The Damselfly

by SJI Holliday

  ‘How the . . .’ – she pauses, as if adding a ‘blank’ for the swear word she has decided not to use – ‘do you think I feel? My sister’s just been murdered. My mother is distraught. My wee brother doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. So how would you feel, do you think?’ She sniffs. Blinks. As if trying to squeeze some tears from her dry eyes. She’s fooling no one with this act. Does she really not care? Louise is unconvinced.

  ‘Were you close to your sister?’ Louise asks. She knows that she wasn’t. Polly has already filled her in on this, although it’s second-, third-hand information. It would be good to hear it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.

  Brooke lets out a long, slow sigh. ‘Katie was a pain in the arse. Sorry, ’scuse my French.’ She gives them a half-smile. ‘That’s just a fact. No, we didn’t get on. I’m not going to lie. Someone else will obviously tell you, anyway. If they haven’t already. Wasn’t her fault, I suppose. Or mine. We’re just very different people. Were. Fuck.’ Her face flashes suddenly, with what looks like genuine anguish, finally realising the implications of what’s going on. Her sister might’ve been a pain in the arse, but she’s a dead pain in the arse now. It had to sink in eventually.

  She looks away, but Louise can see she is trying to fight back the tears. Genuine sadness? Or a brilliant actress? She’s stopped from having any further thoughts on the girl by her phone buzzing.

  ‘Jennings,’ she says, snatching it up, ‘just give me a minute.’ Then to Polly, ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to take this. It’s important. Listen, I’d really like to hear the rest of this chat, or at least get one of the others in to take over, but I’m not sure where they are right now and I’d rather I had all of this conversation on the tape, you know – to make sure I’ve got the full picture—’

  ‘Am I under arrest now or something?’ The anger is back in Brooke’s voice. Her moment of sadness – if it was genuine at all – has passed.

  ‘Of course not, Brooke. Look, if it’s OK with Ms McAllister, why don’t you come back in tomorrow, have a proper chat then? Gives you a bit more time to think about things too.’

  ‘What things?’

  Louise has to try hard not to snap at her. ‘Anything about Katie. Anything you think we need to know.’

  Brooke shoves her chair back, hard. ‘If you’re trying to pin something on me, you better make sure you know what you’re on about, yeah? I’ve got connections, you know.’

  With that, she turns and flounces out of the room.

  ‘What the . . .?’ Polly says.

  ‘Sorry. Get her back in tomorrow. I don’t think it’ll do any harm, giving her a bit more time. I think she knows something about all this, but she’s confused. Never mind her brother, I don’t think she knows if she’s coming or going. She might’ve hated her sister, but she was still her sister. She’s going to have to process that.’

  Polly sits up straight. Her face is pinched tight. ‘That’s supposed to be what I’m here for.’

  Louise hasn’t got time to get into a psych-off with this woman, so she doesn’t bite. She’s still holding the phone. She can see the timer on the front, recording the call duration. Davie will have heard everything she said. ‘Make sure you ask her about these so-called “connections”, will you? I’ll try to sit in again tomorrow, but if not, one of the others will be here. I’m sorry, I really have to go.’

  She closes the door behind her and walks quickly down the corridor and out into the playground. An icy blast of air hits her in the face. She hurries towards the car, nodding at Zucarro and Evans as she passes. They are chatting casually to a couple of the kids. Evans has her baton in her hand and a serious expression on her face. No doubt they have been inundated with requests to see their various pieces of equipment, which isn’t strictly allowed but if it’s helping the kids to open up, Louise doesn’t care too much about it. She nods at Evans, gesturing for her to go inside. She looks at the phone again. Nearly five minutes. Shit.

  ‘Sorry, Davie. I wanted to get out of the school. Get some privacy. I’ve a feeling you’re calling me with something important.’

  She hears him sniff down the line. ‘Five minutes, Lou? You could’ve called me back. Anyway. We’ve got the forensics results back. Confirmed as asphyxiation, most likely by a pillow being pressed down on her face. Signs of a struggle, the usual. Bruising, a broken nail. A few loose hairs that were lifted off her bed have gone for DNA testing. Results should be in tomorrow. Oh, and that insect you picked up. You were right, it’s a damselfly. Or more specifically a Southern Damselfly, otherwise known as Coenagrion mercuriale. It got sent over to entomology at Edinburgh Uni. They couldn’t tell us too much, other than that it had been preserved the traditional way, by drying, and that it had been done fairly recently, as it was still in good shape. They also confirmed that the insect has full legal protection under the Wildlife and Countryside Act of 1981, and it’s illegal to catch and kill one like this without some sort of research permit. They’re interested in finding out where it came from. They’re keeping it. I reckon that’s a dead end anyway . . .’

  Louise tucks the phone in under her chin while she buttons up her coat. She doesn’t agree. That insect is significant, but she doesn’t know why. Not yet. ‘Right, so you’re saying the DNA from the hairs might be the most important thing we’ve got, assuming it’s not her own hair . . .’

  ‘Aye. We’re going to have to take samples from her nearest and dearest. I’ve a funny feeling that Mandy’s not going to be too keen on that. Having her DNA added to the National Database.’

  ‘Unless it’s already on there, of course?’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ She listens to the sound of liquid being slurped, waits for him to say more. He doesn’t.

  ‘Anyway, I’d like to know where the board is. The one with the rest of the insects.’ She pauses. She’s about to take a leap. He’ll dismiss it, but she’s not giving in that easily. ‘I reckon if we find that, we find our killer—’

  ‘Hardly. We don’t know if the two things are linked. Maybe her little brother nicked it and smashed it up or something.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Isn’t that the sort of thing that little brothers do?’

  She thinks about her own brother. Remembers the time she caught him raking through her knicker drawer. Wee perv. ‘Yeah, maybe. Although no one’s said that Katie and Brett didn’t get on—’

  ‘Just because they haven’t said it, doesn’t mean it’s not true. Maybe it’s not just the sister that Katie didn’t get on with. Has anyone spoken to the lad yet?’ Another slurp.

  She’s dying for a hot drink. Even just for something to warm her cold hands. ‘I’ve just left the school, but no, I don’t think so. Just been in with the sister. She’s a complicated wee creature. Can’t quite work her out yet. Anyway, regarding the boy . . . I’ll make sure it’s done soon.’

  ‘Right you are. Meet me back at the station. We’ve got another house call to make.’

  ‘Oh? Who’s that, then?’

  ‘Jamie Quinn.’

  Ah. The ex-stepfather. Was that a thing? Are you always a stepfather, even if you’ve split up with the mother? If the kids aren’t yours? Louise wonders if they’ll get anything interesting out of him. From what she’s been told, he hasn’t been a part of the Taylors’ lives for a long time. She picks up the pace, trying to ward off the cold. ‘I’m on my way.’

  30

  Polly

  Polly takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Have you got a minute, Jon?’

  He looks up from his desk, smiles when he sees her. ‘Ah, Polly. Of course. Take a seat.’ He takes off his glasses and lays them on the desk in front of him. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Blinks. ‘How are you getting on with the interviews?’

  Polly sits down opposite him. She finds herself pulling the sleeves of her cardigan down over her hands. Crossing her arms. Uncrossing them. She feel
s fidgety and unsettled. ‘I don’t think I’m getting very far. They don’t seem to want to talk. Or else they’ve nothing to say. I’m not sure yet. I haven’t managed to get hold of Hayley Marsh yet. I’ve heard that she was good friends with Katie until a few months ago . . .’

  Jon sighs. ‘I expect she’s off sick again. It’s been a semi-regular occurrence, since her ex-boyfriend died last summer.’

  ‘Oh . . . right. I remember now. He was one of the ones who died at Willow Walk, wasn’t he? Sean . . .’

  ‘Talbot. Yes. To be honest, she’d been going off the rails for a bit before that happened. She was picked up by the police at the shows. She’d been hanging round with some of the lads there. She’s going out with one of the rugby lads in the year above now. Ross Hardy. I’ve heard some rumours about that too . . .’

  ‘You hear about everything, don’t you?’ She smiles when she says this. It was always something she was aware of back when she was here as a pupil. Even with eight hundred pupils with eight hundred different personalities – good, bad and everything in between – Jon Poole always seemed to know absolutely everything. ‘It would be good to talk to her, Jon. The police will want to see if she knows anything. I’m sure it’s easier on the kids if we do the interviews here. So far they haven’t had to follow up with any of them formally. At the station, I mean. Which is good – if none of them are involved – but not so good when it’s not really helping them find who did this.’

  ‘I’ll ring her mother, ask her to bring Hayley in tomorrow. You’re right, we do need to talk to her. Soon. I’ve no doubt she’s feeling very low right now. She’s been saying some bad things about Katie of late, but I don’t think you can throw away a friendship that easily, can you?’

  Polly’s not so sure about that. She’d never been able to patch things up with Claire after her ‘accident’, as everyone liked to call it. And Jo had never really liked her in the first place. Can’t say she blamed either of them. She wasn’t particularly nice back then.

  Polly blinks, snapping back to the present. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she says. ‘Oh, something else I meant to ask you . . . probably just nonsense, but Brooke said something a bit worrying earlier. She got a bit upset when Detective Jennings and me were talking to her. Said something about having “connections”. Any idea what she might’ve meant by that?’

  ‘I’d like to say I have an insight into that girl’s mind, but I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sure it was an idle threat. Nothing in it. Hmm . . .’ He pauses, frowns. ‘I suppose she might’ve been referring to some of her father’s dodgy friends. Not that I’m one to judge, but the man is in prison and it’s not the first time. He doesn’t mix with a particularly worthy crowd of humans, from what I’ve heard. Did you get anything useful out of her in the end?’

  ‘Not really. We got cut short, as Louise had to leave. We’re picking it up again tomorrow. Louise asked Brooke to have a good think about what she was planning to say. I think that’s what got Brooke riled. Like we were accusing her of something – which we weren’t, by the way – but the reaction . . . Well, now I’m a little concerned. She seems like a very troubled young woman.’

  ‘Well, keep me posted.’

  Polly takes that as her cue to leave. With no other children scheduled in for the day, she decides to go home early. Only half an hour, but she could do with a break. The whole experience has been draining and she knows that she needs to be looking after herself now.

  Out in the playground, Evans and Zucarro are chatting to a couple of the sixth years. The teenagers scuttle off as Polly approaches.

  ‘Was it something I said?’

  ‘I think they were about to head off anyway,’ Sarah Evans says. She’s shifting from one foot to the other, rubbing her hands together. Polly’s not sure if it’s because she’s freezing or just the result of her usual frenetic energy.

  ‘Anything new come up?’ Polly says.

  ‘Nah,’ says Karen Zucarro. ‘None of them have much to say about anything, really. They’re interested in knowing what we get up to on a daily basis, but they’re not keen on reciprocating that info, no matter how casual we try to be.’

  ‘Do you think they’re scared?’

  ‘I don’t get that impression, to be honest. It’s weird, but I thought they’d be more intrigued by it all. That’s what kids are usually like when something awful happens. It’s their natural instinct.’

  Polly frowns. ‘I think they all know more than they want to admit. They’re just not too keen on voicing it, in case they get someone into trouble . . . or get themselves into trouble, for telling tales.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Karen says. ‘Anyway, that’s us off for the day. We’ll be back in the morning.’

  The two of them disappear down the path just as the bell rings. Polly fumbles in her bag for her gloves. She senses a movement out of the corner of her eye and turns just in time to see a figure disappearing into the maintenance room at the edge of the building. Is it Pete? She’s been meaning to have a chat with him. The police have already questioned him and Brian, his boss, but she wasn’t there and she’s interested to find out if he might know anything – considering he spends all day milling around different parts of the school. He must hear things. See things.

  ‘Hi,’ she calls, but her voice is lost in the crowd as the front door is slammed open, crashing against the wall, and hundreds of chattering children burst out onto the concrete, as if someone has pushed them all into a can and shaken it until it popped.

  31

  Louise

  Jamie Quinn lives at the end of a row of neat, terraced houses. They all look the same, except for their various front doors. His is a polished dark wood, matching the window ledges, which look as if they’ve been recently painted. A knock on the door leads to barking and the sound of four excited feet pattering on the carpet behind the door.

  ‘Calm down, Drummer, that’s enough.’ A tall man stands in the doorway. He has short cropped dark hair; a tight white T-shirt shows the lines of a muscular torso. He’s bent slightly to one side, one large hand on the dog that is scrabbling to push its way outside the door. Louise recognises it as a springer spaniel – white body, brown velvety ears. Its long pink tongue hangs out of its mouth as it pants at them.

  ‘Looks like the dog is excited to have visitors, even if you’re not,’ Gray says.

  Quinn attempts a smile. He has the kind of craggy face that looks perpetually grumpy. ‘Sergeant Gray – I was wondering when I might see you.’

  ‘It’s Detective Sergeant now, son. This is Detective Constable Jennings. Mind if we come in?’

  Quinn steps back, hand still on the dog, trying to prevent its escape. They both step inside. ‘You can call me Louise,’ she says. ‘Nice dog, by the way. We used to have a springer when I was a kid. It always makes me laugh when they start bouncing on all four feet.’

  ‘Aye,’ Quinn says. ‘They bounce higher when they’ve eaten a plateful of sausage rolls. I don’t recommend feeding them that though, unless you’re particularly partial to dog sick. Party. Some clown decided he’d like to feed him the lot. Funny the memories that stick in your head, eh?’

  Quinn lets go of the dog and it disappears down the hall towards what Louise assumes is the kitchen.

  ‘Tea?’ Quinn calls.

  They put in the orders and take a seat at the kitchen table. Louise glances around. The units are freshly painted in pale tangerine. Wooden venetians on the small window look brand new.

  ‘Been doing the place up? I noticed the door, and the window ledges too. Looks nice.’

  Quinn sighs. He flicks on the kettle and lifts mugs from a shelf above it. ‘My mum died last year. Sold her house and used the money to sort this out. She was always telling me to do the place up. She’d have liked it. Just wish I hadn’t waited until she was gone.’

  ‘Usual story,’ Louise says. ‘We never do things when we should.’

  Quinn turns back towards them and Louise can see the strain on
his face. In the dim orange light of the kitchen, the dark circles under his eyes are more obvious. ‘I suppose you’re here about Katie,’ he says. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

  Davie stands and walks across to the kettle. He takes teabags from the canister nearby. Quinn doesn’t protest. ‘I tried calling Mandy last night, but she’s not answering the phone. Spoke to one of your lot. A Constable Benedict? Said Mandy’s been on pills from the doc . . .’

  ‘That’s right,’ Louise says. ‘Steph Benedict is the FLO. She’s looking after her. The GP reckoned it was best to keep her on Valium for a few days at least. Try to take the edge off things.’

  Quinn makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a single note of laughter. ‘Fine. I ken about that sort of thing.’

  Davie places mugs on the table. ‘How long’s it been now, Quinn? Ten years?’

  ‘That’s right, near enough. Good thing too, or I doubt I’d have had ten years left in me. Things are going well now, in case you wondered. New girlfriend and all that. Well, things were going well. Until this. Poor Katie. I don’t understand it at all. She was a model kid, that one. Not like the others. Maybe it’s just because she was that wee bit older, I got to know her pretty well. She always had a mature head on her shoulders. She was always encouraging, when I was at my lowest. I had a rough time a couple of years back. Felt myself sliding under again. It was Katie that made me go to the doc’s. Got me sorted before I found myself back on the smack. Christ . . .’ He pauses, runs a hand across his shorn head. ‘I only saw her the other day. She was buzzing. Had some exciting news, she said. Only she wouldn’t say what it was. I gave her a portion of chips in a polystyrene box and told her to bugger off. That was the last time I saw her.’ He looks down at the table.

  ‘So this was at work, I take it? At the Rowan Tree?’

  He looks up, and Louise can see the unshed tears making his eyes shine. ‘Aye. She often popped round to the back door of the kitchen to see me. It’s where I am, most of the time. To be honest, when I’m home I’m usually asleep. You caught me just in time.’