‘I liked to make my own notes in detail. I still have my personal notebooks about the case. They’re useful when I’m thinking up plots and characters.’
McNab suddenly imagined himself appearing as a character in a subsequent J. D. Smart thriller, and was not enamoured by the idea.
McCreadie had risen, somewhat stiffly, from the chair. It was at this point McNab wondered how old McCreadie must be.
‘I’m seventy next week,’ he said, seemingly reading McNab’s mind yet again.
He retrieved a cardboard storage box from below his desk and brought it to the coffee table. ‘I was the youngest DI in the force back then, although I didn’t last long in the job.’ He gave McNab a swift glance, as though they might share that in common, then placed the box in front of him. ‘Take a look in here.’
McNab lifted the lid. Inside was a collection of standard black covered notebooks.
‘I’d like these returned, of course,’ McCreadie said. ‘There could be inspiration in that lot.’
The housekeeper appeared again at that precise moment, causing McNab to think the timing had been pre-arranged to let them know the show was over.
‘Apologies,’ McCreadie said with a half-smile. ‘I have a deadline looming. Publishers, eh? Worse than my bosses of yore,’ he added with a short laugh.
McNab wasn’t convinced they’d heard everything Smart McCreadie had to tell them. However, like any good thriller writer, he would likely choose to hold on to his secrets for as long as possible.
When they reached the door, as though on cue, McCreadie suddenly recalled something else as a parting gift.
‘Mary McIntyre had a pal called Karen Marshall who lived two doors down from her. The kid was a mess when her pal disappeared. Could hardly speak at all. Her dad was a detective constable himself. I heard he died maybe ten years after Mary’s disappearance. Karen might still be around, with luck. I always thought the wee lassie knew more than she said, but back then kids weren’t believed in principle. They were seen as unreliable witnesses. You’ll find my interviews with her in there.’
And with that, their chapter in the tale he was weaving ended, and they were dismissed.
12
When she’d been drinking heavily, the car, Jack’s car, had remained in the garage. When still caring for him, she hadn’t needed the car, because she never left the house. Ever. Even to buy food.
Karen wondered now whether the nice man who’d brought the shopping she’d ordered online had spotted just how many bottles of wine she was consuming. If he had, it was never mentioned, not even in a joking fashion.
He always asked after Jack though. Told me his mum had gone the same way.
It was the dead Jack who had pointed out, in one of their many silent conversations, that now she was sober, she might drive the car again.
It was after she’d first seen the advert in the local paper about the women’s recovery cafe, and was wrestling with herself as to whether she should go. As usual, she could find plenty of reasons not to, including working out how she might actually get there.
As she’d mumped on about buses, Jack had silently countermanded her excuses by telling her to start driving again. And he’d been right, both about driving and about going to the recovery cafe meetings, Karen acknowledged, as she turned left onto the Raploch Road, with the Stirling Castle rock rising steeply on her right-hand side.
The car had become a lifeline to a world outside the self-made prison she’d shared for four long years with a man who was no longer her husband.
Raploch Community Campus sparkled in the midday sunshine, although looking north clouds were gathering over the Ochil Hills. Passing the community centre, Karen turned left and parked outside the church.
Having got here, her doubts now returned in earnest, despite all her attempts at positive thoughts. She would be unable to disguise her current state of mind from the other women. That was certain. Someone would spot that something was wrong, probably Marge.
The point of coming to the cafe was to be honest with herself and with the other women. Could she still do that?
Well, she was about to find out.
The feeling when Karen did step over the threshold was one of relief. Just getting here at all after the shock of the news bulletin was, she told herself, a success in itself.
‘Is that you, Karen?’ Marge’s booming voice came from their meeting room. ‘Tea’s made and Joyce has brought home baking.’
All six faces turned to greet her with a smile, springing tears in Karen’s eyes.
‘Hey,’ Marge said, quickly rising and coming over to her. ‘What’s happened, Karen?’
And so she told them. Not everything, of course, most of which she couldn’t say out loud – questioning, as she was, her own sanity.
‘And you think the wee girl they found is your pal?’ Joyce asked quietly, when Karen had finished explaining about the news item.
She nodded. ‘I’d been thinking about her a lot recently. And I read some of my diary entries about when she disappeared. It was as though . . .’ She halted there, not sure about saying she’d felt Mary reaching out to her in some fashion. ‘Anyway, I switched on the radio and suddenly there it was.’
‘I heard it too,’ Shona said. ‘It was horrible. All those years, and her family never knew what had happened to their wee girl.’
‘Have you talked to the police?’ Marge, always the sensible one, asked. ‘If it turns out to be your pal, they’ll want to talk to you about what you remember from back then.’
Which was exactly what Karen was afraid of.
‘I can’t go back to all that,’ she said. ‘Just reading a bit of the diary . . .’ She stumbled to a halt.
‘The police have trauma counsellors,’ Marge said, patting her arm. ‘And one of us would go with you, if you wanted us to.’
‘I’ll wait and see,’ Karen declared. ‘If it’s not Mary, then I don’t need to go to the police.’
She was prevaricating. She knew that, but the memories that were bubbling up both tortured and horrified her.
Marge was studying Karen, her face showing her concern.
‘You’re remembering stuff you wanted to forget?’
The circle of concerned faces confirmed that everyone in that room had something awful they wanted to forget. Which was why they’d all ended up here.
Karen nodded. ‘And I don’t know if what I remember is true or if my mind’s going, just like Jack’s.’
There. She’d said it.
The silence that followed her announcement almost convinced Karen that she was right, until Marge said with conviction, ‘You’re talking rubbish, my girl. You’re not losing your mind, but if you don’t deal with what’s going on, you just might.’
What Marge said was true. Karen knew that, and Jack’s silent voice in her head confirmed it.
‘What if I do know what happened to Mary? There were things I didn’t realize back then because I was just a wee girl and I didn’t understand.’
‘You didn’t understand what?’ Marge said.
How to tell the bad men from the good.
13
‘That’s it,’ Chrissy confirmed as she handed Rhona the last bag of soil from the grave. ‘Now we have to sift through that little lot.’
The layer of soil below the victim, just like that which had covered the victim, would be examined in detail in the lab, along with the clothing and the plastic bag. They also had a full recording of the excavation to pore over, including details of the tool marks from the sides of the grave.
As Chrissy made a move to climb out, Rhona asked her to wait, because she’d just spotted something else.
‘Where?’ Chrissy said.
‘There.’ Rhona pointed at the side nearest the lochan. It was most likely the end of an exposed root, of which there had been many already, but they should check just in case.
Chrissy turned and crouched for a better look.
After a moment’s study, she
said, ‘Can you hand me down the tweezers?’
Rhona’s view was obscured as Chrissy worked to extract whatever it was from the side wall of the grave.
‘Well, well, well!’ Chrissy said as she examined the small object caught in the forensic tweezers.
‘What is it?’ Rhona demanded.
‘See for yourself, boss.’ Chrissy dropped the object in an evidence bag and passed it up.
Rhona glanced inside, and then she too broke into a grin. She’d known by Chrissy’s expression that it had to be good. But it was better than good.
‘Well spotted,’ Chrissy said, extending a hand for help in getting out. ‘Assuming it was discarded by whoever dug the grave, we might have a lead on the killer.’
Whoever had shovelled the soil over the child’s body had smoked a cigarette during the burial and tossed the end into the grave. Someone who, fifty or so years ago, had no fear of leaving behind such evidence of their presence, because DNA fingerprinting hadn’t come into existence until 1986.
As Rhona and Chrissy emerged from the tent, they discovered the sky had darkened considerably while they’d been working.
‘Forecast was for heavy rain later today,’ Chrissy said, glancing at the sky. ‘It looks like it’s early.’
‘Let’s get the remaining soil bags to the van before we get caught in it,’ Rhona said.
Spotting them beginning their trek to the vehicle, the crime scene manager came to assist.
‘I was on my way to warn you, Dr McLeod, that the heavens were about to open.’ DS Strachan gave a nod to the swiftly encroaching rain clouds, which appeared to be circling them. ‘Are you all finished here?’
‘We just need to take these soil bags and our gear to the vehicle, then we’re off,’ Rhona told him.
There was little doubt from the CSM’s expression he was pleased about that, because it might mean he didn’t have to spend another night out on the moors.
As they passed the lochan on their final trip, raindrops were already beginning to puncture its flat brown surface. Jumping into the van just in time, they watched as the sky opened and deposited what it had held back for the past three weeks. Even now, seeing how swiftly the small stream that fed the lochan appeared, they knew how quickly its water level would rise.
‘The peat bank will be submerged again soon,’ Chrissy said as the windscreen wipers tried to throw the rain off as swiftly as it fell. ‘It’s weird. It’s almost as though we were meant to find her. And we were given just enough time to do that.’
Rhona had the same feeling herself. ‘Seamus Heaney wrote a poem . . .’ she began.
‘“Bog Queen”,’ Chrissy said. ‘I studied it for Higher English.
‘I lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and glass-toothed stone.’
The drumming on the roof seemed to grow louder, drowning their thoughts and Chrissy’s quietly spoken words. On a nearby rocky outcrop, two crows who’d watched them load the van now rose cawing into the air.
Rhona and Chrissy waited in silence for the downpour to lessen, before Rhona started up the engine and began to tackle the now-muddy track to the main road.
‘Can we drop the evidence at the lab, then go for a drink?’ Chrissy suggested. ‘I think we deserve one.’
Rhona had it in mind to head back to the flat and go over the photographs and her notes from today.
Chrissy, reading her like a book, said, ‘No way. Remember what they said at Castlebrae? You must leave time for yourself.’
Rhona thought of Skye and the time she’d spent walking in the hills and on the beaches, and how good that had been for her.
‘Okay,’ she relented. ‘I’ll come out tonight and take some time off tomorrow.’
As they crossed the moor, heading back to Glasgow, Rhona’s mobile rang.
‘It’s McNab,’ Chrissy said, reading the screen. ‘Whatever he’s after, it’s not changing our plans,’ she added in a determined fashion, before switching the call to speaker.
‘Rhona?’
‘We’re both here,’ Chrissy informed him. ‘Rhona’s driving.’
‘You’re finished at the locus then?’
‘We’re on our way back to the lab with the soil from beneath the body,’ Rhona said.
‘Anything further I should know?’
Chrissy told him about finding the cigarette butt.
‘That could be useful,’ McNab agreed. ‘Also, we may have a lead on the identity of the victim from a former detective who worked a missing child case in our time frame.’
‘Who’s that?’ Chrissy asked.
‘Former DI Jimmy McCreadie thinks it might be eleven-year-old Mary McIntyre, who disappeared from her confirmation ceremony, East Kilbride, May first, 1975.’
Chrissy and Rhona exchanged looks.
‘That would account for the confirmation outfit buried with her,’ Chrissy said. ‘We’re dropping off the rest of the evidence bags at the lab, then heading to the jazz club. You could meet us there and fill us in on DI McCreadie.’
‘Aka J. D. Smart, crime thriller writer,’ McNab said, rather sarcastically.
Chrissy gave Rhona a wide-eyed look. ‘You’re kidding me?’
‘I don’t kid about things like that.’
‘Cool.’ Chrissy nodded her appreciation.
‘You’ve heard of him?’ McNab said suspiciously.
‘You mean you haven’t?’ Chrissy sounded shocked.
Rhona guessed that her forensic assistant was taking the mickey. Now Chrissy’s wicked grin told her she was right.
‘I’ll maybe see you at the club,’ McNab said. ‘If not, I’ll see you at the PM.’
Chrissy grinned at Rhona as McNab rang off. ‘He’s so easy to wind up.’
‘And you do it so well.’
Having made swift work labelling and storing the evidence, Rhona had a quick shower and found something in her locker to wear. Chrissy was ready before her and, as usual, outdid Rhona on the outfit front.
Chrissy had also donned make-up, which suggested that her assistant’s desire to go to the jazz club held more meaning than Rhona had anticipated.
‘Mum’s staying over with wee Michael tonight,’ Chrissy told her as they headed out. ‘So it’s my night off.’
‘Mmmm,’ Rhona said. ‘And you certainly look the part. Have you got a date?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Someone at the jazz club I should know about?’
Chrissy smiled sweetly but said nothing.
Ashton Lane was busy despite the puddles on the cobbles from the earlier downpour. After all, Glaswegians were used to rain in all its forms since the Scottish weather could have four seasons in an hour, never mind a day.
‘Sean’s on tonight,’ Chrissy said.
‘You seem to know more about Sean’s schedule than I do,’ Rhona said wryly.
‘It’s open mic night,’ Chrissy informed her. ‘Sean encourages young musicians up on stage and accompanies them. Don’t you two ever talk?’
‘When we do meet up, we don’t discuss work,’ Rhona told her.
‘Mmmm.’ Chrissy raised an eyebrow. ‘So things are good between you two?’
Rhona wanted to say ‘for the moment’ but that might have sounded mean, so she just nodded.
She and Sean Maguire, the Irish part-owner of the jazz club, had been in an on–off relationship for some considerable time. During the sin-eater case, things had got pretty fraught between them, which had more to do with her than Sean. Despite all of that, he’d welcomed her back from Skye and supported her in her recovery.
Chrissy was reading her expression. ‘Sean’s a keeper. I’ve always said that.’
Yes, but am I? Rhona left those words unspoken.
The bar was already busy with the after-work crowd. The open mic session had yet to begin, although the stage was obviously being set up for it.
Chrissy was scanning both those on stage a
nd the audience, but seemed disappointed by the result.
‘You’re here to see one of the performers?’ Rhona said.
‘Maybe,’ Chrissy admitted coyly.
They took up their usual place at the bar, where there was no sign of McNab, nor was he the first of their colleagues to arrive. It had been a long time since Rhona had seen DI Wilson in the jazz club, although he was a firm fan of Sean’s saxophone playing. In fact it had been at Bill’s fiftieth birthday party that she’d first met Sean Maguire and decided to take him home with her.
Since Bill’s wife Margaret had passed away from cancer, Bill hadn’t socialized much, so Rhona was delighted to see him there, as he was her.
‘So we’re both venturing out into the world again,’ he said as he greeted her.
Rhona knew Bill well enough to gauge his real reason for their meeting up tonight, and it wasn’t strictly social. Bill got round to the anticipated question as their drinks arrived.
‘How was it up there on the moor?’ he said, quietly enough for only Rhona to hear.
It was something that needed to be asked. Being back in a grave, even if it wasn’t her own this time, had been traumatic, but she’d survived.
‘It was okay,’ Rhona said honestly.
Bill looked relieved.
‘You were taking a chance sending me out there,’ Rhona said.
‘More of a calculated risk,’ Bill admitted. He fell silent before asking, ‘McNab told you about McCreadie?’
Rhona nodded. ‘You knew he’d become a crime author? Quite a famous one by all accounts.’
‘Yes, although I didn’t warn DS McNab.’ Bill smiled. ‘In truth, McNab reminds me of McCreadie, or at least the stories about him. Has difficulty with authority. Brilliant detective but inclined to go his own way.’
It did sound like McNab.
‘McCreadie left under a cloud during the McIntyre case,’ Bill went on. ‘I suspect the cloud was manufactured to get rid of him. Rumour was that McCreadie uncovered something that those in power back then didn’t want exposed.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Rhona said.
‘Whatever it was, it’s definitely not in the files. I’ve already pulled them. Maybe, just maybe, us finding the girl now might provide some answers.’
The Innocent Dead - Rhona MacLeod Series 15 (2020) Page 5
