by SJI Holliday
She nods. That’s an understatement. ‘Some of it,’ she says. She’s not keen on showing her hand this early. She blows on her tea. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you know?’ She takes a tentative sip, but the liquid is still lip-burningly hot.
‘Her mother had her young. I mean, way before my time. She might be about your age, I imagine. She would’ve started here in 1992.’
Polly nods. Her skin prickles. ‘Yeah. That was my year.’ She really didn’t want to go there, but she’s been drawn in and there’s nothing she can do about it.
‘So you knew her? Mandy Taylor? From what Jon’s told me, she was a handful. Not stupid by any means, but easily distracted. Not really interested in working hard. Jon told me he always thought she was trying to conform to a stereotype, if that makes sense. Her friends were wasters and losers who would never go anywhere – I know we’re not meant to say that, but sometimes it’s just the way it is . . .’ He pauses, waits for Polly to say something, to contradict him maybe. And when she doesn’t, he carries on. ‘It was as if she didn’t really want to do well because then what would she do? She had a rough home life, by all accounts. No dad on the scene, mother working two jobs to make ends meet and no time to bring up her daughter properly. No time to encourage her to break away, you know?’
Polly nods again. Her insides are squirming, but she tries not to show any recognition. Any knowledge. It’s all going to come back to bite her, eventually. She was the one who thought coming back home was a good idea.
‘She got pregnant at fifteen. Refused to name the father. Never has, as far as I’m aware. Katie never knew her dad. There were rumours. All sorts. Rumours that she’d been abused by someone. That it might’ve been a teacher.’
He blinks slowly, as if trying to erase the irony of his words.
‘Anyway, that was her. And sadly it’s a case of history repeating itself. Mandy works hard, tries her best. She had two more kids, but their dad isn’t around either – in and out of prison. I don’t really know the details. Anyway, Mandy never encouraged any of the kids to do well. I think she’s got an inbuilt fear of breaking the mould. She wanted to fit it, so she kept herself off the academic radar. What if she’d done well? She wasn’t the same as those proper studious kids – the geeks and the swots – their words, not mine.’
Polly gives him a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid I can relate all too well. I was one of the swots, as you call them. I thought the kids might’ve moved on from that phrase, but they haven’t, have they? People like Mandy liked to make my life hell.’
Lucas sits up straight. ‘So you did know her?’
‘Yes,’ Polly sighs. She’d love to tell Lucas all about Mandy, but it wasn’t the time. ‘I knew her. Haven’t seen her since she left school. She left to have the baby, I suppose. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. I do remember her wearing baggy jumpers, but then so did half the girls at school back then. I wasn’t part of her crowd. I was never around the places she was. Too busy being a swot.’ She tries for a rueful smile. ‘Then I left to go to uni, my parents split up, moved away. I’ve barely been back here since.’
He stops sniffing, finally. ‘So, why now?’ he says. ‘What made you come back?’
She takes a breath, stares up at the ceiling. ‘The job? A fresh start.’ She can’t tell him the main reason. No one knows that. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to face some of my demons.’
Fuck, Polly thinks. What am I doing? This isn’t about me. She takes a drink and puts the mug down on the desk a little too forcefully.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucas says, reading her mind. ‘Another time, maybe. You want to know about Katie. Well, I figured it was best for me to come and tell you everything now. I expect I’ll have the police wanting to talk to me soon enough. I wanted to tell you first—’
‘It wasn’t a secret, then?’
‘Not really, no. She used to get called my little lab rat – but she just laughed.’ He sighs and leans back in the chair. ‘The first time we met outside school, it was a Saturday morning trip to the National Museum, you know, the one on Chambers Street? She wanted me to show her the fossils. Explain them to her. The insects, in particular. She was fascinated. I told her that it wasn’t a good idea, but she insisted. We travelled up separately. Met inside. Just a coincidence, should anyone see us. I go there most weekends anyway. I don’t have many friends here. I like going to the museum. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘Of course not. But then what? Did this become a regular thing?’
‘Yes,’ he says. He pauses, takes a gulp of his tea. Grimaces. ‘But not just there. After a while, she started coming to my house.’
14
Louise
The kitchen is even hotter than the bedroom. The air is dry, slightly stale. It smells of dirty tea towels and too many cigarettes. Louise notices the small blow-heater that’s fitted under the kitchen units. Katie’s mother – Mandy Taylor – is sitting at the kitchen table. A cigarette is burning out in a blue glass ashtray in front of her, a smoky grey snake more than an inch long lies curled on the bottom, creating a dark brown stain. She’s holding a mug with both hands. Through the gaps between her fingers, Louise can just about make out the letters that are printed on it, with an oversized red heart in between them.
I ‘heart’ Mum.
The mug is chipped on the top, the writing faded from too many washes. It’s the kind of mug a young child buys their mum for Mother’s Day. By the looks of it, it’s not something they’ve felt the need to update. Or maybe she’s just sentimental about this one.
Or maybe it’s all for show.
Louise hates it when her cynical, suspicious side kicks in, but this is a murder inquiry and in most murders the killer is known to the victim. Most are domestic in nature and, appearances aside, killing your kids is not that uncommon. Sadly, Mandy Taylor will remain one of their key suspects until they’ve got reason to believe otherwise. Louise hopes, for everyone’s sake, that it’s not her. She recalls a heart-breaking case a few years ago: a woman beat and killed her little boy, rolled him in a carpet and drove thirty miles to bury him in a garden, all the while helping the police search for her missing son, getting the whole community involved. When they finally found him, the truth was enough to make you sick. Poor little mite had died from repeated physical abuse and neglect. She’d tried to cover it up, saying he was ill, and people wanted to believe her because who wants to believe the truth when it’s something as awful as that? She’s in prison now, but Louise will never understand how that woman could do such things. All these sorts of people. The things they do. Terrifying.
The other possibility, of course, is not Katie’s mother but her father. Long-kept secrets aside, this might be something that Mandy is going to have to share after all . . .
Then there are the other obvious options – boyfriends, other friends. Siblings. But they’re both younger. Doesn’t rule them out, obviously. There have been too many horrible cases of kids killing kids. But not like this. This doesn’t feel like that.
Louise’s instinct says that someone else is involved. And this insect is the key to it all.
‘Davie,’ she whispers, trying not to draw too much attention to herself – Malkie is sitting with Mandy, trying to get her to talk. The FLO, PC Steph Benedict, is making tea. He turns, eyes questioning. ‘I need a hand with something.’ She wants him to come upstairs, to help her pick up the insect. She’s considered using tweezers, but she’s terrified of damaging it. She wants him to come and have a look first.
‘I found something . . .’
He doesn’t say anything. Clearly her eyes have given her away, or else they’ve got a telepathic bond forming. She hopes so. She knows she wants to get to know this man. Something about him draws her in. He is a good man. Not without his flaws, like anyone. But fundamentally good. She walks carefully back up the stairs, hears the slight creak as he steps on the bottom stair, following her up.
Back in Katie’s room, the ai
r seems changed. Malkie and Steph have done a good job of keeping Mandy distracted while her daughter was brought down the stairs and into the waiting ambulance. The uniforms outside have done a decent job of keeping the enquiring crowd at bay, as much as is possible. The rumours will have started already, though. Two police cars, an ambulance, various other vehicles – small place like this. People aren’t stupid.
‘Well?’ Davie says. His voice is more clipped than usual, and when Louise looks at him she can see the pain in his eyes. A child. A dead child. She’s guessing that this isn’t something he’s had to deal with before.
‘Are you OK, Davie? I know it’s not been long since you joined the team . . . it’s . . . er. It can be a challenge, the first time.’
He opens his mouth to speak, shuts it again. Exhales. ‘It’s not my first time,’ he says, quietly.
‘I know it’s not. Not your first . . . I mean, a child though . . .’
‘Like I said. Not my first time.’
Louise had forgotten that Davie had been in the force a long time. He may not have been a detective for very long – a few months of secondment before doing his exams and taking up the position full time – but he’d been in local policing long enough to have seen more than she could imagine. Even in a small town. Especially in a small town. People do bad things. One day she might ask him about his old cases – the ones before she got to know him. Know of him. But not now.
She coughs. Turns away. ‘I found this.’ She kneels down on the carpet next to the radiator, looks up at him, gesturing him over with a nod of her head.
‘I can’t imagine the CSIs would’ve missed anything important,’ he says. ‘They know what they’re doing. I saw them picking up and bagging the tiniest bits of fluff and hair, just in case—’
She interrupts. ‘They wouldn’t have seen this. It’s down behind here. It was sheer luck I was still poking around when I heard it slide down. I heard the pin rattle against the metal of the radiator. I don’t know why it happened when it did – maybe just ’cause there was so much activity, plenty of moving air, then it stopped. The house resettled. You know? Anyway, it slid down. Here. Take a look.’
He kneels down and shuffles towards her, casting a shadow over the radiator. A dark cloud has passed over, blocking much of the light through the window. He peers in, then sits back on his haunches, fumbles with something in his pocket.
She smiles when she sees it. ‘I had a feeling you were a good Boy Scout.’
‘You should never be without a Mini Maglite, Jennings. Have you never seen CSI Miami?’
He shines the torchlight down the front of the radiator and the insect is bathed in an orange, circular glow. It’s about three centimetres long, with its wings spread out to the sides, as if immortalised in flight. A long silver pin protrudes from the back of its tiny body, as if it has been speared.
‘What is it?’
‘No idea. But I know where it came from.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, I don’t know. It’s just a theory at this point – I need to ask Katie’s mum about it. I could be bang off track. Have you got any other handy tools in your pocket? We need to get this bagged, but I’m scared to touch it – it looks so fragile.’
Davie takes a handful of clear plastic bags out of his pocket. Glances around the room. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve found any tweezers on that dressing table?’
Louise brandishes the small metal pincers like a trophy. ‘Mine – they were in my bag. Should we photograph it first?’
Davie nods and takes out his phone. He hands the torch to Louise and she keeps it directed at the insect while Davie snaps a couple of photos with his police-issue Blackberry. He slips the phone back into his pocket. Stands up, surveys the dressing table again.
‘How about this?’ He picks up a small eye-shadow palette with a clear plastic lid. If the CSIs hadn’t take this, then Davie knows it’s fine to touch. He lifts the lid and it comes right off – the plastic hinges at the back have already snapped; one of the small plastic lugs is missing. He takes a tissue from a box that has a picture of a black Labrador puppy on the side. Wipes the inside of the lid. ‘If we lay it out on this, then we can wrap it up in a bag. Might stop it getting crushed.’
Resourceful, Louise thinks. She’s impressed. ‘Shall I?’
He shrugs.
She leans forward and grips the top end of the pin with the jaws of the tweezers. Davie kneels back down, holds the plastic lid as close to the insect as he can without getting in her way. Louise lifts the insect, hoping that the thing isn’t going to crumble to pieces when she removes it from the carpet. It doesn’t. She has no idea what’s been used to preserve it, but clearly the thing is stronger than it looks and it survives intact.
With the insect safely on the plastic lid, Davie stands up and takes it from her. She stands next to him, looking at it. She’s standing so close she can feel his warm breath on the side of her face.
‘It’s not a butterfly. It’s more like a dragonfly, but it’s not something I’ve seen before. I don’t think so, anyway.’
‘Can I?’ Louise puts out her hand to take hold of the lid. He hands it to her, starts rubbing a plastic bag between his hands, trying to unstick it from itself. ‘I’ve seen one of these before. Two sets of wings. Look at these markings. They’re so unusual. Sort of thistle-shaped. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘It was probably happier before someone stuck a pin in it.’
‘It’s like the poster – look.’
He looks. ‘Victorian butterflies. Ah. Right. Yes. They’d catch them in nets, then they’d squeeze their bodies to kill them before drying them out in little boxes and pinning them onto mounting boards. I watched a documentary about it once. Bit weird, but each to their own, eh? Don’t think anyone does that now, do they? Animal rights and all that.’
She glances at him and sees the smirk on his lips. He’s trying to lighten things. As it is, she’d almost forgotten where she was and what she was doing – so focused was she on the task of getting the insect up from the floor without breaking it. She tilts the plastic case back and forth, uses the tweezers to move the pin, getting a good look at it. Its wings are a distinctive turquoise colour, its body patterned with black markings. She turns it around, notices the green eyes. It looks familiar. She’d visited Edinburgh Butterfly and Insect World a few months ago. Remembers the corny strapline ‘It’s a jungle in there’. It was, actually. Her nephew had been fascinated by the spiders. Wanted a pet tarantula. But luckily his mother wasn’t having it. While he’d spent far too long in there, letting things with bodies like fat pin cushions and legs like pipe cleaners crawl over his hands, Louise had gone into the odonata section – carnivorous winged insects, which were mainly dragonflies, and things like this one, that she’d never heard of before, the damselfly. She’d looked them up afterwards, found that some of them were quite rare. Some were protected species. This one . . . this one was beautiful.
A rare find, then, for someone who liked to collect things.
Was it significant that this insect had been left behind, and the others snatched away? Louise wasn’t sure that she believed in coincidences, but there’s no doubt in her mind that she remembers this one. It was as if it was meant to be imprinted in her brain somehow, so that she would recognise it when the time was right. Her body tingles, thinking about it. A sense of unease slithers through her. Was it fate that she’d found this thing? She’d noticed a heightened awareness lately. The occasional panicked fluttering in her chest. Something bubbling under the surface. Something not right. A horrible feeling that bad things were about to happen.
She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. ‘Stupid,’ she mutters.
Davie turns to look at her, his face is questioning. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She smiles. ‘Nothing at all.’
15
Neil
He runs all the way. He’s not really the sporty type, but somehow adrenaline pushes him along. How
far is it? Half an hour’s walk, maybe? If he runs, and he doesn’t stop and he doesn’t slow and he doesn’t get hit by a car, or if someone else doesn’t run into him, he can make it in fifteen. Maybe. He runs past people pushing prams, people gossiping over fences. People out and about, doing their daily things. Living their lives.
Living.
Fuck.
He hasn’t cried yet. The shock hasn’t hit him. There’s that instant wave of denial when someone tells you that someone has died. No. It’s not true. Of course it’s not true. He only saw her last night. They were on the verge of shagging when he said something stupid and she told him to fuck off, and so he did. If he hadn’t said that, if he’d listened to her, if he hadn’t been such a stupid fucking bloke about it, then maybe she’d still be alive.
She is still alive. Of course she is. There’s been a mistake. One big monumental fucking mistake.
The last stretch is uphill, and it’s only now that he starts to wonder if he can actually do it. And if he does do it, what’s he going to find when he gets there? He slows down to a jog. Tries to slow his breathing to match the pace.
‘You OK, son? Terrible, isn’t it?’
He recognises the woman who has spoken to him from her garden. She is scraping bits of ice and snow off her garden ornaments. What’s her name? Mrs Delgado? Mrs Delahunty? Something like that. She’s someone’s granny. He’s seen her picking up a kid at school. Younger than him. A few years below? Brett’s age? Fuck. He knows the kid, but now all he can see is a face. His mind has gone. He says nothing, just nods. Slows to walk once he’s well past her house, makes it to the top of the hill and finally stops, just for a moment.
Sweat is running down his back, and his face burns – all the exertion against the cold air. His heart rate is off the scale. He wonders if it’s possible for the thing to explode right there and then. Burst out of him, all blood and stringy bits and tubes that keep it all attached properly inside his chest. That’d be two of them gone, like something out of Romeo and Juliet, except neither of them planned it. Not their style. He hears her voice: No games, Neil.
