by Alex Walters
‘We need to get social services to check them out.,' Horton said. 'But we’ve no evidence. We don’t know.’
McKay was staring out of the window, watching the rain-sodden fields of the Black Isle, the dark waters of Munlochy Bay visible to their left. ‘We do, though, don’t we?’ he said, quietly. ‘We do know.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘I still think you should jack it in.’
‘Give me one good reason.’
‘Because he’s a creep.’
‘That’s not a good reason. Plenty of people are creeps.’
They were sitting in the pub bar in The Anderson, engaged in what was as close as they ever came to a row. Kelly sometimes thought it might be easier if they just came out and shouted at each other, the way most couples seemed to. As it was, it often turned into this kind of low-level sniping, ostensibly good-natured but with each of them becoming more and more entrenched.
Jim Anderson, the American owner, was engaged in some activity behind the bar, no doubt trying to ignore the whispered exchanges in the far corner. He tolerated them ordering two Cokes rather than one of his specialist beers, given that they wouldn’t actually be old enough to order alcohol in his native Philadelphia. Greg’s dad was a regular here and was one of the few people who ever chose a Captain Beefheart track on the bar’s typically idiosyncratic jukebox. ‘You kids OK?’ Jim called, mainly just to remind them he was still present.
Kelly waved back. ‘We’re fine. Just having an argument about creepy pub landlords. Present company definitely not included.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. You’re the one working in The Caley, then?’ He continued arranging bottles of some Belgian wheat beer with his back to them. Jim managed to combine the avuncular with the mildly acerbic, and Kelly was never sure how seriously to take him. But it was clear that, as ever in this small community, word had got around.
‘Are you going to warn me off as well?’
‘None of my business. You seem smart enough to make your own decisions.’
‘There you are,’ Kelly said to Greg. ‘Not everyone lacks faith in me.’
‘I don’t lack faith in you. But you’ve said yourself that this Gorman guy’s weird.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
They’d met up today after her stint at the bar, and headed down to Chanonry Point to try to spot the dolphins. When you lived up here, it was easy to become blasé about the school of dolphins that lived in the Firth, but whenever she saw them Kelly felt surprised and cheered by their sheer playfulness. It was the kind of thing she needed after the gloom of the Caledonian Bar. In the event, the rain hadn’t lessened and so they’d done little more than have a quick scurry along the beach, enjoying the driving rain on their skin and the blast of damp air from the Firth. They’d ended up sitting in the car, munching sandwiches from the Co-op, patiently watching for any signs of the elusive dolphins. On their way back they’d come into The Anderson, mainly seeking shelter and warmth. Its deliberately ramshackle charm was a world away from the seedy gloom of the Caledonian.
‘That’s what they all say,’ Greg observed, ‘right up to the point when the mad axe-murderer strikes. I’ve seen the films.’
‘If you say so.’ She contemplated the remains of her Coke. ‘It’s strange, though. The way he keeps insisting she just left. Like he’s protesting a bit too much.’
‘You think her body’s interred just below the cask of Deuchars in the cellar?’
‘No, of course not. I just get the sense that there’s something he wants to say. Something he wants to talk about.’
‘That he dismembered her body and left it in the lockers at Inverness Station?’
‘It’s not funny.’ She knew he was joking only to cover his own anxieties. The police were being cagey about the bodies that had been found, but everyone was getting jittery. She’d heard there’d been police around the previous night outside Rosemarkie, blue lights up on the driveway to the old retirement home. Nobody knew what the story there was—probably just another break-in—but the lurid rumours were circulating already. Her own parents, normally paragons of good sense on such matters, were getting anxious about her being out and about on her own. For her own part, she wasn’t worried in daylight hours, but she had no inclination to be out after dark without Greg.
‘Don’t try and make yourself his confidante, that’s all. He’ll get the wrong idea.’
‘I’m not going to give him any opportunity to get any ideas at all, wrong or right.’
‘If you say so,’ he said. ‘Shall we push the boat out and have another Coke?’ The bar was starting to fill up with the dog-walkers who used their dogs as an excuse for an early evening pint. Given the rain, this evening’s walk was likely to have been even more token than usual.
‘Yeah, why not?’ she said. ‘You only live once.’
***
McKay arrived home around seven-thirty. He and Horton had finished off at the office on their return from the Black Isle. He’d worked through a trail of pointless e-mails, while Horton had trawled through the records trying to find information on Archie Young. The basic file hadn’t been hard to find. As Brewster had said, Young had been a primary school teacher and, at the time of his arrest, acting head-teacher at one of the Isle schools. It was unclear why suspicion had initially fallen on Young, although some form of anonymous accusation had been sent to the school's parent council. Young’s details had then been identified as part of a wider national investigation. Young had been arrested and his computer and laptop seized.
The investigation into Young had come to a halt following his suicide. Strictly speaking, particularly given Young’s profession, Horton would have expected the enquiry to continue. If illegal material had been discovered on Young’s systems, a key question would have been whether his proclivities had been confined to the downloaded material, or whether he’d acted on them in his day-to-day dealings with children. But that question—and indeed the initial question of whether any illegal materials had been present on the computers—had not been pursued. Horton’s impression was that the investigation had been discreetly allowed to lapse. She didn’t necessarily draw any sinister inferences from that. Most likely, it simply wouldn’t have been a priority once Young was out of the picture. She could imagine that it might have been easier for all parties for the story simply to be airbrushed from history.
Frustratingly, there was nothing in the file about Young’s wife or daughter. He was described in the notes as ‘single’, with no indication whether he might be divorced or separated. The next-of-kin was shown as Young’s father, the address a retirement home in Inverness. Horton had followed that up, but the father had died several years earlier and the home had no other information. There was no mention of a daughter. This at least explained why no-one had made the link between Archie and Rhona Young. No doubt if the investigation had proceeded, this background would have been uncovered. As it was, they were left with an unhelpful dead-end. As with Cameron, the question was why and in what circumstances Young’s wife had left him.
McKay agreed there was little more they could do that night. He’d initially been surprised he had no recollection of the Young case, but he could see now that it had barely surfaced long enough to reach the attention of anyone but the immediate investigating officers, even locally. ‘We can do more digging tomorrow,’ he told Horton. The investigating officer, then a DI, was still around, and had now apparently reached the dizzying heights of superintendent in Edinburgh. ‘You can make him squirm by asking him why the fuck he let the case drop,’ McKay pointed out helpfully.
He’d phoned ahead to let Chrissie know that, at least by his own standards, he was expecting to be home early. She’d greeted the news with limited enthusiasm, but said she’d have a cottage pie waiting. When he turned up only thirty or so minutes later than scheduled, she was in the kitchen checking the oven. As he entered, she made a visible point of checking her watch before pouring herself another g
lass of wine.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I should do after all these years, shouldn’t I?’
As so often, he felt as if she was spoiling for a fight, but tonight he determined to let it wash over him. He hadn’t the energy or inclination for another slanging match. ‘How’s the pie?’
‘Just waiting for it to brown. Peas?’
‘Why not?’ He pulled down a wine glass and poured himself a decent measure, wondering how much Chrissie had had before his return. This bottle was a third empty, but he suspected there might be another in the bin.
‘How’s it going?’ she said.
‘We’re getting somewhere. But slowly.’
‘There’s a third body, then,’ she said. They’d made the announcement late afternoon. Grant and the powers-that-be had decided they couldn’t keep the news under wraps much longer. Otherwise, someone—the security guy who’d found the body, one of the paramedics who’d been on site—would leak it, deliberately or inadvertently. Then the media would be on to them for withholding information which might have an impact on public safety. Like the media cared a bugger for public safety. In the end, comms had issued a bald press release sufficiently late in the day that the media wouldn’t have time to do much digging before the early evening news broadcasts. ‘What did they say?’
‘Just said a body had been discovered near Rosemarkie. That you were treating it as an unlawful killing. There was a bit of speculation as to whether it might be linked to the other cases, but they didn’t make a lot of that.’ She left the peas to boil and sat down next to him.
‘They will, though,’ McKay commented dourly. ‘You wait for tomorrow’s tabloids.’
They sat in silence until Chrissie rose to check the oven. ‘Shall we eat in here?’
‘Might as well.’ McKay rose to fetch the plates and cutlery, setting two places opposite each other at the kitchen table. Chrissie carried out the steaming pie, and he watched while she doled out ladlefuls for each of them.
‘Nice pie,’ he said.
‘Ach, it’s tatties and mince, isn’t it?’ Not that there’s anything wrong with that.’
There was more silence while McKay topped up their wine glasses. After a moment, she said: ‘We can’t go on like this, Alec. Dancing round each other. Walking on eggshells. Not daring to say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing. Both of us spoiling for a fight all the time, but doing our damnedest to avoid it because we know we’ll say things we’ll both regret.’
‘Is that how you see it?’
‘That’s how we both see it, Alec. You just won’t say it out loud.’
He had no response to that. He wasn’t even sure she was right, not exactly. But there was enough truth for him not to want to engage with it. Which, he supposed, proved her point. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘What I’ve suggested before. Counselling. Couples counselling. You said we should give it a go.’
He felt the familiar tightening in his chest. He’d almost forgotten he’d agreed to her suggestion. That he’d actually said—God help him—that it was all they’d got left. ‘Aye, if you say so.’
‘You said so,’ she insisted. ‘So I’ve done it.’
He looked up, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. ‘You’ve done what?’
‘I’ve made an appointment for us. Tomorrow.’
‘Jesus, Chrissie, you know how busy I am. I can’t just go swanning off—’
‘Six-thirty,’ she said. ‘He does early evening sessions.’
‘Even so, I can’t—’
‘Do you want to make this work or not?’ Her voice was threateningly even. ‘Are you even prepared to give it a try?’
‘For God’s sake, Chrissie, that’s not the point—’
‘It’s exactly the point, Alec. It’s this or nothing.’
He slumped back in his chair, knowing he was defeated. ‘Aye. OK. We’ll give it a go. Who is this guy? Don’t tell me you found him in the Yellow Pages.’
‘I spoke to the GP. He recommended him. Does a lot of couples counselling work. But also has a specialism in working with troubled young people. Doctor thought he might also be able to give us some insights into— well, you know.’
‘Aye,’ McKay said, wearily. ‘Anything’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Give it a go, Alec. A real go, I mean. Not just lip service.’
‘I will. Look, I want this to work as much as you do. I don’t want us rubbing along in pained silence. Always blaming each other to salve our own guilt.’ He took her hand, conscious that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d done that.
She looked back at him. ‘Last chance saloon and all that. But, yes, let’s give it a shot.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
McKay was in the office by seven-thirty the next morning, but Helena Grant was already waiting for him.
‘Shit. Fan,’ she said, succinctly, and tossed the Daily Record on to his desk. ‘You seen this?’
The headline was ‘Black Isle Killer.’ McKay didn’t bother to read the story. ‘It was bound to come.’
‘Aye, I know. But my phone’s been ringing off the hook already. Chief. Deputy chief. Another deputy chief. Assistant chief. Assistant deputy chief. Chief super. Head of comms. You name it.’
‘You talk to them so I don’t have to,’ McKay pointed out.
‘Be thankful for small mercies. We need a breakthrough, though. Something. Anything.’
‘Ach, it’s like wading through treacle. We’re building up a picture of these women’s lives, but it’s slow going. There’s a definite pattern emerging.’ He outlined the ideas that he and Horton had discussed after their interviews the previous day.
‘You think this guy Cameron might be a suspect?’
‘It’s conceivable. He’s the most likely candidate so far. Scott might have had a motive, but I can’t see him coping physically with what was involved in these killings. Young’s obviously out of the picture. Cameron’s fit and able enough. There was clearly no love lost between him and his daughter, whatever the reasons. He drives a powerful-looking 4x4, so he wouldn’t have had any difficulty getting the second body out to the shoreline…’
‘But?’
‘But why would he kill the other two? It’s possible to come up with a scenario in which he might have killed his own daughter. Maybe she turned up out of the blue. Maybe threatened to expose him, if he is an abuser. Maybe threatened to tell his new wife, assuming that she hasn’t already guessed. Something along those lines. And he decides the best thing to do is to silence her. I can buy that, probably. But why the other two?’
‘Because he’s off his head? You said he seemed odd.’
‘Aye, there was definitely something not right about him. Especially the way he talked about his daughter. As if she was his property. He didn’t seem able or willing to conceal that, even talking to us. But odd enough to kill two complete strangers? I don’t know.’
‘If they really were strangers,’ Grant pointed out.
‘We’ve found no evidence of any links so far. They seem to have lived fairly parallel lives, but there’s no sign to date that they knew each other or even had any common acquaintances.’
‘It’s possible, though, surely? They all come from within a few miles of each other.’
‘Of course it’s possible. And if Cameron were predatory, it’s conceivable they might all have been victims. But that’s just speculation at the moment. Cameron’s got no kind of record, any more than his daughter did.’
‘So where next?’
‘We’ll interview Cameron after he’s ID’d his daughter. Just to take a statement at this stage. We’ve no grounds to treat him as a suspect yet. We’ll carry on plugging away at the backgrounds of the other two. We don’t know where Rhona Young was living. We’ll ask GMP to keep tabs on the misper lists in case she crops up there. We could do another request for info through the media.’
‘Let’s hold th
at back for the moment,’ Grant said. ‘We’ll look a bunch of numpties if that’s all we keep doing. People will think it’s because we don’t have a clue what to do otherwise.’
‘Aye, well, we don’t really, do we?’
‘No, but don’t let on. Christ knows where that would lead.’
‘The other question,’ McKay mused, ‘is why Manchester? Is it just a coincidence that that’s where the first two victims were living, or does it have some significance? If it turns out Young was living there too, we’ll have to assume it’s part of the pattern. But why?’
‘God knows. It’s one of the places you can fly to from Inverness? There aren’t that many. London. Birmingham. Bristol, I think.’
‘Bloody Stornoway and Kirkwall. But, yes, maybe.’
She pushed herself wearily to her feet. ‘OK. Well, keep plugging away. I know you’re doing your best—’
‘And my best is bloody good,’ McKay said, ‘as you well know.’
‘Aye, well, keep blowing your own trumpet, Alec, because no other bugger’s going to blow it for you.’ She stopped at the door and turned back with a smile. ‘And, yes, it bloody well is. But we still need a miracle. As soon as you like.’
***
Thomas Cameron had confirmed that the body in the mortuary was indeed that of his daughter, Joanne. His interest in the matter seemed almost non-existent. It was as if he’d been asked to confirm some detail in a report or an item of expenditure in a bill.
Afterwards, Horton had driven him back to HQ so that she and McKay could take a statement. Although it was no more than a witness statement at this stage, McKay felt that both of them should be present in case anything more substantive should emerge. Given Cameron’s taciturn demeanour, Horton wasn’t hopeful. McKay had set up the meeting, as formally as possible, in one of the interview rooms.
‘Can I ask you about your relationship with your daughter, Mr Cameron?’ he began.
He could almost see Cameron tense. ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’
