Clare reached for her warrant card but Susan waved it away.
‘Come in. I’ve nothing to hide.’
If Clare had expected the inside of the flat to match the dinginess of the outside, she was to be surprised. There was a smell of new paint and the flat was clean and tidy. Susan dumped her shopping bags on a small kitchen table and started to unpack. ‘You’ll be wanting a coffee or something?’ she said, her back to them as she put her shopping away.
‘Just a quick word, Susan, and maybe a look around if that’s okay?’
‘Depends.’ Susan turned, hands on the sink behind her. ‘What’s it about, like?’
Clare decided there was no point in beating about the bush. ‘We’re investigating the abduction of a young baby.’
Susan stared. ‘And you think I took it?’
‘She has a heart problem and if we don’t find her very soon, she could die.’
‘I hope you do find her,’ Susan said, her expression mulish. ‘But I still don’t see what it’s got to do with me.’
‘All right if my colleague has a quick look round?’ Clare said.
‘Suppose.’
Chris took the hint and went off to investigate the rest of the flat. Left alone, Clare said, ‘Susan, I know you had your own baby taken into care.’
‘And I’m getting her back.’
‘Have they said as much?’
Susan shrugged. ‘Not yet, but they will. I’m clean now. Search the place if you like. Check the cupboards.’ She made a show of opening cupboard doors. ‘Fresh fruit and veg, proper food.’
‘All the same…’
Susan folded her arms. ‘You think I’m not going to get Paige back so I’ve taken someone else’s baby, don’t you?’
Clare was about to reply when Chris reappeared. He shook his head, indicating there was no sign of Abi.
‘Follow me,’ Susan said. She led Clare and Chris out of the kitchen into a small sitting room. The furniture was old, but serviceable enough. The curtains were clean and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. Susan’s face beamed out of a series of photos taken with her baby. Then she led them into the bathroom. A plastic tub of bath toys sat in one corner. ‘Even got the right bath stuff,’ Susan said, showing Clare a bottle of Johnson’s bath liquid. ‘Across the hall,’ she said, ushering the pair out of the bathroom.
Clare and Chris walked into a room decorated in pale pink. Susan’s bed was against the window and, next to it, was a cot, old but freshly painted. A mobile hung above the cot and a pink teddy was tucked inside the covers.
‘I’m not going to mess it up this time,’ she told Clare. ‘I want Paige back with me, where she belongs, not some other baby. Got it?’
* * *
As they walked back to the car, Clare saw that Susan was watching them from the window. ‘You know, she might just get her baby back. She’s making a real effort.’
‘Once an addict, always an addict.’
Clare glanced back at the window. ‘You could be right. I hope not, though.’
They got into the car and pulled their belts on. Clare started the engine.
‘What next?’ Chris asked.
‘Next, we’re going to check on the woman whose baby died. The one the hospital staff were worried about.’
‘Oh God…’
* * *
Clare and Chris’s next call couldn’t have been more different from their visit to Susan Clancy’s flat. Clare swung the car into a driveway at the end of a quiet street in Broughty Ferry, a suburb of Dundee to the east of the city. She came to a halt in front of a high, wrought-iron gate. To the side was an intercom; she pressed the buzzer.
A woman’s voice: ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘Detective Inspector Clare Mackay and Detective Sergeant Chris West to see Mr or Mrs Mistry.’
There was no reply but, within a few seconds, the gate began to slide open. Clare drove slowly through and up a circular drive, arriving in front of a substantial two-storey Edwardian house. It had been built in sandstone, Clare thought, but in a warmer, almost pink tone, in contrast to the grey sandstone she was used to seeing in St Andrews. The moulded stone windows were high, the dressed stone matching the decorative quoins up either side of the frontage. On the upper storey the tall eaves were finished with ornamental soffits picked out in a soft blue. It would not have looked out of place on the cover of an exclusive properties brochure.
‘Money here, right enough,’ Chris said.
They walked across the gravel, which crunched beneath their feet. As they approached the front entrance, the door opened and they were met by a woman in her late thirties. Clare thought she might be Indian. Like Susan Clancy, she wore no make-up but, with her dark eyes and her glossy hair, wound up with a clasp, she was quite stunning.
She held out a hand. ‘I’m Gita Mistry. Come in, please.’
Gita showed them into a sunny room with long sash and case windows, hung with rich curtains. Clare took in the room. It was beautifully decorated and furnished, as though it was ready for a magazine shoot. An enormous Bang & Olufsen TV sat on an oak stand and a copy of Country Life lay on the coffee table. Clare noticed it was open at an article on Norland Nannies. On the wall opposite the window were French windows leading to another room. Clare could see the end of a grand piano and, to the side of it, a cello resting on a stand. It was opulent, studied and tasteful.
Gita indicated a cream sofa. ‘Please, sit.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper and she twisted an embroidered handkerchief between her hands. She waited for them to sit then took a seat opposite. Clare couldn’t help noticing she still had a bit of a baby bump from her recent pregnancy.
‘I’m afraid, Mrs Mistry…’
‘Gita, please.’
‘Gita, I’m afraid we’ve come on rather a delicate matter.’
Gita continued to twist the handkerchief.
Clare pressed on. ‘You may have heard in the news that a baby was taken from her pram on Sunday morning.’
Gita’s eyes were bright, but she didn’t speak.
‘It was a little girl,’ Clare said, watching her carefully. ‘Abigail. And we need to find her quickly. She has a heart condition which has to be medicated and monitored carefully.’
Gita swallowed. ‘I had a little girl, you know.’
Clare gave what she hoped was a sympathetic smile. Chris shifted in his seat, his eyes anywhere but on Gita.
‘She was perfect,’ Gita went on. ‘Almost seven pounds.’ She raised her eyes, now brimming with tears, to meet Clare’s. ‘A problem with the umbilical cord. It took them five minutes with forceps. She was blue when she finally came out. They tried for twenty minutes but it was no use.’
There was an unbearable silence, then Clare mustered her strength. ‘I’m so sorry, Gita. You must be devastated.’
Gita dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. ‘My husband, you know, he’s so angry. I can’t see the point…’
Clare asked, ‘Have you anyone to help you, Gita? Give you support?’
Gita’s lips tightened. ‘Oh yes. I’m lucky. Lots of family. Coming and going all day.’ She finally gave up on the handkerchief and put it down. ‘I think they want to make sure I’m not going to do something to myself.’
‘Might you?’ Gita seemed so fragile that Clare felt she couldn’t leave the possibility hanging in the air.
‘No. I won’t do anything,’ Gita said, her voice flat. ‘We’re Hindus, you see. It would be sinful.’
‘I understand.’
Chris shifted in his seat again and Clare took the cue. ‘Gita, I’m afraid I must ask you something.’
Gita saved her the trouble. ‘You think I have taken that baby because I couldn’t have my own little girl.’
‘I’m so sorry, but we have to ask.’
Gita shook her head. ‘I don’t know how you can think that.’ Her voice was barely audible now. ‘If you knew…’ She took up the handkerchief again. ‘If you knew the pain, you would underst
and I could never…’ She shook her head. ‘I think I would like you to leave now.’
Clare stood. ‘Before we go, Gita, I wonder if we could have a look round the house. Please?’
Gita didn’t answer.
They waited and Clare became aware of the ticking of a clock, cutting through the tension. In another room, perhaps. Had they passed one in the hall?
Gita stood, stiff, as though trying to decide what to do. Then the fight seemed to go out of her. ‘Do whatever you wish, officers.’ And she left them standing in the hall.
‘Come on,’ Clare said to Chris, her voice low. ‘Before she changes her mind.’
They made their way through the French windows into what appeared to be a music room.
‘No sign of a baby here,’ Chris said, and they moved on. A small study also gave no hint of a baby in the house. Through the window Clare could see Gita in the garden, standing with her back to them, smoking a cigarette. Their searches of the kitchen and dining room were also unsuccessful.
‘Upstairs,’ Clare said, and they made their way back into the hall and up the wide staircase, the carpet soft beneath their feet. The bedrooms were tastefully furnished with light oak furniture and pristine white linen. They moved through the rooms, looking for evidence of a baby in the house, but there was nothing.
And then they found the nursery.
The pale lemon walls were decorated with a frieze of merry-go-rounds while the ceiling had been hand-painted to look like the sky with fluffy white clouds on a cornflower-blue background. In the centre of the room was a Moses basket on a stand, with a quilt to match the frieze. There was a miniature wardrobe and a chest of drawers on which sat a large Steiff teddy bear. Next to the chest of drawers was a nappy-changing station, with a pack of infant nappies, unopened. A neat stack of picture books sat on a mantelpiece over a fireplace, which had been boarded up.
Chris let out a low whistle. ‘It’s like Mothercare in here. She’s got everything.’
‘Everything but the baby,’ Clare said. ‘Come on, Chris. Let’s get out of here.’
Clare started the car and followed the gravel drive back round, approaching the gate once more. This time it slid back automatically. She emerged onto the main road and turned back towards St Andrews.
Chris looked out of the window while Clare drove. The houses built along the edge of the River Tay gave onto a long strip of grass with a view across the mile-wide river to Fife. A woman in a pink tracksuit was throwing a ball for a springer spaniel, the dog racing after it. The sun sparkled on the river, and in the distance they could see the tall derricks of two oil rigs, berthed on the river. It was all so completely normal and seemed a million miles away from the horror of Abi Mitchell’s abduction.
As they approached the Tay Road Bridge, Chris exhaled audibly then said, ‘That was fucking horrible, Clare. That poor woman…’
‘Not one of the better bits of the job,’ Clare agreed.
‘Tell me you don’t suspect her.’
Clare eased the car up the slipway and onto the bridge. ‘No. Whatever’s happened to Abi, Gita Mistry isn’t involved.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
The radio buzzed, and Chris clicked to listen. It was one of the detectives from Glenrothes.
‘Been to the daycare place and the tanning salon, boss,’ the voice said.
They were approaching the end of the bridge now. Clare slowed for the roundabout, taking the St Andrews road. ‘And?’
‘Nothing at the salon. Everyone got on with Lisa. No problems with customers. Daycare staff devastated. The other mums too. All shocked by what’s happened. Hanging onto their own kids for dear life.’
‘Any of the daycare staff trained nurses?’ Chris asked.
‘No. They all have the usual qualifications – first aid, childcare – but none of them are actually qualified nurses.’
Clare thanked the disembodied voice and said they’d be back in fifteen minutes or so. She fell silent, thinking for a few minutes, then said, ‘The daycare staff – they might not be trained nurses but they would have some experience of medicating children.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
They lapsed into silence, Clare driving, Chris looking out of the window. She slowed down as they entered Leuchars village. They would be back at the station soon. She glanced at Chris then and decided to go for it. ‘Chris, everything okay with you and Sara?’
There was a pause. Just long enough to tell Clare that her suspicions were justified. Chris continued looking out of the window. ‘Yeah, all fine. Why?’
‘She doesn’t seem herself just now. If there’s anything worrying her…’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yep.’
‘You two cooling off a bit?’
Chris sighed heavily. ‘Clare, you’re my boss, not my mother. For the record, Sara and I are absolutely fine and it’s really none of your business.’
‘As long as it doesn’t affect your work,’ Clare said.
‘It won’t.’
Ten minutes later, Clare pulled into the station car park and stopped dead.
‘Shit,’ she muttered.
Chris looked at the dark blue Lexus, then back at Clare.
Finally, he said, ‘Did you know?’
‘That Tony’s the DCI they’ve sent? I only heard this morning, Chris.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’ he said. ‘You didn’t think to mention that the DCI whose nose I bust last year after I caught him sleeping with my girlfriend is taking over this case? You didn’t think maybe that was something I should know?’
Clare backed the car into the only remaining space and killed the engine. ‘Chris, I meant to, I really did. But what with going to see Susan Clancy and then Mrs Mistry… It just went right out of my head.’
‘He’ll finish me,’ Chris said. ‘You do know that?’
‘No he won’t.’ Clare’s expression was grim. ‘He’ll have to get past me first.’
‘I don’t need a fucking minder, Clare.’ Chris got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.
Clare hurried after him and they entered the station together.
Tony McAvettie was sitting on a chair, his long legs splayed out. He was lean, in his early forties with an easy smile he had employed to great effect over the years. His elevation to DCI, Clare reckoned, owed more to his ability to charm an interview panel than his dedication to the job.
He was flicking through a newspaper while Sara made him a coffee.
‘Tony,’ Clare said smoothly. ‘Good to have you on board. You remember Chris?’
Tony’s mouth formed itself into a smile, but his eyes didn’t follow suit. ‘Ah, Christopher. How’s that right hook of yours?’
‘Chris, why don’t you see if all the miscarriages have been checked, eh?’ Clare said quickly. ‘I’ll take the DCI into my office and bring him up to speed.’
Chris hesitated, his face puce. Clare put an arm on his back and directed him towards the incident room door.
Then she turned back to Tony. ‘My office?’
Tony, as she expected, took Clare’s seat and waited for her to take one of the other chairs. ‘So, Clare, what’s been happening? Any sign of the baby?’
‘Not so far. But we do think she’s been taken by someone who’ll look after her.’
‘Explain, please.’
Clare told him about the break-in at the pharmacy and the stolen digoxin.
‘Where was this?’
‘North end of Dundee.’ As she said it, she realised it could only be half a mile from Susan Clancy’s flat. Was that something? She hoped not. Desperate as she was to find Abi, she didn’t want it to be Susan who had taken her. Still, she made a mental note to find out if Susan had worked as a nurse or in a pharmacy.
‘CCTV?’ Tony asked.
‘The team are looking at it but I’ve not had a chance to catch up with them yet.’
‘Chrissake, Clare, get a move
on.’
‘I’ve been checking on possible suspects,’ she said.
‘The CCTV is your next priority. I want the photos on my desk pronto. What about the parents?’
‘Young couple in their thirties. Detached house, two expensive cars but he’s a groundsman and she works part-time in a tanning salon.’
‘You’re thinking they’re into something illegal?’
‘Could be.’
‘How do they seem?’
‘Up and down. The dad’s shell-shocked. Mum too, at first; then she changed. Just like that. Laying into us for not doing enough.’
‘Spoken to the GP?’
‘Yes. He said mood swings are not unexpected in the circumstances.’
‘Who’s the FLO?’
‘Wendy Briggs.’
‘Talked to her today?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then get onto that. Maybe pop out and see the parents again.’
Clare didn’t say anything. There were so many things she needed to do, so many interviews she didn’t want to leave to the other detectives. ‘Actually, Tony, I think my time would be better spent chasing up leads.’
‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘Sometimes life isn’t fair. Got to be seen to be doing the right thing. And don’t forget that CCTV. Okay, is that it?’
Clare shook her head. ‘We have a protest camp.’
Tony laughed. ‘Really? And what are the good folk of St Andrews protesting about? Not enough quail eggs in the shops?’
‘Actually,’ Clare said, ‘there may be a connection.’ And she related the events at the fun run, leading up to Abi’s abduction.
‘Anyone been up to turn the camp over?’
‘We’ve got officers up there now, but…’
‘But?’
‘I don’t think the protesters are involved. Not sure why. Just my gut reaction.’
‘Get it turned over properly,’ Tony said. ‘We can’t afford to tiptoe round their middle-class sensibilities.’
‘I won’t go upsetting them,’ Clare said. ‘We can be effective without being heavy-handed. This is a sensitive case, Tony. We need the community onside.’
In Plain Sight Page 7
