by Alex Walters
After a moment, Mrs Scott said: ‘There’s no point in lying to you, Mr McKay. We’ve haven’t seen her in a good few years. She was a rather—difficult girl.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Scott said. ‘She was a nightmare. Especially after Emma passed on.’
‘Ronnie—’
‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it? While she was here, she made our lives a complete misery.’
McKay nodded, unsure how to respond. ‘I’m sorry to broach this just at the moment, but we’ll need one or both of you to identify the body, I’m afraid. We’ll take every step to ensure it’s not too distressing.’
Mrs Scott looked up as she absorbed his words. ‘Is there any doubt, then?’
‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Scott. We identified her through her DNA and fingerprints. But, if it’s possible, we need a relative to confirm for the records.’
‘DNA and fingerprints?’ Mr Scott said. ‘She had a police record then?’
‘A minor one,’ Horton said. ‘From some years ago.’
‘I see.’ Mr Scott looked as if he didn’t believe this. ‘I’m not surprised. She was a bad one.’ His wife looked as if about to interrupt him again, but he went on. ‘I’m only telling the truth, Megs. These people need to know.’ He looked up at McKay. ‘You said it was complicated?’
‘We believe she was murdered, Mr Scott. Her body was discovered—well, relatively close to here. We don’t yet know the circumstances of her death.’
Mrs Scott was staring at him. ‘It’s that body, isn’t it? At Munlochy. That was our Katy. My God—’
It was inevitable they would join the dots. The finding of the body had been widely reported in the local media despite the best efforts of Grant and the media team to keep it low-key. The details had not yet been made public. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
Scott looked disbelieving. ‘But why would she be up here?’ he said. ‘She hasn’t been back in years. It’s the last place she wanted to be.’
And the last place she’d ended up, McKay thought. ‘You were telling me about when you’d last seen your daughter, Mr Scott.’
‘Not for years,’ Scott said bluntly. ‘I mean, real years. Ten, at least.’
‘Did you have a falling-out?’
‘No more than usual. We argued constantly while she was living here. I never knew what we did wrong. We’d brought her up in a good, Christian lifestyle—’
Well, there’s your answer, McKay thought. What sort of child would want that? He looked around the room, spotting the large leather-bound Bible on the shelf below the television set. ‘I’m sure you did.’ He paused, his mind tracking back over the previous conversation. ‘You mentioned an—Emma?’
‘Our first daughter,’ Mrs Scott said. ‘We lost her too.’
‘I’m sorry,’ McKay said. McKay knew what it was like to lose a daughter. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have lost two. ‘I didn’t realise.’
Mrs Scott looked at her husband as if seeking his permission to speak. After a moment, Scott said: ‘It was cancer. Leukaemia. She’d never been a healthy child, and it was diagnosed too late.’
‘She and Katy had been close,’ Mrs Scott said. ‘It hit her hard.’
‘God’s judgement,’ Scott said bluntly. ‘Ours not to reason why. But we tried to look after Katy. Tried to do our best for her. We never had a lot of money, but what we had we spent on her. She threw it back in our faces.’
‘In what way?’
‘Everything,’ Scott said. ‘Drink, boys, even drugs, I think, though we never caught her at that. We caught her at most other things. We tried everything.’
‘Why did she leave finally?’ McKay asked. He caught Horton’s eye, recognising that he was perhaps pushing things too far.
But Scott responded without hesitation. ‘You tell me. It just happened one day. She was eighteen so there was nothing we could do. We’d both been at work—Megs worked part-time—and we got home to find her gone. Clothes and everything. Not to mention a few quid that Megs had got stashed away in the kitchen for housekeeping.’ He made it sound as if that was the real loss.
‘There was nothing that particularly prompted her to go? Just then, I mean.’
‘Not that I’m aware of. There was a boy. She went off to live with him.’
‘You don’t remember his name?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’ Scott looked across to his wife. ‘Megs is better at that sort of thing.’
Mrs Scott frowned. ‘It’s a long time ago,’ she said. ‘Denny something. No, Danny. Danny Reynolds, I think.’ There was something about the way she said the name that made McKay suspect the hesitation had been feigned. Perhaps she’d kept in touch after the daughter had left home. McKay made a mental note that, when it came to taking formal statements, they should interview the Scotts separately.
‘Do you know where he lived?’
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation before Mrs Scott responded. ‘Katy might have sent us an address for forwarding mail.’
McKay could see from Scott’s expression that this was news to him. ‘Any information you do have would be useful to us.’ He shuffled forward on his chair. ‘And you’ve neither of you had any contact with her in the last few years? You’ve no knowledge of where she was living?’ He avoided catching Mrs Scott’s eye.
Scott shook his head. ‘We’ve heard nothing from her since she left.’
‘I understand.’ McKay pushed himself to his feet. ‘Well, we won’t trouble you further for now. We appreciate this must be a dreadful shock. I don’t know if you’d like us to contact a neighbour—’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Scott said, brusquely. ‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll be in touch about the formal identification. And we’ll need to take formal statements from you both. Just for the record, you understand.’
Scott looked as if he might object, but his wife intervened. ‘We understand. Mr McKay. We want to know what happened to Katy.’ McKay had the sense that she was only just keeping her emotions under control.
‘Thank you, Mrs Scott,’ he said. ‘I promise you, we’ll do our best to find out.’ This time, he realised, he was avoiding meeting her husband’s eyes.
***
‘I’ll get you another ice-cream later,’ Craig Fairlie said. ‘We’ll get some real food soon. It’s nearly lunchtime.’
Fraser looked up. He was engaged in the creation of some highly extended sand edifice. Castle, Craig reflected, was too limited a word for what his son was building. Fraser never did anything by halves. He had already built an array of towers and battlements stretching over several square metres, and had now moved on to constructing a network of working moats. He was trying to deflect the flow of one of the streams that ran down the beach from the woodlands behind them. It was painstaking work, because the water had a habit of reverting to its preferred routes, but Fraser did seem to be making some progress.
Craig could see it would be heartbreaking for the boy to leave all this behind, knowing the overnight tides would simply wash it all away. He also knew Fraser well enough to be confident the despair would be short-lived. By the time they’d sat down to fish fingers and ice-cream, he’d be ready to move on to the next thing, whatever that might be.
‘Anyway,’ Fraser said, not looking up from his work, ‘I’ve already had lunch.’
‘Oh, really?’ Craig said. ‘And what did you have?’
Fraser was silent for a moment, digging away at a bank of sand. ‘Chicken nuggets. And beans.’
‘Right. So where did you have those?’
‘The cafe,’ Fraser said without hesitation.
‘Which cafe?’
‘The one where they do chicken nuggets and beans.’
Silly question, Craig acknowledged. Fraser was four years old, nearly five, and, as far as Craig could recall, this was the first time he’d told an outright lie. His mother might know differently, of course. Perhaps this was some significant point of development, a rite of pass
age to be celebrated. Certainly, it was likely to be the first of many, and Fraser would no doubt become more adept at ensuring their credibility.
While Fraser played, Craig lay back enjoying the sun on his face. It was good to get a spell of decent weather, and it was lucky they’d been able to take advantage of this one. Craig had been owed a couple of days in lieu after working some evenings. He’d been hoping Jules could take the time off too but that hadn’t worked out, so he’d come up here with Fraser on his own. Jules’s mother had been pleased to be relieved of childcare for a day or two, and Craig himself had welcomed the opportunity for what he’d jokingly told Jules was ‘father and son bonding’. ‘Bond all you want,’ she’d said, ‘as long as you don’t spend a fortune. I know you. You’ll spoil him rotten given half a chance.’
The truth was that he rarely got even half a chance. He was having to work every hour just to make ends meet. They’d already laid off a few people this year. Craig was probably safe enough, given the time he’d been with the firm. But you never knew. They said that the economy was recovering—but they’d been saying that for years and it didn’t feel like it up here.
So he wanted to make the most of today. They’d brought Fraser up here a few times at weekends for a day out. It was a place Craig remembered from his childhood. The big suspension bridge had only just opened in those days, and it was a novelty to be able to get over to the Black Isle without having to take the ferry or traipse the long way round through Beauly.
Even now, he thought of it as a slightly magical place. There was the long stretch of unspoiled beach around the bay, backed at the eastern end by woodland and crumbling cliffs. On a clear day like today, the firth was a rich blue, stretching from the open sea in the east to the jutting headland of Chanonry Point.
Craig knew that if he tried simply to drag Fraser away from his sandcastle there was bound to be a scene. He’d no desire to end up as the stereotypical father unable to calm his screaming son. The trick, he’d found, was to distract Fraser with some other, potentially more attractive option.
‘Wondered if you fancied a walk along the beach?’ he asked, casually.
‘Doing a sandcastle,’ Fraser said, still carefully digging away at one of his trenches.
‘It’s very impressive. I just thought we might go and look at the secret cave.’
Fraser’s attention was caught. ‘Secret cave?’
‘Up there at the far end of the beach.’ He held a finger to his lips. ‘But don’t tell anyone.’
‘Can we go and see?’ Fraser was already on his feet.
‘Well, it’s very secret. I’m not supposed to let anyone else know where it is.’
‘Show me!’
Craig began, with apparent reluctance, to stand up. ‘Well, as long as you promise not to tell anyone—’
‘I won’t! Promise!’
Which was probably Fraser’s second lie, Craig reflected. ‘OK, then. Let’s go see.’
They collected their possessions, including Fraser’s precious bucket and spade, and stuffed them into Craig’s rucksack. Fraser seemed already to have forgotten about his sandcastle.
As they walked east, the beach became rougher, with more rocks and stretches of shingle. Woodland rose up the hillside to their left. At high tide, this area was reduced to a barely passable strip, but the sea was currently far out and they had no difficulty in walking further round the bay.
The walk to the cave was longer than Craig remembered, but he kept Fraser entertained with searches for sea-creatures in the rock pools. They still had time to reach the cave and get back in time for lunch.
In due course, the woodland gave way to a line of rough sandstone cliffs, slowly being eroded by the weather and the tides. Craig had once found a small ammonite fossil among the rocks here, and he knew that more serious fossil hunters visited the Eathie cliffs further up the coast. Maybe that was something he should do with Fraser when the boy was older.
He didn’t really know the history of their destination, Caird’s Cave, except that, according to the exhibit in the beachside cafe, it had been the source of various prehistoric finds and that, remarkably, it had been used as a dwelling until the early part of the twentieth-century. It was difficult to imagine what it would be like living in such an exposed location, yards from the roaring sea.
The cave itself was set back from the beach, its entrance a broad archway in the cliff-side set among the surrounding undergrowth. As Craig recalled, there wasn’t actually a great deal to the place, but he knew that, with a few judicious stories, he could make it seem exciting enough for Fraser.
As Craig led the way up the narrow footpath towards the entrance, Fraser clutched his hand nervously, gazing up at the dark space beyond.
‘A home for smugglers and pirates,’ Craig said, in what he intended loosely to be a pirate voice. ‘Let’s see if we can find any of their buried booty, landlubber—’ He stopped. He couldn’t fully make out what he was seeing at first but it was sufficiently disturbing for him, almost involuntarily, to move Fraser behind him. But it was, of course, too late.
‘What’s that, dad? Is it booty?’
‘Look, just wait there a sec while I check. I don’t want us to get captured by pirates.’ He prised himself free of Fraser’s clutching hand and took another few steps forward. He could sense that Fraser was reluctant to be left behind, but Craig wanted to be sure.
He crouched and peered into the gloom and, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see four black candlesticks, complete with unlit candles, and four black vases of red roses, set in a rectangle. Between the candles and roses, there was a dark elongated bundle, something wrapped in a heavy sheet or tarpaulin. Craig already had little doubt what it was.
He turned back to where Fraser was still standing, hanging back nervously from the cave entrance.
‘The pirates have already been, Fraser,’ Craig said, his mouth dry. ‘I think we’d better call the police.’
***
It was only once the front door had closed behind them that McKay realised how tense he’d been feeling. ‘Jesus fucking Christ. No wonder she left home.’
Horton watched in amusement as he unwrapped a stick of gum, pushed it into his mouth and began to chew furiously. She could see what he wanted more than anything, at that moment, was a cigarette.
‘Cut them some slack,’ she said. ‘You can never tell how people will respond to news like that.’
‘Ach.’ He stomped down the garden path. ‘That old bastard couldn’t give a bugger about the poor lass. Either of the poor lassies. We were just interrupting his viewing of Countdown.’
‘I’m not sure that’s entirely fair—’ The Scotts’ bungalow was on a slightly bleak residential estate just outside the village. Horton could almost feel the net curtains twitching as they returned to the car.
‘Bloody God-botherer,’ McKay continued. ‘God’s fucking judgement, for Christ’s sake.’
‘OK, I get the point.’ Horton looked at McKay across the roof of the car. ‘What about the wife, though? What did you make of her?’
McKay took a breath. ‘Aye, that was interesting. She knew a few things the old man didn’t.’
‘That was my impression. As if she’d been in touch with her daughter more recently than she was letting on.’
‘My guess is Scott won’t be keen on us talking to them separately. But I think we should.’
They climbed into the car. McKay was fiddling with his phone, checking e-mails and texts. ‘Oh, Christ.’
‘What?’
‘You should stop off back at the Scotts so I can ask him just what the fuck his God thinks he’s up to.’
‘What is it?’
‘You need to head back out to the Black Isle. We’ve another one.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘How the fuck did she get out here?’
Even the police had had problems reaching the spot. In the end, they’d brought a 4x4 down through the farmland at the rear of
the beach. Even so, they could get only to within fifty or so metres of the cave itself. A couple of officers would have to carry the body back up in due course
‘We think pretty much the same way we got down here,’ DC Mary Graham said. She’d been delegated down here by Grant to hold the fort for CID until McKay and Horton arrived. Graham cut an imposing figure, tall and with a main of thick blonde hair around an angular face that suggested a Viking ancestry. McKay knew she’d have taken no nonsense, ensuring the scene was properly protected until the examiners arrived and organising one of the uniforms to keep people away from this part of the beach.
‘They wouldn’t have come through the farm, though?’
‘There’s another entrance to the fields a quarter of a mile or so before then. I haven’t had chance to check it yet but the most likely route would be through there and across the fields. You can get pretty close to the beach.’ Graham was a local, who’d spent her early years in Fortrose.
‘Still be conspicuous to bring a vehicle over there at night, wouldn’t it?’ Horton asked. ‘Not exactly a bustling metropolis here.’
‘I don’t know,’ McKay said. ‘Modern 4x4s are pretty quiet. These farmers tend to be early to bed and early to rise types. It would be a risk, but not a huge one.’
‘But why take it at all? Why bring a body down here, of all places?’
‘Christ knows,’ McKay said.
The three of them were standing outside the cordon that had been erected around the cave. Two white-suited examiners were busy inside. ‘How long’s old Jock Henderson going to be?’ McKay asked.
‘Not long, he reckoned. Fifteen, twenty minutes.’
Across the firth, they could see the orange walls of the fortress at Fort George. A couple of boats were heading out towards the open sea. ‘What the fuck is this?’ McKay asked, after a pause. He sounded as if he genuinely wanted an answer. ‘Who the fuck kills two young lasses, and then lays the bodies out like some kind of sodding state funeral?’
