by Rena George
'I wish I knew, Mrs…?' He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to give her name.
'Agnes Somerville,' she said. 'Everybody calls me Aggie.'
'How long have you worked at the church, Aggie?'
She screwed up her face, thinking. 'About ten years. It's only a couple of hours a week, but the money comes in handy when you've only got a pension. And it's right on my doorstep. I live at the bottom of the road – Norfolk Court. Carol and Moira are in Portland Court, number 10.' She filled up and produced a crumpled tissue from her pocket. 'Poor Moira's going to take this bad. How is she going to tell the bairns that their mammy is dead…murdered?'
'That's where we'll need your help, Aggie,' Drummond said. 'We'll be going to see Carol's mother, but in case we don't manage to see her immediately can we depend on your discretion?'
'You mean I shouldn't talk about this?'
Drummond nodded. 'Things will be bad enough for that family. We don't want them – especially the kiddies – hearing about what's happened through local gossip, or from Facebook or Twitter.'
Aggie Somerville looked shocked. 'I won't be doing any gossiping about poor Carol, if that's what you're saying.'
Drummond smiled. 'Of course, you won't,' he said.
They took the lift to the tenth floor and stood outside Carol Nicholson's door. Gail rang the bell, hesitating slightly as she lifted her hand. Telling a family that their loved one was dead would never be easy. And yet they could never close their minds to the possibility of that family having been involved in the victim's demise.
Moira Nicholson was a short, plump, friendly looking woman whose initial expression of apprehension turned to disbelief as she realized what she was about to hear.
'It's Carol, isn't it? What's happened?' She stared at them with wide fearful brown eyes.
'Moira Nicholson?' Gail asked quietly.
The woman nodded, her hand covering her mouth.
'Can we come in?'
Moira Nicholson moved aside as the two detectives stepped inside the flat and into the front room. Even on a dismal morning like this the place felt bright and cheerful. Drummond's eyes went to the picture on the mantlepiece. It looked like a professional studio photograph of Carol Nicholson and her two young children.
Moira followed the direction of his gaze and smiled fondly at the picture. 'Rosie and Joe, they're five and six now.'
The officers exchanged a look. 'Would you like to sit down, Mrs Nicholson?' Drummond said.
'Something's happened, hasn't it? Just tell me!'
Drummond cleared his throat. 'We found a body this morning…'
Moira Nicholson began to sway. Gail rushed forward and they both grabbed her as she collapsed. They guided her to the sofa and Gail pulled a box tissues off the coffee table and put them beside her. They waited for her to regain her composure.
'It's Carol, isn't it? I knew something terrible had happened when her bed hadn't been slept in. Was it a road accident? I hated her staying out late.'
Drummond paused for a beat. 'It wasn't a road accident,' he said quietly. 'We're treating this as a suspicious death.'
'What?' The woman was on her feet, her look of disbelief going from one to the other. 'What d'you mean, suspicious?'
'We can't say more at the moment. We'll know better once the post-mortem's been done.'
'Post-mortem?' Moira Nicholson's head was in her hands and she was shaking. 'I can't take this in.' She sank slowly back onto the sofa.
Drummond cleared his throat. 'You said Carol stayed out late?' His voice was gentle. 'Can you tell us about that?'
Moira turned distressed glistening eyes on him. 'She had to work late Friday and Saturday nights when the pub was busier. She never got home before the early hours.'
The witness had told him their victim was a barmaid at a local pub, but he needed her to verify this.
'Where did she work, Moira?'
'At the Drouthy Duck. All the customers know her. Carol is very popular…and the money's good.'
'When you say she had to work late. How late did you mean?' Gail asked.
Moira shrugged. 'I don't know. It was always the early hours. I never sat up waiting for her.' Tears were rolling down her cheeks now. 'I get the bairns their breakfast at the weekends so Carol can have a long lie.'
'Where are the children now?' Gail asked.
'They're at the pictures. One of the neighbours takes them to a children's matinee with her own bairns on a Saturday morning.'
'I know this is a really difficult thing to ask but the sooner we can get an ID–'
She didn't let him finish the sentence. 'You haven't identified her?' she said sharply. 'You mean it might not be her?'
Drummond saw the hope leap into her eyes and put up a hand. 'I mean an official ID,' he said quickly. 'We're pretty certain the body we found is Carol.' He saw her shoulders slump. 'I'm so sorry,' he said quietly.
'What do I have to do? I don't know where to go.'
'Don't worry about that,' Drummond said as he and Gail got to their feet. 'We'll collect you and make sure you get home afterwards. It will only take a few minutes.'
Moira Nicholson shuddered. Identifying her dead daughter might take only a few minutes but Drummond knew the images she would see this day would haunt her for the rest of her life.
The smell of disinfectant hit them as they walked into the Drouthy Duck. The floor was glistening wet as a dumpy woman in a floral overall sloshed a mop over it.
'We're shut,' the barman called across to them as they approached. 'Come back in half an hour.'
'We need to speak to the manager,' Drummond said, showing his warrant card.
'That would be me. It's my pub,' he said, slinging the towel he'd been wiping the bar with over his shoulder. 'What can I do for you good people?'
'We didn't catch your name,' Drummond said.
'It's the same as the one over the door, Graham Bell.'
Gail scribbled in her notebook.
'We're enquiring about a member of your staff, Carol Nicholson,' he said.
'Carol? What about her?'
'When was the last time you saw her?'
The barman's eyes narrowed. 'She's not in any trouble, is she?'
Drummond frowned. 'Why would you think that?'
'Well you two are here,' Graham Bell said. 'Something's up. What's going on?'
The dumpy woman, having clearly decided this conversation was infinitely more interesting than floor washing had abandoned her task and was now leaning on the handle of her mop following their every word.
Bell saw Drummond glance at her, and he nodded to the woman. 'Thanks, Gracie. You can get off now.' The woman gave him a protesting look. 'I haven't finished it yet.'
'It's fine. Just go.'
The cleaner gave a disgruntled mumble as she clattered off through a side door and Drummond returned to his questions. 'How long has Carol worked for you?'
'I don't know…a year, maybe more.'
'You'll have records though?' Gail cut in.
He was looking at them with suspicion now. 'They're in the back.'
They followed him through and watched as he flicked through a hard-backed notebook. He looked up. 'Eighteen months,' he said.
Drummond held out his hand. 'Can I have a look?'
There was a moment's hesitation before the man handed it over. Drummond cast his eyes over the pages. He didn't recognize any of the names.
'What time did Carol leave last night?'
Graham Bell looked confused. 'Carol wasn't working last night. She's got some other part-time job Fridays and Saturdays. And before you ask, the answer's no, I don't know what it is. She was quite secretive about it.'
'Aren't those your busiest nights?' Gail asked.
'Tell me about it. I did try to persuade her to come in at weekends. I even offered her more money, but she was adamant. The other job paid more.'
Drummond met the barman's eyes as he handed back the staff book. He suspected he wasn't nearl
y as innocent as he would have them believe. It was looking more than likely that Carol was supplementing her income by doing a bit of private soliciting. She was another prostitute strangled with a scarf, another victim of their serial killer, another episode in his twisted game of cat and mouse.
Evie hadn't been strangled and there had been no cat and mouse card. Maybe her death had been a tragic accident after all, but Drummond didn't think so.
Thirteen
'We found victim number four today,' Drummond said over a deep sigh.
Pete tilted his head at him. 'I thought it was five?'
'What? No. Isn't four enough?' And then Drummond realized Pete had heard about Evie. They weren't crediting her killing to the strangler, not yet.
'I take it you're no nearer nabbing this guy?'
Drummond shook his head. 'Unless we get a break they'll be moving in the big shots to take over the investigation.'
Pete's face stretched into an expression of concern. 'It's not your fault, Jack. Stop blaming yourself.'
'Of course, it's my fault. We should have caught this bastard after he killed Maggie Burns. Instead I let it drift and now three more women have been murdered.' Drummond narrowed his eyes, staring at the barman who was filling a glass from the Bell's optic.
Pete was watching him. 'There's something else, isn't there? What are you not telling me?'
Drummond had not intended talking about Evie, but this was Pete. He sighed. 'The other body…the one you thought was the killer's fifth victim.' He paused. 'I knew her.'
'I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't realize.' Pete's voice was full of sympathy. 'It's hard when you know a victim.' He met Drummond's eyes. 'So, she wasn't one of the strangler's?'
'We don't know, maybe not.' He glanced away, narrowing his eyes. 'It's my fault she's dead, Pete. I was supposed to be looking after her.' He swallowed. 'She was staying in my flat.'
Pete blinked. 'Jesus, were you in a relationship with this woman?'
'I wasn't screwing her if that's what you mean. She was only seventeen for God's sake. I was just helping her out…not very well obviously.'
Pete sat back, folding his arms. 'You'd better start at the beginning.'
Over the next ten minutes Drummond described how he'd found Evie soliciting and packed her off to what she'd told him was family in Edinburgh. He recounted his shock when she'd later turned up battered and bruised and appealing for help.
‘She'd nowhere else to go, Pete. I had to take her in.'
'You have to tell DCI Buchan about this. Do it now! Don't wait. You haven't done anything wrong.'
'Evie's dead, Pete. How is that not my fault?'
'You've lost me now. How is that your fault?'
'If I hadn't interfered, she might still be here.'
Pete leaned forward, lowering his voice. 'OK, you should have come clean straight away, but it's not too late. Tell Joey.'
'You know I can't do that. She'll suspend me.'
'You don't know that.'
'Of course I do. Joey won't have any choice.'
'She'll do what she can to protect you.'
Drummond stared at him. 'Protect me? I don't want any protection. You haven't understood any of this, have you?'
'Enlighten me,' Pete said.
'If I get suspended, I'll be off the case. How can I find Evie's killer if I'm off the case? And what about all those women the strangler murdered?'
Pete gave a disbelieving laugh. 'You're such an arrogant little sod, Jack. You're not the only committed cop in the world. You should trust your colleagues.'
Drummond put his head in his hands. 'I don't know what to do. If I go to Buchan and tell her all this then I'm dead. She won't do anything to help me, that's for sure.'
'You've got to talk to her, Jack. Throw yourself on her mercy if you have to.'
'What if they think it was me who supplied the drugs that killed her? Can't you see how this is going to look?'
'I can see how it will look if you don't come clean now. You have to tell Joey Buchan.' He picked up the mobile phone Drummond had put on the table. 'Call her. Tell her you're coming in. Tell her it's urgent. You need to speak to her.' He offered the phone across. 'Like now, Jack!'
Drummond shook his head. 'No, I need to get this straight in my head before I do anything I might regret.'
'OK,' Pete said. 'Let's rewind. You said you put the girl on a train to Edinburgh, so how did she end up staying at your place?'
Drummond pursed his lips, the memory still emblazoned in his mind. 'She was waiting for me outside the nick one night. I hardly recognized her. She'd chopped off her long dark hair and dyed it blonde, but that wasn't it.' He swallowed. 'She'd been badly beaten. Her face was a mass of bruises. She said the man who attacked her was still looking for her. She was terrified, Pete. She asked me to help her.' He bit his lip. 'There's something else.' He paused. 'Evie was a user. What was I to do? I couldn't just walk away and leave her there.'
Pete blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. 'So, you took her home with you?'
Drummond hung his head and nodded. 'I let her have my bed and I took the sofa.'
'I believe you, but nobody else will.'
'I know,' Drummond said. He waited a beat. 'There's more.'
Pete waited.
'Evie had £500 in her bag when she was found.'
'I'm not sure I want to hear this,' Pete said.
'The money was mine. I kept a roll of notes hidden in my wardrobe for a rainy day.' He looked up. 'When I got home that night, the flat had been ransacked. Evie had found the money. She was gone.'
Fourteen
Drummond was dreading getting back to his flat and yet he knew it could possibly throw up the only clues he would get about how Evie had lived her life. He had provided a roof over her head, even if he had set a timer on how long he would let her stay at his place, but they hadn't ever really talked. His fault again. The job and the kind of life he lived meant he spent hardly any time at his home and when he was there, he was usually flat out. He might have given Evie a safe shelter, however temporary, but apart from that they had hardly spoken to each other. He should have been more supportive, taken more interest in her.
How could he have been so arrogant as to believe he'd been helping the girl? He didn't know anything about her. Why hadn't he sat her down and asked a few basic questions about her family and why she had run away from them? There had been the twang of a Highland accent, but that hardly helped. The Highlands covered a wide area. Evie's family home could have been anywhere.
He let himself in and stared gloomily about him. The place still looked like it had been ransacked, which is exactly what Evie had done to the place before she left. It didn't feel like his home any more. His first instinct was to pour himself a stiff whisky, but he left the bottle untouched in the kitchen cupboard. It was about the only thing Evie hadn't chucked about. With a sigh he replaced the tins and packets she had swept from the shelves and went to straighten up the rest of his flat. In the bedroom he put his shirts and jackets back on their hangers in the wardrobe and roughly folded his jeans and underwear before stuffing them back in their drawers. He wasn't fanatical about being tidy, but he did need some semblance of order..
Drummond had given up his bed to the girl and some of her clothes were strewn about the floor. He was loath to touch them, but he couldn't leave them there. Going back to the kitchen he found a plastic carrier bag and swept the flimsy garments into it.
The phone was under the bed, hidden under a grubby white T-shirt. He sat back on his heels and stared at it. Maybe Evie hadn't been searching for money after all. Could she have been looking for her lost phone?
He pulled out the plastic evidence gloves he always kept in his jeans' pocket and snapped them on. His hand shook slightly as he picked up the cheap black phone and tapped into the contacts and began scrolling down the list. This little phone could be dynamite!
He went back up the list and his heart gave a lurch. There it was: "Mum". There
was no number for her father.
Drummond took the phone into the kitchen and put it on the table, staring at it. He needed to think. Evie's mother had a right to know what had happened to her daughter, but how could he explain having the phone? He screwed up his face. He knew he had to hand it over to the techies, but not before he did a bit more checking. He wanted to know who Evie was emailing. He tapped the mail icon and his heart lurched as "Mum" came up. There was an almost daily list of emails from Evie's mother and the first thing he learned when he opened a few at random was that Evie's name was actually Emily.
He steeled himself to read what her mother had written. He was a hardened cop, but it was difficult not to feel the poor woman's distress. In message after message she appealed to her missing daughter to come home.
"My darling Emily – where are you? You're breaking our hearts. Please! Please! Come home. We can talk, we can listen, we can do whatever you want. Just ring me.
I don't know what else to say. I don't even know if you're reading this. I cry every day just thinking about you being out there all alone. You're my little girl, Emily. I love you…we all love you! You know that.
The twins miss you. Little Archie misses you. They don't understand why you're not here with us. None of us do."
"Iona came by again yesterday. She's as worried as the rest of us. You must have received her texts and emails? Why are you not answering them? She's your best friend for pity's sake, Emily. At least if you don't feel you can speak to us, speak to her…PLEASE!!!"
"The rowan tree is still full of red berries and that little pink rose you planted at the end of the garden is starting to flower. I stand beside it staring out across the firth with the tears streaming down my face wondering where you are. You need to come home, Emily. You should be here with us."
"Angus and I prayed for you again yesterday. We prayed that you won't be punished for this terrible thing you've done. He's angry that you've deserted us. I just want to know why. Tell us why, Emily. Why? Why? Why?"