by Caro Ramsay
Costello wanders into the sitting room. ‘Did you ever meet Natalie Thom?’ she whispers to me as she goes past.
‘No.’
She floats away.
Parnell hangs up the phone and sticks it in his pocket. ‘Go to Elvie now,’ he tells the wee boy, and Charlie rushes over and climbs up my trousers. I see Costello’s eyes narrow. She stands like a soldier at the gates of Stalingrad. She gives Parnell no privacy. I’ve been through it, Eric has been through it. It strikes me how strange that is. Parnell, for all his wealth and power, is about to come face to face with the Not Knowing.
‘Maybe it would be better if Elvie stayed,’ says Costello. ‘Eric can take Charlie to his room, read him a story.’
Anderson nods his agreement, he is keen to get on. Parnell kisses Charlie, and Eric takes the boy away. There is a quiet, hurried conversation between Eric and Parnell that Costello cannot overhear, no matter how hard she tries.
Now all four of us are in the living room, standing on a Chinese rug that smells of money. Four white sofas sit round the large glass and gold coffee table.
‘Sorry about all that,’ says Parnell, sitting down. ‘I spent the journey here from Glasgow talking hands-free to some female detective.’
‘That was me,’ says Costello, bristling at the ‘some’.
‘I’m DCI Colin Anderson. I’ve been put in charge.’
So Costello has been bumped from the top of the tree.
‘Can I confirm that you have found nothing missing, no signs of robbery?’
‘Any burglar would have taken credit cards, money, artwork, but there’s nothing missing. Apart from my wife.’
‘Mary,’ says Costello, still bristling.
Anderson sits down opposite Parnell, smiling an understanding all men in it together smile.
‘And a housebreaker wouldn’t take my wife, I would presume. She’s been kidnapped, hasn’t she?’
‘It must be the obvious conclusion.’ Costello sits down beside Anderson. Her smile is more: If you have anything to do with this I’ll have you. She sinks deep in the big white leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other like she owns the place. Or wants to.
Anderson is listening to Parnell. I hear them going through Mary’s daily routine, her contacts. I’ve already done my bit. I wonder who has been on the phone telling them to pull out all the stops for Alex Parnell and his missing wife. Alex Parnell is one of the richest men in Glasgow. They will all have to be on their best behaviour. I am calculating how soon I can get away and speak to Billy.
‘Mary has a chip,’ says Parnell.
‘Pardon?’ asks Anderson.
‘Here in her arm, she has a location chip, GPS. You should know from the get-go that her actual location is not a problem. I know that it might not be appropriate just to go and get her but … we will know where she is. That must put us ahead of the game.’
‘And can you do that now?’ asks Anderson.
‘Soon.’ He glances at his watch. ‘Hence the phone calls. I’m sure after Madeleine McCann disappeared every parent thought if only that wee girl had been chipped she’d be traceable. If only. Well, I’m rich enough to make the “if only” a fact. I know I might be a target for certain types of crime, so I liked the chip idea. Location chipping can track kids anywhere. Thank God I made sure that Charlie had one. He was nervous having it done, so Mary sat beside him and got one as well. And I’m so glad she did.’ Parnell wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. ‘Thank God.’
‘So why are you sitting here?’ asks Anderson, carefully. ‘If it was me I’d be out there, all guns blazing.’
‘Because it needs to be activated first. And because it won’t help if they have a gun to her head, will it?’ Parnell smiles weakly.
‘Activated?’
‘The GPS needs to be activated.’ He looks at the door, but it remains closed.
‘So, just to be clear, you have your wife tagged?’ asks Costello.
‘Chipped. In here.’ He taps the top of his arm. ‘It looks like a vaccination mark.’ He jumps as the front door opens and a tall man comes into the room, laptop under arm and a page torn from a notepad in his hand.
Parnell is on his feet. ‘Gary, is that it?’
‘Yes. I’ve not tried it yet, sir.’
Parnell sits down further along the settee to let Gary sit down. I notice the beads of sweat on his forehead, the way the fingers of his right hand are coiling and uncoiling; his self-control is slipping. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
Anderson’s voice is gentle as he asks, ‘So this device can trace Mary wherever she goes?’
‘Yes and no. An activation request has to be made by someone who knows a code and can offer further security information. I phoned from the car and they’re getting it up and running now. It had better bloody work. This is Gary Irvine, my IT guy.’
Gary shrugs off a leather jacket and sits down beside Parnell, placing the laptop on the coffee table. ‘I’ve already typed in the activation codes they gave me, now you put in your PIN number.’ His voice is trembling. ‘I’ve never done this before.’
‘I was hoping you would never have to.’ Parnell types four numbers into the laptop with two fingertips and watches intently. ‘Mary knows that she has the tag on her, she knows that we will come to get her. She’ll be OK.’
Anderson and Costello glance at each other, then at me. I think I know what they’re thinking: if these cases are linked – and that’s a big if – then all we have to do is track Mary and she’ll lead us to the other women. Including Sophie. Costello’s distrustful eyes are boring into me.
‘All we have to do is press Enter, and he said it should just …’ Gary’s finger clicks and he sits back, eyes on the screen.
Anderson cannot resist getting up and walking round the back of the sofa and Parnell moves slightly to allow him a better view, and Costello slots in behind. Only I remain in position, watching their faces.
Gary bites on his own thumb. ‘Oh my God, it’s loading.’
Anderson leans forward looking at the screen; a map of the UK disappears to be replaced by a map of Scotland, then Glasgow. A tiny blue dot appears, consistently pulsing, then it starts to spawn ever-growing circles. The dot floats north from Glasgow, then stops over Argyll. The blue turns red. The pulsing stops.
Parnell puts his finger on the screen, a gentle pressure like a kiss, and says quietly, ‘Mary.’
Three hours later the red dot has not moved. It remains on a green part of the map, above the treeline of Glen Lyon, very near the Rest and Be Thankful, too near to be a coincidence. Less than an hour from the Parnells’ house by road, much less by a powerful car at this time of night. But there is no car in the lay-by at the bottom of the hill, so why is the red dot coming from up a mountain? Anderson looks down over the loch, at the surface of the water, grey and pockmarked with the speckles of warm summer rain. There are more clouds ready to close in. The grass verges of the old road are full of cars, two Land Rovers, the dog unit and the small minibus with the armed response team. Anderson hopes they will not be needed. He looks again at the small dot sending out the ever-expanding circles; it is not moving, so Mary is either not moving or is not being moved.
Parnell had insisted that I should be here. I am the fittest, Mary knows me and I am medically trained.
Arty Simon, the search team leader, just noted the number on my high-visibility vest and nodded. Now he holds his arm up, signalling that we’re ready to go. The group gathers. Simon takes charge of the palm-held device and its flashing signal.
‘The dog goes first. Then those with torches. If the first contact is in any way problematic then we fall back. The target has not moved, not a good sign. We need to keep Parnell at the back of the group.’
‘I’ll be down here. Costello will keep Parnell with her, don’t worry,’ said Anderson.
‘And you had better keep your head, stay calm – no matter what.’ As Simon checks the medical pack on my back he says quietly, ‘I
have no idea what we might be walking into.’ He looks round at the line of dark grey mountains. ‘We have to go. Has Parnell got the scent source? Tarka is better than any electronic device, so if Mary is up there, the dog will find her.’
‘The locator will take us to within two metres,’ says a gravel voice behind us. Alex Parnell stands on the broken tarmac of the single track road. ‘I have the pyjama top she slept in.’ He holds out a slightly bulky plastic evidence bag, sterile so the scent would not be contaminated.
Anderson and I watch them walk away, Simon introducing Parnell to the dog handler. Simon then comes back, moving into tactical command mode. He checks the palm-held device; the signal is strong, and the battery has plenty of charge left. He then lifts his arm and the rest of the team fall in line. Eight men in all. And Costello and me.
Tarka and her handler move to the front of the line. The Alsatian bitch pulls gently on her lead, her tongue panting, the rain making crystal baubles on the black diamond hair of her back. She sets off up the path, nose sniffing the air.
Parnell speaks to Anderson. ‘But the locator is telling us that Mary is over there. Why are we following the dog in the wrong direction?’
Anderson pats him on the arm. ‘Just let the dog do her job, she’ll take us the way Mary was taken. We’ll end up in the same place, don’t worry. If the dog goes quickly then Elvie can keep up.’ He gestures to me to get going and I go past. Costello’s grey eyes narrow as she puts up her hood; she is suspicious of me even being here.
Parnell shakes his head. ‘Oh no, I have to be there.’
‘You will stay at the back with me,’ says Costello, no argument.
Suddenly we are moving. Tarka sets off up the narrow path through the trees, pulling on ahead, her nose twitching as she works. She keeps her head steady as she follows the airborne scent. I wonder how the dog can smell anything in the heavy, damp air that is already thick with the smell of pine cones, but Tarka appears to have no trouble at all. The handler follows her confidently. There is no path that I can see but the SOCO on the search keeps flashing his camera at broken twigs and disturbed pine needles on the ground. I notice that the handler is walking slightly to the side of the marks of Mary’s path, leaving any evidence uncontaminated by his feet.
The dog handler holds up his hand, stopping us. I am surprised at how spread out we are already; the lead group is moving much quicker than the rest. He says to me, ‘They were moving in single file, running from the look of it.’
‘Running?’ The thought of Lorna being chased by a dog crosses my mind.
We quicken our pace. We walk through the constant pitter-pat of rain against the trees accompanied by the brush of nylon sleeves against tunics, feet through undergrowth. The dog pulls us along through a dense part of the forest and out the other side, older trees, wider spread, then she stops and sits. The handler raises his arm … I stop. While we wait for the others to catch us up I hear Costello mutter from somewhere in the darkness that she is bloody knackered.
The handler points, asks for someone to shine a torch. He crouches down. ‘There’s something here.’
I see it in the beam of the torch, covered by grass and a fine scattering of pine needles, some of which had been exposed longer than others. It is a flat black shoe, like a trainer but with a Velcro fastener.
I move aside to let Parnell stand in front of me; he palms his mouth with his hand and nods slowly. ‘That’s Mary’s.’
‘OK, we go on.’ Simon points to the ground next to the shoe and the SOCO moves forward with his camera. Ten flashes in quick succession, then he places a yellow triangle down and waves that he is ready. Simon gestures that they should be careful to walk round. There is another signal to Costello to keep Parnell back; he is worried about what we might stumble across. Our column moves on, quicker now, walking with more purpose. Simon checks the palm-held. The dog is still walking away from the signal but she is moving confidently, pulling to get into a thicket of younger pine trees. She sits again.
‘Here!’
Simon points and says quietly, ‘There’s another shoe there, and a pile of black material over there.’
He points to the dark rags, soaked through in the rain. He reaches forward and lifts it carefully with a gloved hand, not enough for it to clear the ground, but enough to make out the zip and two legs … black jeans. Simon turns slowly, making sure that Parnell is not within earshot.
I nod. ‘Mary’s.’
Simon says to me, his voice low, ‘Abducted, driven to a remote spot, chased, stripped. This is only going to have one outcome.’ He backhands the rain from his brow. ‘Parnell shouldn’t be here.’ He lifts his radio and I don’t quite catch what he says but I do hear: ‘Don’t care, but use all your personal charm to get him out of there, and keep him away.’
We are moving again now. The dog moves on to find a black zipped sweatshirt then a light blue T-shirt, darkened with the rain. I register the rips in the fabric. Simon points ahead; a white bra is strewn on the grass in a clearing, its white lace stained black.
Or red.
The SOCO leans forward to photograph it.
Simon raises himself from his crouching position and lifts his radio. The whole team is silent, only broken by the steady pant of the dog.
The group has barely moved five metres when the dog stops again, and sits down.
There is nothing to be seen. The torch beam sweeps back and forth. Nothing.
Simon looks at the palm-held. ‘She’s brought us round in a circle. Mary should be here.’
‘The dog has found her mark,’ says the handler, looking around him.
‘OK, we need to get a grid up here,’ says Simon. ‘Check all this area out; she must be round here somewhere. According to this, we should be right on top of her.’ Absurdly he looks at his feet.
I stare, looking down, moving the grass with the toe of my shoe, looking for anything, but there is nothing. ‘How close can she be?’
‘Can I let the dog go?’ asks the handler.
‘Yip,’ says Simon, standing back slightly.
The dog pulls her head free and takes a few steps forward into the longer grass, towards my feet, and snorts hard. Then she sits down again, staring at the grass, ears pricked as if she is listening to something that the rest of us cannot hear.
The dog handler sweeps his gloved hand through the grass and withdraws it. Veins of blood.
I am closest so I kneel down and carefully part the grass, noting the drips of blood, the larger stains.
‘If you find anything don’t touch it.’
I know there will be only one thing to find. I part the grass again, seeing the way the dog reacts, her ears pricked eagerly. The source of the scent is here. Then something catches my eye, a small disc on a blade of grass. One centimetre in diameter, glistening, the edge of it more visible. The underlying colour is flesh beige.
The chip.
SUNDAY, 10 JUNE
I am sitting on my big red velvet settee back in my Glasgow flat, watching the clock, trying to calm my mind. It’s gone ten a.m, and I can’t sleep. I stare high into the ceiling cornices, following the patterns. Simple stuff but it allows the thoughts and images in my head to bend and collide, letting them twist and reform into something else, something better. I feel as if my body has given up on me but my mind refuses to surrender.
The police did not find Mary. They took us off the hill. Costello leaned against the car talking to me. She asked me if I knew that Mary had a chip. I didn’t, so I doubted that many people did. She wanted to know if I knew anybody that Parnell owed a lot of money to. I had no idea but we agreed that it did not make sense: taking her away in a car then walking her across country, when the car could have been in Glasgow in an hour. And why her? Why not the kid? He’d be the soft target.
I am intrigued by where the chip was found, up in the hills, like Lorna had been, or the Katrine girl. Mary had been running. Like Sophie.
Is there something I am missing? Som
ething I am so familiar with that it does not register? The last time I saw Sophie in this flat was the twenty-first of March. It was a Wednesday. That was fifteen days before she went, of her own free will. I do not know when she really went missing. I was lying on this settee as I am now while she was in the bath, bleeding. I left her alone. I try to think of anything that she said but all I can see is Charlie hiding in that cupboard.
Sophie, too, went into hiding.
Alex Parnell had broken down once we were back at Ardno and even I found it difficult to watch. The serial number on the chip was a match to the one that had been inserted in Mary’s arm. He was to stay at Ardno with two officers for company. They had instructions not to leave him on his own. I was taken down to Partickhill station to discuss what I knew. I’m not sure who Anderson is more suspicious of. I am sure if I was pretty, he would suspect me and Parnell of having an affair. Costello had more than suspicions once we got to the matter of Mary’s bruises; she was ready to hang Parnell by his gonads until he sung soprano and told us what he had really done with his wife. She had a minor rant to Anderson, pointing out one obvious fact: only Parnell knew that the chip was there. Whoever took her knew the security code of the gate.
‘Or they could have taken her over the back wall, there’s a gap in it.’
‘It was noted,’ said Anderson coolly.
‘Have you found a connection between Parnell and Sophie?’ I asked.
‘Yes. You.’
That conversation was at eight o’clock this morning.
My phone rings. It’s Parnell’s number. I pick it up. His voice is rushed. ‘I can’t speak long but you and that guy, ex-cop …?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re looking for your sister, aren’t you?’ He did not pause to hear the answer. ‘Well, I want you to find Mary. You can go where the law can’t. I have a security company, you can have anything you need. I want my wife back. Understand? Tell him he can name his price.’
