant a hard stare, and the sergeant blushes. They’re both young. Can’t be much older than some of the sixth years. The sergeant – was it Zucarro? – has the kind of dark, glossy hair that Polly would kill for. Constable Evans is bobbing about, taking everything in. She looks like an excited terrier, ready to pounce on someone’s trainer and rip it to shreds.
‘We don’t know anything for sure, yet, Miss . . .?’
‘McAllister. I’m the new guidance counsellor. It’s my first day.’
The policewomen look alarmed. They smile, trying to make things a bit better than they are. ‘Don’t worry, Ms McAllister. You won’t have to deal with anything on your own. But it will be good to have your expertise to help question the children.’
Jon pulls his robes around him and coughs loudly as he makes his way up the stairs to the stage. The room falls into silence; the waiting crowd know how to behave in his presence. Polly stands at the side of the stage and glances down at the front row as Jon begins his speech. She can’t remember all of the staff’s names yet. But she recognises Lucas Crisp, the biology teacher. She remembers him because of his clump of unruly brown hair and his thick, black-framed glasses, and his smile that she had found quite unnerving. She’d found him charming and endearing when he’d questioned her as part of the interview panel only a couple of months ago. She imagined he was popular with the students. She’d half-wondered, back then, if he was single. He was clearly far too young for her, but it was nice to have some eye-candy in the workplace, even if she was in no position to act on anything. She also remembers Lois Reibach, the quiet, softly spoken American teaching assistant, over for a year as part of a cultural exchange trip. Jon told her that Lois was great with the pupils, that she’s eager to be involved in all aspects of their schooling. She’s hoping to get her involved with some of the counselling sessions once she works out what it is she needs.
Jon coughs again, signalling the start of his speech. ‘I’m sorry to have to gather you all like this today, but we wanted to make sure that you find out the information from a reliable source, rather than relying on hearsay and gossip, which, as you know, is prone to taking on a life of its own.’
There is some shuffling in seats. The air vibrates with anticipation.
‘It is with much sadness that I must inform you that Katie Taylor has sadly passed away. She was found at home, in bed. At the moment, that’s all we know and we don’t yet know for sure if this was an accident or a result of some unknown medical condition. As we are unsure, the police are involved until the cause of death can be established as accidental, or . . . otherwise.’
More murmuring. Some scraping of seats. But Polly has blocked most of it out – focusing on the girl’s name. Katie Taylor. Surely not . . . it couldn’t be. Just a coincidence. There must be loads of other families with that surname in the town now. She can’t be Mandy Taylor’s daughter. If Mandy had a seventeen-year-old, she’d have heard about it, wouldn’t she? Mandy must’ve been pregnant in her final year of school.
That year she spent most of her time trying to kick Polly’s head in.
4
Louise
While she was showering and spending too long trying to decide what to wear, only to realise it didn’t really matter, now that Davie’s seen her at her worst, he has prepared them a couple of cheese rolls and made a flask of tea. She throws a pair of knickers and a new tube of toothpaste into her small overnight bag – she’s always got it ready, just in case.
Despite her diet, she doesn’t protest about the cheese and is impressed that he’s managed to find a Tupperware box for the rolls, as well as a flask that even she’d forgotten she had. Must have been something Chris left behind. She’s surprised that she’s not bothered that it might be his. It’s been nearly a year since they split up and at first every single reminder made her angry and tearful, but something has finally changed inside her. Now that she can see things for what they are. It’s just a flask. She can’t even remember the two of them using it to go anywhere together. He was hardly the picnicking type.
Davie drives, while Louise busies herself trying to pour tea into the cup and not her lap. She’s vaguely aware of them driving along London Road, heading east, passing the grand Georgian crescents before hitting the new buildings that’ve been jammed into the gaps. Bingo halls. Chinese restaurants. A huge McDonald’s where there used to be an opticians. They pass Meadowbank stadium, where she remembers once having to do a school athletics event and hating every second of it. Funny that it’s taken her nearly thirty years to start running again.
‘Pass us a roll, will you?’
‘Is eating and driving not illegal?’
‘Not yet. Anyway, what you going to do? Call the police?’ He smiles, but she can see his mood is subdued. She hands him a roll and he mutters a curse under his breath as flour immediately flutters all over the front of his navy jumper, like a flurry of snow.
‘Remind me again how it is you live in that big fancy apartment?’
She’d noticed him out on the balcony when she’d come out of the shower. He was gazing out towards the Forth Bridges, which were only a few miles to the west, quite the view. Not the usual place for a single, forty-something female detective constable whose family were third-generation fishmongers from the tiny village of Port Seton and who were barely keeping their heads above water, so to speak.
‘I’m housesitting for my little brother. He’s a broker with Standard Chartered. He’s on a two-year secondment in Hong Kong and he didn’t want to rent his flat out to drug dealers, who are pretty much the only people who could afford the rent on a place like this at the moment, with the way the rental market is.’
‘Oh aye,’ he says. ‘You did tell me that. How the other half live, eh? What’re you going to do when he comes back?’
She’s still got eighteen months before that happens. As ruthless as it might sound, she’s hoping to be in a relationship by then. Hoping the matter gets taken out of her hands. She’s not expecting to ever live in a place like this again, although it’s nice for a change. A three-bed semi on the outskirts of town with a man who doesn’t treat her like a doormat would be a nice alternative. Maybe a wee dog, too. Or a cat even. Davie has a cat, she recalls. Cadbury. Smooth chocolatey fur. He’s shown her photos. Belonged to his ex. He doesn’t say much about her, but he’s definitely still got the cat. He’s got the scratches on his arm to prove it. She’s happy with the thought of pets now. She’s long given up on the hope that she might have children. Not that she’s too old – not yet – but she’s so used to being without them, it would be a hard lifestyle change to pull off. Especially with her job.
‘Lou? What’re you going to do when he comes back?’
She laughs. ‘Sorry. I was miles away there. I haven’t really thought about it,’ she lies. She pulls a piece of roll off and pops it into her mouth, turning to gaze out of the window before he can read anything in her eyes. When she turns back, he is concentrating hard on the road. There are two lanes of traffic, and the car in front doesn’t seem to be able to decide which one it prefers.
‘So, fill me in,’ she says.
He chews for longer than seems necessary. ‘Seventeen-year-old girl. Katie Taylor. Found dead in her
bed this morning. At first it looked like it might be a suicide. Pills on the bedside cabinet. No signs of a struggle. Mother came back from nightshift at a local factory, couldn’t wake her up.’
They’re passing the Fort now. A sprawling out-of-town shopping centre whose ineffective road layout results in a seemingly endless queue of traffic from a Friday afternoon until a Sunday night. Louise remembers going to the cinema there, years ago. One of the Back to the Future films. They had a DeLorean outside the entrance. No camera phones to snap photos, though; not back then.
Louise takes a mouthful of tea. It’s always grim when it’s a kid, even if it turns out to be an accident rather than anything intentional: always grim. The parents sink in on themselves. No one can comprehend it. She remembers the first time she had to go and tell the parents that their child was never coming home. An accident on the bypass. Joyriders. All four died and the oldest one was only sixteen. That’d affected her for a long time afterwards. The expressions on those people’s faces as their worlds had collapsed around their ears.
‘Right. So what’s making it look suspicious, then?’ she says, already thinking up the possibilities. Marks on the body? A vital piece of evidence found nearby? Maybe it was just completely out of character – but then, who knows everything about their teenage kid these days? All that cyber bullying – stuff that they’re so ashamed about they could never tell their parents . . .
‘Doctor wasn’t convinced by the scene. Said it looked staged.’
‘Been watching CSI, has he?’
‘He used to be a pathologist, retired and went back to being a locum GP. He was the one called out. Just coincidence. A good one. For us, I mean. Another doc might not have been so aware. Might’ve been nothing for us to examine.’
‘What do you mean, “staged”?’
‘The way the pills were spilled on the side. The way she was lying in the bed. Her arms were close to her sides, the blankets tucked in around her.’
‘Blankets? I didn’t think anyone had blankets these days . . . I always have to untuck them in hotel rooms. I hate my feet being trapped.’ Not that I’ve been in a hotel room for a while, she thinks. She shifts in her seat, feeling the waistband of her trousers digging into her stomach. Why the hell did she choose this pair?
Davie ignores her, carries on. ‘He took photographs on his phone. Made sure he took some of her undisturbed, then during his examination. He couldn’t be certain, but he said it looked as if she had fresh bruising on her arms and legs. It was unusual enough for him to be concerned.’
‘We caught a lucky break there, then. Another GP . . . someone without his experience. We could’ve missed this altogether. I mean – hopefully it's nothing. The bruising could be unrelated to her death. But if it’s not . . .’
‘Exactly,’ Davie says.
Louise catches a glimpse of the town sign as Davie indicates off the roundabout and wonders what idiotic council pow-wow came up with the cheesy slogan.
Welcome to Banktoun
Twinned with Le Havre, France
Le Happiest Town in the County
5
Neil
Neil wrenches a branch from where it’s been stuck to the ground with several days’ worth of frost and chucks it into the river. There is a thin layer of ice on the surface and it breaks easily as the branch cuts through it, disappearing into the depths below.
Bloody Katie.
He should be on his way to school now, but he’s already decided he’s not going in. He unsticks a couple of smaller branches (twigs, really) and throws them in. Digby’s Deathhole. One of the nicer spots along this stretch, despite the name. No one is likely to be swimming in there for a good few months yet, though. No one is quite that stupid.
Today was meant to be a special day. He’d sat with Katie in her bedroom and they’d discussed it all. Worked out what to do. They were going to get a bus to town and walk up the bridges. He liked it up there. A nice part of the old town, full of nooks and crannies, old buildings, cool cafes. Pubs, too. As long as they weren’t in their school uniforms, they’d get into some of the pubs up there. It was close to the university, and most of the freshers were only a year older than him and Katie. Katie could easily pass for eighteen, and despite his baby face he had perfected an older look with his clothes and his perpetual scowl. People often thought he was a grumpy bastard, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. He just liked that moody look. He practised in the mirror, getting the scowl just right. Then he’d add a bit of eyeliner that was so subtle you’d barely know it was there – but it made his eyes stand out more. Brought out the deep green.
He’d describe himself as intense.
Nice.
But he had a temper, just like anyone else. And Katie trying to change the plans at the last minute had pissed him right off.
‘I know it’s not what we agreed,’ she’d said. Her voice had become that high-pitched whine that really grated on him. Why did girls do this? Didn’t they realise it was a signal for guys to switch off and not listen to another word until they started speaking normally again? ‘But I think it’s better this way. Safer. You know that everything will be fucked if anyone finds out about this money.’ He’d been picking at a scab under his chin at this point. A shaving nick that he was refusing to leave alone, enjoying the sting each time he ripped off the healing piece of skin. ‘Neil . . .’ She’d poked him in the ribs then, and he remembered her saying money, but that was really it.
‘What? Sorry, I didn’t hear you. Say that again.’
‘I knew you weren’t listening to a word I was saying.’ Her tone had turned petulant now, and to emphasise this she’d angrily pulled her T-shirt back down over her bare breasts and slid up to the top of the bed, hugging her knees to her chest.
‘Babe—’
‘No. I’ve told you. I’m going to give the scratch card to someone safe. Someone neutral. Then when the time’s right, when I’m sure Brooke’s not sniffing about, then we’ll go and cash it in. There’s plenty of time. You’ve got one hundred and eighty days. I checked on the website.’
Brooke . . . why did she have to mention Brooke? He’d shuffled up the bed towards her, tried to remove her hands from her knees but she’d pressed down harder, not letting him in. This was his punishment. No shagging for you, Neily-boy. Not until you agree with everything I say . . . What was it with girls? Even the good ones, like Katie. They were all so bloody neurotic and controlling. They wanted it all their own way all the time.
‘Where is it, anyway?’
‘Where’s what?’
‘The scratch card, you arse. What else are we talking about here?’
‘Fuck off, Neil.’
‘Jesus! What’s up with you? One minute you’re all over me, talking about all our plans, ready to suck my dick . . . next minute you’re curled up there like a tight wee bitch. You on the blob or something? Fucksake . . .’
He’d stopped when he realised she was crying.
‘You’re a prick, Neil. You know that? You’re just like all the others. You’re all the fucking same.’
‘Oh, come on. I’m sorry. Honestly. You just . . . it’s just you got me horny, then you stopped. My dick’s throbbing. Honestly. What you do to me . . .’
He'd given her his best puppy dog smile, but she wasn't having it. ‘Right. Fuck this, then. If you’re not telling me where the scratch card is, and you’re not up for a shag, then I’m not hanging about to hear you bloody complaining about what a prick I am. There’s plenty of other wenches that’d be quite happy to take a piece of this.’
He blinks at the memory. He’d actually pointed to his crotch. He was like some sex-starved lunatic or something. No wonder she’d told him where the fuck to go. He didn’t even know why he’d acted like that. Maybe just the disappointment – he’d been looking forward to their day in Edinburgh – getting the cash – celebrating. He was hoping he could convince her to get a cheap hotel. Really go for it. They’d still have most of the ca
sh left, and then they could chat more about what she was going to do with it. It was her money, after all, but she’d made it clear that she wanted to share it between them. Made sure he knew that she saw a future with him.
He wanted that too.
Which was why he was so pissed off with himself for what he did afterwards – jeopardising that – a life with Katie – for a cheap thrill. He was normal, though, wasn’t he? No one was actually faithful to their girlfriend at school, were they? If Katie told him she’d been with someone else, he’d put his balls through a shredder, but he’d still want to be with her. She was the best-looking girl in the school – and he was lucky that some guys couldn’t see past her Gothy clothes and make-up to see what a proper catch he had.
She was all his.
Well, hopefully. He’d texted her a few times after their argument and she hadn’t replied. Still punishing him. She’d stop when it suited her – she could never keep it up for that long. You’re such an idiot, Neil, she’d say. Then she’d give him the eyes that said I want you. Right. Now.
He decides he’ll go and find her after registration. Get her to come with him to his. His mum and dad had left early and they wouldn’t be back till late. It was about time that Katie got to try out the bubble-jet bath in their fancy new en suite . . .
He picks up a final branch and flings it into the river, at peace with himself now – ready to face Katie and apologise for being a total dick. He can block out the rest. He can get over it, forget it happened. Assuming someone else doesn’t blab. He flips up his hood, adjusts his rucksack onto two shoulders and climbs up the slippery bank. He cuts up through the trees and onto the edge of the playing fields. Picks up his pace a bit and he makes his way down the edge, keeping close to the fence until he’s past the old pavilion and in line with the side of the main school building. He takes his phone out of his coat pocket, checks the time. He’s late. Well late. So what. He slows down again. Turns into the playground and hopes the side door is open so he can sneak into the common room without anyone seeing him.