by M. A. Hunter
I close my eyes again, pushing thoughts of the pool and my little family from my mind. I try to picture just a blank void, focusing on the darkness of my eyelids, and blocking all and any thoughts as best as I can.
She’s not my mum.
Oh God, there it is again. Her trembling arms, quivering lip, shining eyes, and white knuckles.
What is wrong with me? Why can’t I let it go? What is it I think she could have meant? If Morag isn’t Daisy’s mum, who is she? Some weird jailer, keeping her prisoner? From whom and why? Or some woman who couldn’t have children of her own and abducted an innocent four-year-old?
I frown at this last thought. Is that what’s been irking me since the park on Thursday? It could explain Daisy’s terror, and why there are no baby pictures in Morag’s home, but it isn’t a logical conclusion to draw. For starters, where would Morag have taken Daisy from? And apart from Daisy’s terrified message, what other evidence is there of such a heinous crime? It’s not like Daisy wasn’t enjoying herself on the trampoline on Saturday. If she hadn’t approached me in the park, I’d have no reason to doubt that she is a perfectly adjusted child in a loving family. Besides, child abductions are a trope you only read about or see in films.
Great! So much for keeping my mind clear of thoughts. This is no good. Leaning over the side of the bed, I reach for the laptop and pull it up onto my legs. There’s no point in fighting the insomnia.
I try to recall the surname Charlie mentioned at breakfast: redirected mail from their home in Wolverhampton… addressed to Mr and Mrs A Kilbride.
Opening a fresh internet search window, I type in ‘Morag Kilbride’ and look at the results. Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn are the first hits, but I steer clear of those for now, following this morning’s unsuccessful review of social media. The next hits are for TripAdvisor and Expedia, but with no address or profile images next to the comments, there’s no way of knowing whether they were posted by the same woman I met at the park. There’s a hit on Ancestry.com, but I can’t access it without signing up to the site. The remaining pages of hits either refer to East Kilbride, or individuals called Morag. There are no further hits for people called Morag Kilbride.
Returning to the Facebook hits, I scroll through the two dozen Morag Kilbrides listed. It is a narrower search than I’d performed this morning, but as I click on each name, I’m disappointed to see profile pictures that are not of the woman I’m searching for. Clicking back to LinkedIn, I don’t find any Morag Kilbrides who list nursing as their profession.
Opening a fresh window, I search for ‘Angus Kilbride’, but the first hits here refer to Angus Avenue, a road in East Kilbride. There are mentions from Zoopla, Rightmove, and Google Maps. In fact, it isn’t until the seventh page of search results that Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn hits appear. Facebook has only six Angus Kilbrides with profiles, and two of them live in Canada. I focus on the four in the UK, but only one has a profile picture, and this man has a long and thick beard, is dressed head to toe in tartan, and is clutching enormous bagpipes. He’s too tall to be Angus. I click on the remaining three profiles, but am unable to see anything they’ve posted, only the dates they joined the site. LinkedIn is just as unsuccessful, as none of the three Angus Kilbrides listed mention logistics. One is an IT specialist, another a vet, and the third a sociology student.
I slam the lid of the laptop as it shuts down. How can there be no record of them? None whatsoever. It’s as if they don’t even exist.
I freeze.
What if their names aren’t Angus and Morag Kilbride? What if their names aren’t really Angus and Morag?
The thought chills me to my bones, but I’m also conscious that it’s a huge leap in judgement. Here I am conjuring all sorts of theories and malicious thoughts about two people I don’t know and a girl who may or may not be their daughter. There has to be a reasonable explanation for why Daisy looked so terrified, and why I cannot find any trace of Morag and Angus online.
Unlocking my mobile, I scroll through the list of contacts until Gail Rowson’s name appears in the display. It has been months since I last spoke to her, though she was kind enough to send flowers and a sympathy card when I left the hospital. She represents a chapter of my life that I now deem closed, where I had a normal job and future to look forward to.
She answers on the third ring, and even though I know to expect her usual bright and cheery persona, hearing it has me stuttering my opening.
‘Hi… Gail, I… uh… how are you?’
‘Jess? OMG, it’s so good to hear from you. I was just telling Jack how much I miss the old days when we’d have payday lunch at the pub and come back half-cut. Do you remember? Everyone here’s so boring now, and it’s all about delivering articles to impossible deadlines.’
The fact that she is in the office at the weekend is not a surprise.
‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘to what do I owe this pleasure? Are you coming back to join us soon?’
I was expecting her to ask this, and already have my answer rehearsed. ‘It just isn’t practical, unfortunately, not unless they make the place more accessible.’
The shabby office is on the first floor of a three-storey building, the other two floors vacant. But there are steps up to the main entrance, and then steps to each of the floors, but no elevator, or room to install one. Making the building wheelchair-friendly would take major investment, and although there may be some legal requirement for them to do that to support me, I know the costs would cripple the paper, and I don’t want to be the cause of that.
‘Of course, of course,’ she says, without missing a beat. ‘I don’t see why you couldn’t still do your job from home anyway. All they’d need to do is give you a laptop and phone. Probably cheaper than having another desk to provide in the office. And you were so good at selling the advertising space as well. Income has plummeted since you left.’
She hasn’t mentioned my loss, or the injury I sustained during labour, and I’m grateful that she seems so willing to gloss over the last six months like they never happened.
I want to ask her to do me a favour. As a current affairs reporter, I know that she has contacts at the local council, and could find out whether Morag and Angus have registered to vote yet. She could also probably confirm what names were used to register for council tax. But how can I ask for her help when I haven’t been in touch for so long, and how do I explain why I want the information? Telling her about Daisy’s message in the park will have her thinking I’ve lost my mind.
‘We really need to catch up soon,’ Gail says, disturbing my trail of thought. ‘What are you doing this Friday? Maybe you could come into town and meet me and we could relive our payday lunch routine again. It would be so good to see you and catch up on all that’s been happening. Go on, what do you say?’
I can’t decline and then ask for her help. This was such a bad idea.
‘I’ll even treat you to actual food,’ Gail adds, as if we’re negotiating some hugely important contract.
Now I feel compelled to agree, otherwise she’ll wonder why I phoned in the first place.
‘Lunch would be lovely,’ I say, cringing as the words leave my mouth, ‘but I’ll pay my way.’
‘Perfect!’ she coos. ‘I’ll send you an email to confirm.’
We say our goodbyes and the line disconnects. I feel strangely content that I’ve made some progress in my investigation. Gail’s contacts at the council could be the means of finding out who Daisy, Morag, and Angus really are.
Chapter Sixteen
Before – Morag
Angus finally surfaces a little after 9am, and although I’ve spent the best part of twenty minutes trying to cover my tears, he seems to sense that I’ve been crying.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, filling the kettle. ‘Has something happened?’
How I wish I could tell him about my call with Gwen.
Reaching for a tissue, I dab my eyes. ‘It’s my sister’s birthday today, that’s a
ll. It made me upset knowing I can’t call to wish her all the best.’
He comes over and wraps his large arms around me, and we remain holding each other for several minutes, with neither of us speaking. There’s a shared acknowledgement that what I long for is impossible. Neither of us wishes to have that argument again. It’s always too painful, and neither of us wins.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Gwen’s news. I long for some way I could get back to see her one more time, but it isn’t safe, and I don’t want to put her life in danger either. Worse still, I’ve no way of knowing when that terrible day will strike either. The village where Gwen lives – Kirkton of Skene – doesn’t have a local newspaper recording deaths of residents. The only newswire in the tiny village is word of mouth, and usually within two hours everybody knows whatever the latest news or events are. So, as and when Gwen passes, I won’t know unless I’m there.
Learning that someone close is facing death certainly helps put things in perspective. I am lucky to still have my health, and Angus at my side. And then of course there’s Daisy. There have been days when I’ve wondered whether we did the right thing, but then there are other days where I’ll catch her laughing at something, and it fills my heart with warmth.
It is too easy to live with regret.
That is why, despite my reservations about her, I am going to make more of an effort with Jess. I know little about her or the pain she has suffered. Charlie told me her disability was as a result of a needle slipping during labour, and that they also lost their son. How would I be feeling if I’d had to face such adversity? It goes some way to explain why Jess comes across as closed off. Maybe she struggles to form new friendships as a result of what she has lost. I can understand that.
‘What are you making?’ Angus asks, looking over my shoulder at the pot bubbling on the hob. ‘Smells delicious.’
‘Just a bit of leek and tatty soup.’
He frowns. ‘Soup? In this weather? I love your leek and tatty soup – you know I do – but it’s a bit hot outside for soup, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It’s not for us,’ I say evenly, turning back to the pot and stirring the softening vegetables. ‘I’m making it for Jess.’
His frown deepens. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Her being ill yesterday,’ I explain. ‘I thought maybe she’s ill with a virus or some such. If she’s struggling to stomach anything normal, I thought maybe a bowl of homemade soup might be more appealing.’ He doesn’t look convinced, and it fills me with self-doubt. ‘Do you think I’m being daft?’
His expression softens. ‘No, no, I think it’s a wonderful gesture. How did I get so lucky to find such a caring and beautiful wife?’
The doubt dissipates. ‘I found their address in the phonebook last night, so I’ll drive over there when it’s ready and see if she’s feeling any better.’
Angus moves away from me as the kettle reaches its crescendo. ‘Is Daisy up yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Good, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.’ His tone is serious, and my immediate thought is that he heard me sneaking out this morning and now wants to grill me about it.
‘Oh, aye,’ I say calmly, not prepared to give him enough rope to hang me with.
‘Can you leave that for a minute and come and sit down at the table with me?’
It’s all a bit formal, but I don’t disagree, switching off the hob and setting the steaming pan to one side. He carries the mugs of tea through to the dining room, placing one in front of each of us as we sit.
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, blowing on the tea.
‘Aye, fine, fine. It’s just… I’ve been doing some thinking. It feels like we’ve been running away from our problems for years, and maybe we need to try a different approach. After all, neither of us is getting any younger.’ He coughs as he says this, and I can’t tell if it’s deliberate or involuntary.
‘Speak for yourself,’ I say with a smile, though this serious tone is setting off alarm bells in my head.
‘I think it’s about time we stopped making decisions based on gut feelings. The last couple of times we moved it was because we thought he was getting close, but we don’t know for certain that he’d tracked us down.’
I think back to our last home in Wolverhampton. It was my fear that we were being watched that led to our sudden early-hours escape.
‘Are you saying you don’t believe me, Angus?’
He takes my hand and rubs his thumb in gentle circles against the skin above my thumb. ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just think we’re both on edge all the time, never knowing who we can trust or how long we’ll be safe for. It’s time to stop being reactive, and become more proactive.’
I’m confused by what he is saying, and he doesn’t look like he’s too sure either. ‘What are you trying to say, Angus?’
He picks up my other hand. ‘I’ve hired a specialist to help us out. His name’s Lawrence, and he used to work for the Metropolitan Police, but has since gone private.’
‘You’ve hired a private detective? What for?’
‘To keep an eye on us, and those who might be looking for us. I’ve invited Lawrence over to explain what he does, and then we can decide together whether it’s what we want.’
This is all news to me. Angus has never mentioned such an idea before, and it troubles me that he’s clearly been thinking about this for some time without letting on. Maybe my husband is a better liar than I ever gave him credit for; a thought that chills me through.
Chapter Seventeen
Now
Returning to the office, Mike savoured the hum of hard work and anticipation: keyboards click-clacking, and hurried phone conversations taking place. There’s nothing like a major incident to get pulses racing and the whole team pulling in the same direction.
Within the windowless Major Incident Room at the far side of the office, pictures of the victim and suspect had been hastily stuck up on the floor-to-ceiling dry-wipe board, which hung on the far wall, away from the prying eyes of anyone passing the entrance to the room and casually glancing in. The information in this room would remain need-to-know until further notice.
A knock on the MIR door was followed by DC Polly Viceroy’s entrance, open notebook in one hand, her eyes skimming the page as she spoke. ‘The house belongs to one Ibrahim Farooqi, a Pakistani businessman, whose permanent residence is in Islington.’
Mike wasn’t familiar with the name and nodded for her to continue.
‘All utility bills and council tax are in his name, but this is one of three properties he owns and operates through a rental agency, Bennett’s. Haven’t managed to get hold of anyone from the agency yet but will keep trying. The other two properties are located in Harrow and Pinner, but both are currently vacant, according to the Bennett’s website.’
‘Victim doesn’t look like he’s from Pakistan,’ Mike muttered.
‘Well, I don’t know about that, but I can tell you Mr Farooqi isn’t the victim, as I’ve just spoken to him on the phone. He wasn’t happy to be disturbed so late, but he’s agreed to come in first thing, and answer any further questions.’
‘Was the house in Northwood vacant?’
Polly looked up from her notes to shake her head. ‘Not according to Farooqi. Says it was let a couple of months ago. At first, he couldn’t recall the name of the couple, but when I pushed he went away and found the email he’d received from the agency. House rented by a Mr and Mrs Kilbride, but the email didn’t confirm first names. I’ve asked him to forward it to me, but we may have to wait until the agency opens in the morning to confirm anything further about them.’
Mike studied the photograph of the victim, which had been snapped at the mortuary and emailed over. Eyes closed, and skin an unhealthy pallor. ‘So we could be looking at Mr Kilbride here?’
‘Possibly. There’s no print or DNA match on the database yet.’
‘Thank you, Polly. Giv
e the owners of the agency another go, but I reckon you won’t get hold of anyone until the morning; don’t think I’ve ever come across an estate agent who answers the phone outside of business hours.’
‘Have we got the green light to interview our witness yet, Mike?’
He shook his head. ‘Medical assessment is underway at the moment, but not looking promising. Apparently, she’s becoming more and more agitated, shouting obscenities from the holding room. It’s possible she’s on something, or off something, but we won’t know for sure until her full medical records are recovered. Vikram downstairs is keeping me updated, but he doesn’t think we’ll be allowed to interview until morning.’
‘Have we still not got hold of her next of kin?’
‘No answer on the number we found in her phone, but we’ll keep trying. In the meantime, if you’re unsuccessful with the estate agency, go and get your head down for a few hours. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.’
‘What about you, Mike? You look like you could do with a kip too. I don’t mind you crashing at mine, if—’
‘Thanks,’ he interrupted, ‘but probably best we keep things strictly professional.’
Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you do anything but sleep, but whatever.’ She didn’t wait for him to say anything further, heading out of the room and closing the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the two pairs of eyes staring back at him from the board.
Given their history, he’d automatically jumped to the conclusion that Polly’s suggestion had been much more than it was. He would apologise in the morning, as chasing after her now would set tongues wagging, and he didn’t need any additional pressure.
Reaching for a marker pen, he wrote the name Kilbride and a question mark beneath the victim’s name. If only the dead could speak, Mike mused. Investigating murder would be so much easier, though not nearly as much fun.
