Her Missing Child

by Kerry Watts

  ‘Can I have a latte, please?’ she asked, her voice trembling until she coughed and regained her composure. Dan Holland wasn’t going to win. He had no hold on her now.

  ‘I’ll have the same, thanks love,’ Dan told the girl, his eyes following her momentarily as she moved away. ‘It’s good to see you, Jessie. It’s been a long time.’

  Not long enough, Jessie thought.

  ‘You look well, Dan,’ Jessie knew she had to pull herself together. He didn’t have the upper hand today. Dan Holland would never have the upper hand again.

  ‘I’m sorry about all this, but you didn’t respond to my card. All I wanted was to talk. To explain a few things.’

  ‘What’s to explain?’ Jessie’s anger grew inside her. Her fear was morphing into fury.

  ‘Things have changed. I’ve changed. I’m trying to put the past behind me. Behind us. I’ve had a long time to think about what happened. To us, and to—’

  ‘Stop right there. Don’t you even say his name.’

  ‘What? I lost a son too,’ Dan pleaded, but Jessie was having none of it.

  ‘Don’t even go there.’

  ‘Look, I just want a chance to explain.’

  ‘I’ve changed, too, as it happens. I’ve put the past behind me. Ryan will always be part of me but I’ve put you behind me.’ She pointed her finger at him for emphasis. ‘Where is Smokey?’

  Dan seemed smaller and thinner than Jessie remembered. He’d lost weight all over, particularly in his face, which had narrowed considerably, causing his chin to jut out more than she remembered. Even his eyes looked smaller, but Jessie supposed that was because they weren’t wide with rage today. Instead, he was pathetic.

  ‘He’s in the car. I managed to borrow a motor from one of the guys in the hostel. I explained the situation and he agreed to lend it to me. He’s a good guy.’

  ‘You’re in Greyfriars hostel, then?’

  A ten-minute bus ride from her flat. How convenient, Jessie thought, fear rushing back into her system for a moment.

  ‘Yes, just until I can find a job and get on my feet again. One of the support workers there says there’s some labouring work coming up on one of the new developments at Charlotte Gate. She’ll put in a good word for me. I don’t know, but I’ll sort something. I want to make things right.’

  With Greyfriars being full of ex-cons and addicts, Jessie felt Dan fitted in very well. A silence fell over their table. Jessie watched some of the other customers’ breakfasts arriving. Jessie’s nerves meant she’d skipped breakfast, so her stomach grumbled at the sights and smells that drifted towards her. The waitress returned with the two coffees, Dan’s eyes following her again for a moment as she walked away. You’ve not changed, Jessie said to herself.

  ‘Are you planning to stay in Perth, Dan?’ Jessie asked. ‘Because I can’t see that there’s anything for you here. Your mum will be missing you, I’m sure.’

  ‘For now. I was hoping we could sort some things out.’

  Jessie shot him a look of disbelief. ‘Are you serious, or just seriously deluded? You really must be kidding, right?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Come on. You’re an intelligent guy. Work it out.’ Jessie sipped her coffee and wiped the milky froth from her top lip with a napkin.

  Dan stirred his drink and stared into it before sighing.

  ‘I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’ve changed. I know it will take time to prove it to you.’

  Jessie leaned across the table, her finger outstretched, almost connecting with his grubby black sweater. ‘I don’t give a damn. I just want my cat. And then I want you out of my life.’

  As Jessie drove away from the café, listening to the sound of Smokey snoring in his basket in the back of the car, her mind moved back to Father McKinnon. She needed to forget about Dan and concentrate on the case. What was there to be gained from killing him? Apart from his guaranteed silence, that is. But why kill a man to silence him when he was bound by his faith to keep your secrets?

  Sixty-Three

  Lisa McKinnon had hopped on the first available flight. She was based in Durban, but had been visiting friends in London when she’d heard the news. Her resemblance to her uncle Paul was staggering. Apart from the blonde colour, her hair was strikingly similar – just as unruly and thick as his, although she wore the mussed-up look with rather more panache. Her eyes were chocolate brown, too. She even had his nose. She had turned up at the station late morning, and explained to Dylan that she was his last surviving relative. She had then insisted on waiting for Jessie to arrive before explaining why she was there.

  ‘Please have a seat, Miss McKinnon. I am so sorry for your loss.’ Jessie’s hand stretched out to shake hers.

  ‘Thank you. I was told you were with my uncle when he…’ Lisa’s eyes filled up. ‘When he died.’

  ‘Not exactly – your uncle was pronounced dead at the hospital, but it was me who found him.’

  Lisa pulled a tissue from her cardigan pocket. Jessie recalled having a cardigan just like it, until it was torn to shreds by a certain mischievous kitten. Smokey was now safely ensconced at home, with Dave once again ready to look in on him.

  ‘I can’t believe someone would do that to Uncle Paul. Stab him in his home. The chapel house of a church, too. Were they after money for drugs? My uncle was far too generous. They must have known about all his money.’

  ‘A search of his home didn’t suggest that as a motive. Neither Paul’s laptop nor any of the antiques had been touched. Gertrude Laing confirmed to us that nothing was missing, so I think we can rule out robbery.’

  ‘Poor Gertrude. She must be terribly shocked. She and my uncle were very close. Where was she when it happened?’

  Gertrude Laing was due in very soon to give her statement, but on initial questioning she had been with a local sewing club she attended once a week, in the home of another of Father McKinnon’s parishioners.

  ‘Mrs Laing wasn’t there. She had left by that time.’

  Lisa pinched a button on her cardigan between her thumb and forefinger and frowned. ‘Why were you there, Detective, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘I was hoping that your uncle could help me with an ongoing inquiry.’ Jessie didn’t want to explain any further than that. This wasn’t the time.

  ‘Was my uncle in trouble?’ Lisa gasped, visibly shocked by the suggestion.

  Jessie shook her head at Lisa’s comment, then pursed her lips. ‘I was hoping he would be willing to share some information, that’s all. But your uncle wasn’t keen.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like him. I can’t believe for one minute he would withhold information from the police. That would go against everything he believed in and held dear.’ Lisa shook her head. ‘No, you must be mistaken.’

  What Lisa said was true. Jessie knew that. Paul McKinnon would love to have helped, but his faith was holding him back. Jessie wondered just how torn he must have been. Alternatively, perhaps there was nothing to tell. Perhaps Jessie had this whole thing wrong, but she doubted it.

  ‘The information I wanted came from the confessional,’ Jessie explained.

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Lisa smiled. ‘He would never betray the sanctity of the confessional. He would rather—’ She broke off when she realised what she had been about to say. ‘It’s something he could not do. He would be risking so much by telling you anything he heard there. His work in the church was his life, and if that was snatched away from him, well, he couldn’t have coped with that. His life would have been over in any case.’

  Lisa sniffed and blew her nose.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know this might seem hard for you to understand, but I’m investigating a case that involves the death of a six-month-old baby. I had to try and persuade him to talk to me. I feel strongly he knew something about it. It must have been playing on his mind, too. Not being able to share the information with us. I do understand he was in a very difficult situation.’


  ‘He was a good man.’ Lisa reached into her brown leather satchel and took out a photo from the inside pocket. ‘That was us on North Beach in Durban the last time Paul visited, three years ago.’

  Jessie found herself grinning back at the happy, smiling face of Paul McKinnon, who had just stepped out of the waves, a surfboard tucked under his arm. She was surprised by how attractive he was.

  ‘That’s a really good picture, and a fantastic-looking beach.’ Jessie handed it back.

  ‘Yes, it was one of his favourites. He said he loved the sun, and understood why Grandpa had loved it there. My father and Uncle Paul spent their childhoods there. Grandpa was a farmer out there until poor health brought him back to the UK.’

  It was hard to picture the Paul McKinnon Jessie had met as a surfer. He seemed so serious. So pious.

  ‘You said earlier that Paul had money, and that any potential burglar might have known about it.’

  ‘Yes, my father and Uncle Paul inherited everything after my grandma passed away. The entire two-million-pound estate was split equally between the brothers. Paul lived very frugally, too. He preferred instead to give generously to a variety of charities. I can check which ones, and let you know.’

  Jessie nodded while processing this news. Paul McKinnon inherited a million quid? One question burst to the front of her mind.

  ‘Paul didn’t have any children, did he?’ Jessie probed. ‘Who would be in line to inherit on Paul’s death? We know he was called to the priesthood a little later than some, after having initially worked in the financial sector.’

  Lisa dropped her head and rubbed at her nose. ‘I’m the last remaining member of the family, Detective. I’m an only child, and as Paul was childless, it would fall to me, I expect.’

  The grieving young woman in front of Jessie didn’t look like she needed the money. The leather satchel looked like a designer brand, although she didn’t recognise the name on the front pocket. Jessie wasn’t particularly interested in designer gear. Lisa’s boots, though, were unmistakably Christian Louboutin. What would they have set her back – a grand? Jessie knew that. She was worth checking out, just to be sure. It was important not to rule anything or anyone out at this stage, and Lisa McKinnon did seem to get here very quickly, despite not being asked to come. As far as Jessie knew, nobody at the station had actually told her that her uncle was dead.

  Sixty-Four

  Jessie hadn’t slept well the night before, and was feeling it as the day wore on. She’d woken in a cold sweat after seeing images of a thick black oozing sludge seep through the edge of every window and door in her flat, and no matter how hard she tried to seal them and stop the flow, the liquid kept coming until it was about to suffocate her. After that, every noise had sounded like Dan trying to get into her flat. Meeting Dan before heading into work had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now she hoped her third coffee of the day would help.

  Her superiors would want a separate investigative team to hunt for Paul McKinnon’s killer, but Jessie didn’t want to separate the two cases just yet. She sat and stared up at the whiteboard and glanced from Paul’s photo to the sweet smiling face of Finlay Lucas and back. She grabbed a marker pen and wrote Lisa McKinnon’s name in the corner in small letters with a question mark and a circle around it. She didn’t know why she did the circle thing. It was a habit that had developed unnoticed, until Dylan pointed it out to her. It was a way for her to imprint the information into her mind, perhaps. Like the circle was there for emphasis.

  ‘Hi boss,’ PC Wilde chirped from the doorway.

  Jessie turned to her and smiled. ‘Get yourself a strong coffee, PC Wilde, because I have a job for you. Lisa McKinnon is Paul McKinnon’s niece. I want you to find out everything you can about her: financials, the lot.’

  ‘Sure thing. I’m on it,’ she grinned. ‘After I’ve made my coffee of course, boss.’

  Dylan walked in, lunch in hand, and started to hang up his parka.

  ‘Don’t bother hanging that up. We’ve got somewhere we need to be – you can eat on the way.’

  Jessie and Dylan parked a little way back from the Morans’ drive and walked the rest of the way. Jessie rang the doorbell and waited. She heard the tapping of high heels on the wood floor and stood tall to face Bridget. This time she was going to answer Jessie’s questions whether she liked it or not. The door opened.

  ‘Mrs Moran, can we come in and ask you some questions, please?’ Jessie did her best to use her seven extra inches in height.

  ‘Am I under arrest for something?’ Bridget responded, her face stern.

  ‘No,’ Jessie shook her head. ‘But refusing to talk to the police can be viewed as obstruction, which my colleague and I may have to review at some stage.’

  The two women stared each other down while Jessie waited for Bridget’s response.

  ‘Who’s that at the door?’ Jessie glanced over Bridget’s shoulder and saw an older woman calling from the kitchen doorway, leaning into her Zimmer frame to support herself. ‘Don’t leave them standing out in the cold. Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.’

  It was obvious that Bridget was seething at this invitation. She shot Jessie a look of disdain as she passed. Jessie smiled at Dylan’s grinning face.

  ‘You didn’t say we were having company,’ Phil’s mother Margaret said to Bridget in a fluster. ‘Bridget, you go and make us all a nice pot of tea. Use the leaves, mind, not the bag rubbish. That stuff leaves a rim round my mouth something chronic.’ She ushered the detectives into the living room. ‘I’m Margaret. Well, Peggy to my pals.’ She chuckled. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’ She narrowed her eyes at Dylan. ‘I think I would remember your handsome face, lad.’

  Jessie had to stifle the giggle that tried to escape.

  ‘Mind you, I have trouble remembering a lot these days.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘Alzheimer’s. But I’m not dead yet, as I’ve told them. They’re no’ getting their hands on my fortune yet.’ Margaret Moran laughed aloud.

  Jessie and Dylan introduced themselves, and Peggy Moran got right back to her friendly blethering. As Jessie heard the kettle coming to the boil in the kitchen, she decided she could make the most of the old lady’s lack of reticence. Bridget Moran might be happy to stonewall her, but her mother-in-law seemed more than willing to talk…

  ‘I was sorry to hear Theresa was poorly again,’ Jessie said.

  Margaret shifted awkwardly in her armchair by the window.

  ‘Aye, she was ranting and raving like she does when she doesn’t take her pills.’ She tutted as she shook her head. ‘Her and Bridget were whispering to each other here before they took her back to hospital the other day. They were thick as thieves, muttering about goodness knows what. Poor girl looked traumatised. So sad. Such a young, pretty girl. She should be married and giving me a couple of great-grandbairns by now.’

  Dylan glanced at the door and raised his eyebrows at Jessie fleetingly. She gave the briefest of nods; an agreement that he should go and intercept Bridget.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have any idea what they were whispering about?’ Jessie asked casually.

  Jessie heard voices approaching the house, and a moment later the front door opened and closed.

  ‘Och, I don’t know.’ Margaret had been distracted by all the noise, too. ‘Who’s that now?’

  ‘Shit,’ Jessie muttered under her breath as Claire Lucas joined them, followed by Phil Moran.

  ‘You go and sit, darlin’.’ Phil stopped when he noticed Jessie. ‘Hello, Detective.’

  The tip-tapping of Bridget’s heels marched towards them, but this was too important to leave.

  ‘Mr Moran, your mum says Bridget and Theresa were whispering about something, and that Theresa was distressed. This would have been just before she was admitted to hospital, the day Finlay went missing. Were you here at that time?’

  ‘Detective, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ Bridget spat. ‘I did not invite you into my home.
How dare you come in here and question a frail, elderly woman.’

  Jessie watched everyone fall silent while Bridget spoke. It was clear who ruled this house.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Peggy. It wasn’t my intention.’ She nodded towards the door for Dylan to leave with her. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

  ‘She called me Peggy,’ Margaret said to her son, a look of confusion crossing her face. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘It’s fine, Mum, don’t worry,’ he reassured her, then followed Jessie and Dylan to the door. ‘Look, my mum has dementia. She makes stuff up, stories. Stuff she even believes herself at times. Doctor says it’s common, like a coping mechanism to compensate for the loss of memories. Her concept of reality is a bit off, you could say.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, but we will be in touch again.’ Jessie assured him. She caught sight of Claire staring at them from the window. She turned away as soon as she was spotted. They would be back with a warrant next time.

  As Phil Moran closed his front door, Jessie’s phone rang in her pocket.

  ‘Tell me you have some good news for me, Isla.’

  Wilde told her she didn’t know if the revelations about Lisa McKinnon’s finances could be seen as good news, but it was certainly a development Jessie hadn’t expected.

  The boy lined up his shot as his friend waited, shivering between the goalposts on the North Inch. He began his run-up, but leaned back a fraction too far as he struck the ball, sending it flying high above the bar and into a cluster of cherry trees that had long since shed their leaves.

  ‘Bad luck,’ the keeper laughed while the boy kicked his heels into the frozen ground in disgust. ‘But I’m no’ getting that back.’

  The boy picked his way through the trees towards the ball, rubbing his bare arms against the cold – his jacket was too thick to play football in. He scooped up the ball, but a little way past it caught sight of something shimmering against the snowy ground. He moved closer, and when he got a good view of what it was, he let out a blood-curdling scream.