“Mum!” he shouted, and Alec slammed the door shut in a panic.
“Henry?” the woman called from downstairs.
Alec tried the next door which opened on a thankfully empty office space.
“W-who are you?”
His head whipped around to see the woman stopped halfway up the staircase, her eyes wide and alarmed, a phone in her hand. Alec launched himself into the room, slipping on the blue carpet as he ran for the window. He shoved it open, breaking the flimsy metal strips that kept it from opening too far, and clambered out and onto the roof, glad for his slight frame even as he scraped his hips and back on the window frame.
The woman came into the room. She had the phone to her ear. Alec’s boots struggled to find traction on the slick shingles as the sky began to spit mist at him, and before he could think too hard about it, he scrambled across the roof, dropping off the edge just past the fence blocking off the back patio. He hit the ground hard, the alley too narrow to roll and absorb the impact, and his shins screamed at him. He glanced up to see the woman stick her head out the window, talking rapidly into the phone.
Alec stumbled once as he rose to his feet, shins and knees throbbing in protest, and then took off running towards his car. He skidded on the wet pavement as he stepped off the curb but didn’t fall, already clicking the button on his keys to unlock his car. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, feet fumbling for the clutch pedal as he started the engine. The vehicle rumbled to life just as the woman opened her front door, no doubt describing him and his car to the police operator on the other line. Though his entire body was shaking, he still managed to pop the clutch into first, muscle memory taking over even through his fear, and the tires screeched as he took off down the street.
He blasted through the stop sign at the end of the road and rounded the corner, threading his way towards the back of the neighbourhood, hoping to escape notice that way. After three turns, he finally slowed down, though it made him itch to crawl along at the speed limit. He was supposed to drop the deed in a mailbox on Smith Avenue, just off the A82, on the other side of the city. If he could do that, he could disappear, leave Inverness for a while.
A police siren echoed through the streets, but since he didn’t catch a glimpse of flashing lights, he figured he was in the clear. Alec let out the breath he’d been holding since he’d thrown open that kid’s door, hand patting his jacket so he could feel that the deed was still in his pocket.
Someone cut him off just as he entered the next intersection, and Alec slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt so hard his seatbelt cut into his neck, and he gasped, rocking back in his seat. A police car blocked the way, the neon blue and yellow patches on its side winking at him accusingly as its officer climbed out, incapacitant spray in hand. He must’ve been in the area when he got the call.
Alec threw his car into reverse as the officer approached him, hand held out for him to stop, but he began to roll down the steep hill, unable to find the gear properly as his piece of junk car always had trouble in reverse. The engine stalled, and just as he got it restarted, the officer stopped at his window and tapped on it, mace held by his hip.
Alec closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then rolled down the window. “Problem?” he said, smile innocent even as his heart thundered within his chest. He could not afford to get caught.
“Step out of the car,” the officer ordered.
“Why?”
“Now.” His reflective yellow jacket was bright even in the cloudy light, and Alec stared at it for a long moment as if he might somehow find the answer to his predicament there.
But it held no answers for him, so he sighed and exited his car, all too aware of the weight of the stolen goods in his raincoat. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“A man matching your description broke into a townhouse nearby and then got into a white car. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Alec moulded his expression into one of concern. “I wouldn’t, sorry. I was just on my way home.”
“You live in the neighbourhood?”
“No. Just was taking a shortcut home from work.”
“Can I see some identification, please?”
“Of course. One second.” Alec didn’t carry his wallet on him when he was working, for obvious reasons, but he patted his pockets as if searching for it and then frowned, empty-handed. “I don’t seem to have it on me today. So sorry.”
“We’re not far from the scene of the crime. You wouldn’t mind waiting just a minute while we ask the witness down to see if she recognizes you?” The constable’s voice was polite, level, but it would only take him a second to whip his mace up and spray it in Alec’s eyes.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Alec said, his mouth suddenly very dry.
“I thought you were just headed home.”
“The wife’s waiting. You know how it is.”
“I don’t see a wedding ring.”
Shit. Alec smiled, agreeing to wait, but the expression felt sick and weak on his face. The woman had looked right at him more than once. There was no way she wouldn’t recognize him. The officer took a single step back before he spoke into the radio clipped to his jacket, giving Alec no chance to make a break for it.
“Vince, I’ve stopped a possible suspect just a few streets down from the scene. Want to bring Mrs Reiner down to see if she can ID him?”
“Be right there.”
The officer gave Vince their location and then fixed Alec with a steely look, practically daring him to make a move. Of all the jobs to get nabbed on, this was the one where he absolutely couldn’t afford failure. And yet it was looming ever closer as a second police car turned the corner behind him, boxing him in, and then the woman he’d just robbed was looking right at him, her son hidden behind her.
“This him?” the officer beside her asked, and she nodded.
“Yes. That’s the man who was in my house.”
Alec’s eyes cut left and right, still searching for a way out of this, even as handcuffs closed around his wrists, the metal cold on his skin as the officer pulled Alec’s arms behind his back.
Alec tipped his head up to the sky as he was led to the police car, focused on the kiss of the mist against his face. He heard the door open, then felt the officer’s hand on his head, pushing him down onto the seat, and then the door slammed shut, swallowing him whole.
I’m sorry.
Three
A hand on my elbow drew me to a halt as Fletcher, Dunnel, and I made our way across the station floor towards the interrogation room where our witness waited. A young Japanese man dressed in a wool coat and glasses stood at my side, looking at me with wild, nervous eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said, glancing pointedly at his hand. “But I’m actually in the middle of something. Any of the uniformed officers will be able to help you.”
“Please, I tried that,” the young man said as I began to pull away. Something in his voice made me pause. It was strained and tight, each syllable quavering even as he fought to keep it steady. “Everyone I’ve talked to just keeps pointing me towards someone else.” He spoke with a proper English accent, the way English as a second language was taught in most Asian countries.
I glanced at Dunnel, who flicked his eyes towards the waiting interrogation room. I shook my head slightly, telling him to wait as I turned my attention back towards the young man. “What’s the problem?” I asked.
He finally took his hand off my elbow so he could fish his phone from his pocket. “Someone’s been following me for the past week, I’m sure of it. I’ve got pictures. If you would just look at them…” Desperation made his words tumble over each other as he fumbled to unlock his phone with trembling fingers. He clearly wanted someone, anyone, to believe him, and I felt a flash of anger that the other constables had been brushing him off.
“I’ll look at them, okay? I promise,” I said in what I hoped was a soothing tone. “Do you think you could wai
t for me for a little bit? I’ve just had a case dropped in my lap, and I’ve got a witness to question.”
The young man nodded a couple of times, hands closing over his phone as if it were a lifeline. “Okay. Sure.”
“My desk is right over there.” I pointed it out to him. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll have someone bring you some tea or coffee?”
“Okay, yeah, thank you,” the young man said, continuing to nod like he’d lost control of the motion. “You won’t be long?”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Not long at all. Try to relax.”
I crooked my finger to summon a nearby constable, asking her to lead the young man to my desk and bring him something to drink while he waited. He perched in the chair, looking like he was ready to bolt at any moment.
“Can we get back to your actual case now?” Dunnel interrupted. “There’s a frightened woman waiting in interrogation.”
“Of course,” I said. “Sorry.”
Dunnel led the way to the small room off the back of the main floor, ushering us into the small side chamber behind the sheet of two-way mirror so he could give us a quick rundown of what he knew.
I looked through the two-way mirror into the interrogation room at the distraught woman seated at the table. Her mascara ran down her cheeks, revealing red-rimmed eyes, and she clutched several tissues in one fist, though she seemed to have forgotten they were there. A button on her blouse was askew, her blonde curls barely contained by a red scrunchie, and even through the mirror, I could tell that she was shaking. Another officer sat in the room with her, holding her hand and speaking to her in a low, comforting tone.
“Ainslee Wair. Her child is missing,” Dunnel explained. “He didn’t come home from school two days ago.”
“And she’s only just come in?” Fletcher asked.
“Forty-eight hours. She called that evening, but we couldn’t treat it as a missing persons case until now.”
“The father?”
“Not in the picture.”
One fist clenched by my side. I thought of another man, tall, owning far too many blue jumpers, glasses always perched atop his head, and I thought of a closed door and a missing car, and I had to grit my teeth against the anger that still filled me even after all these years.
No doubt Dunnel noticed. That may be why he assigned me this case in the first place.
“We’ll go talk to her,” I said and gave Fletcher a nod towards the door. She had changed out of her athletic gear into a white shirt and black blazer, her hair twisted into a simple braid that fell over one shoulder. We hadn’t had a chance to meet yet, not really, but that could wait until later.
She let me lead the way into the interrogation room, and I put on my best smile for Ainslee Wair. “Ms Wair. I’m DCI MacBain, and this is my partner, DI Fletcher. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
Ainslee sniffed and wiped her nose and nodded, offering us a wan smile that hardly lifted the corners of her lips. I motioned for the other officer to leave the room, and she did so silently, giving Ainslee’s hand one last squeeze, and then Fletcher and I sat down across from her. The file was already on the table, and I flipped through it briefly, though Dunnel had already told us the basic facts of the case.
“Why don’t you walk us through what happened,” I suggested. It was always good to hear the story in the witness’s own words.
Ainslee swallowed, braced herself, and when she spoke, her voice trembled like a bird’s wings in the wind. “My son, Finn, he’s seven, he didn’t come home from school Tuesday. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, since he has an after-school music class Tuesday afternoons, but he wasn’t back for dinner like he usually is. I checked with his friends’ parents, but they haven’t seen him. I checked with the school, but they said he left just like normal. I haven’t been able to get a hold of his music teacher to ask her.”
“What’s her name?” Fletcher asked.
“Lena Taggert. I called the police that night, but they couldn’t do much since it hadn’t been forty-eight hours. But he didn’t come home the next day or today, and I just…” A sob cut her off, her shoulders shaking as fresh tears marred her already strained mascara.
I pulled a fresh tissue from the box on the table and passed it to her. She took it gratefully, scrubbing it across her eyes. “Does Finn have a phone?” If he did, we’d be able to track it and find him.
But Ainslee shook her head. “He’s only seven.”
“What about Finn’s father?” Fletcher asked.
Ainslee hiccuped, brow furrowing in confusion. “Does he have a phone?”
“No, sorry. I meant, what can you tell us about him?” Fletcher corrected herself.
“Oh. I haven’t heard from him since Finn was two. He sends alimony checks every month, but otherwise, I have no idea where he is.” A deeper sorrow filled her face, memories taking her somewhere she didn’t seem to want to go.
“His name?”
“Richard Smith.”
Fletcher wrote that name down as well. We would have to see if we could track down Richard Smith. There was always a good chance an absent parent was involved in a missing child case, assuming, of course, that the kid hadn’t just run off.
“He wouldn’t run away,” Ainslee said as if she had read my mind. “Finn was a good boy. Never got in trouble at school, never even argued really argued with me. Someone took my child, DCI MacBain. You have to find him. Please. You have to find him.” She fixed her green eyes on me, magnified by the tears still welling there, and she clutched the tissue I’d given her as if it were somehow a lifeline, the only thing keeping her from drifting away into total despair.
“I will,” I promised. I reached into the pocket of my coat and handed her my business card. “My number. In case you think of anything else or need anything from us.”
Her hand shook as she took the card and tucked it away, but she nodded and offered me another smile, though it crumbled away just a second later.
Fletcher and I left the room, changing places with the officer from before. I glanced over my shoulder, looking through the small window at Ainslee’s red and puffy face one last time. I didn’t have children… didn’t plan on it, either… so I couldn’t imagine the pain she was in, but I was willing to bet it felt somewhat like losing a father.
I opened the case file, having taken it with me when we left. Finn Wair stared up at me out of a school photo, all chubby cheeks and a gap-toothed smile. His red curls flopped down over his forehead, winning the war against the gel that sought to slick them back, and there was a spray of freckles across his cheeks, vivid against his pale skin. He must be so afraid.
When I was about his age, my family took a trip to the Lake District. I wandered off while my parents were distracted trying to calm my newborn sister down, and I wound up lost for three hours in the rain and the hills, calling out for someone to find me, convinced that they never would, that I’d stumble right into a fair folk ring and be lost forever.
There would be no helpful tourist around to find a crying child this time. I would have to do it myself.
“Where d'you go?” Fletcher asked. We were still standing in front of the interrogation room while I stared at Finn’s photo.
“Nowhere.” I snapped the folder shut and tucked it under my arm. “Tell me, rookie, what do you think our first move is?”
She grinned at the light jab. “Head to the school. Since that’s where he was last seen.”
I nodded. “Correct. But we need to talk to our new friend first.” The young man from earlier was still seated in the chair beside my desk, nervously eyeing the entire room.
“Why would someone be following him?” Fletcher wondered as we made our way over there.
A good question. He wasn’t much to look at: medium height, slender, glasses wire-rimmed and a smidge large for his face. His black hair looked like he had slicked it back but the constant attention of his worried fingers had since pulled it free from its c
onfines. He ran a hand over his head as we approached and then took a small cloth from his pockets, wiping his glasses clean again and again.
He jumped as I put a hand on my armchair and sat down, Fletcher leaning up against the desk beside me. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I’m not usually this jumpy.” The young man wrapped his hands around his half-empty mug to keep them anchored.
“That’s okay. It sounds like you’ve had a stressful week. Hopefully, I can be of some help. My name is Callum MacBain, and this is my… partner, Tara Fletcher.”
Fletcher punched me lightly on the shoulder when I hesitated over the word ‘partner.’
“Haruto Sato,” he said and mustered up a smile for the two of us.
“It’s nice to meet you. Why don’t you tell us what’s been going on?” I tried to keep my voice level and calming since Haruto reminded me of a rabbit in an unfamiliar space.
Haruto took a couple of deep breaths and then a sip of his tea to finish calming his nerves. “It started a week ago,” he began. “I had just gotten home from work, and I was unlocking my door when I spotted this white delivery van sitting at the end of the street. That’s not uncommon,” he continued hurriedly as if he was afraid I was going to mock him for this observation. I nodded for him to continue. “That’s what all delivery vans look like, I know, but it just sat there, and its windows were so dark, I felt like it was… watching me.” He laughed. “I’ll admit, I watched The Strangers the night before, so maybe I was a little jumpy.”
“Fun movie,” Fletcher said from her spot on my desk. “A bit derivative, but it did pioneer the home invasion phase in the horror genre.”
I twisted my neck to give her a look that said, ‘not helping,’ even as Haruto nodded along with her statement.
“Then what?” I asked Haruto in an effort to keep the conversation on track.
“Right. So I didn’t think anything of it. But I kept noticing similar-looking vans while I was on my way to work, and every time I glanced out my window, there was always one in the parking lot.”
Buried Secrets (DCI MacBain Scottish Crimes Book 1) Page 2
