by Kerry Watts
‘Well spotted,’ Dylan whispered to Isla. ‘I’d better be careful. You’ll be after my job next.’
Isla smiled. Not your job, but CID for sure, she thought. Isla had wanted the transfer for a while, and this opportunity was too important to mess up. This was her chance to shine, and she was going to grab it with both hands. She swallowed down her nerves.
‘Right, guys,’ Jessie began. ‘Claire Lucas is downstairs. She’s been discharged and transferred over, and we have extra time to question her.’
‘Brilliant,’ Dylan exclaimed. ‘Time to hear it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Or not,’ Isla added.
‘Indeed, or not,’ Dylan smiled. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
Jessie felt a little guilty that she could only take one of them in with her to the interview room. Isla was so enthusiastic, and had a detective’s instinct; she reminded Jessie a little of herself. But she wasn’t officially part of the team yet. Your time will come, Jessie thought.
‘Isla, before you head out to the garage, could you do a bit of digging on the McCabes? Anything and everything. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ Isla pulled her chair closer to the desk and logged into the laptop in front of her.
‘Dylan, you’re with me. Let’s see what Claire has to say.’
Fifty-Three
Darren’s legs burned from running. His cheeks stung in the freezing temperatures. His skin was pitted purplish-red from the icy wind that had increased in speed and ferocity in the past couple of hours. Those four walls had been killing him. Squeezing him tight until he was suffocating. A flurry of white flakes peppered his hair. This was a living nightmare. He stared into the window of McCabe’s Garage, unable to make out who the figures were that were obscured by the condensation on the front window, before making his way across the bridge towards Moncreiffe Wood. His chest felt tight against the bitter cold as he sucked in as much air as he could. He couldn’t stop.
Until he came to a tree. That tree. It was identical to countless others in the wood except for one heartbreaking truth. A small piece of police tape fluttered in the gusting wind, left behind accidentally by forensics officers when they were finished. Darren stood completely still, listening to the wind blow through the trees that surrounded him. He felt so small. So exhausted. So numb. What the hell had he done? How could he have been so stupid? But it was done now. He would just have to live with the consequences. They all would.
* * *
Tim McCabe was still reeling from what he’d been asked to do when he saw Darren Lucas run past the garage. An image of Theresa’s frantic gait shot into his head. At least Darren was dressed for the weather, and had on his running shoes. Tim felt bad for the man, he really did. He thought about Theresa, too. He should have gone after her the other day. It was the least he should have done, considering their history.
The sound of a car pulling onto the forecourt brought him out of himself. His eyes widened when he saw the young female police officer getting out of a patrol car and walking towards the garage door.
‘What the hell?’ he muttered under his breath, then cursed Peter’s absence once again.
PC Isla Wilde pushed open the door. She was more nervous about visiting the garage after her little bit of digging into the family back at the station. They’d been loosely linked to a few previous investigations, and some social media trawling had thrown up more questions. Blake and Logan were also still pretty sure the McCabe brothers had been threatening Martin Lucas. All that would have to wait, though. Just get some answers about this van, she told herself.
‘Hello, anyone in?’ she called out as she moved through the workshop. She knocked on the door that led to the back of the garage, then waited. She listened, then hammered again. This time louder, and longer. There was definitely movement inside, but nobody was coming to answer her. She banged one last time with the palm of her hand, gaining a much better response.
‘Hang on, I’m coming. There’s no need to break my door down.’ Mike McCabe seemed taken aback by the sight of the officer standing in the doorway and quickly halted the nervous grin that was growing on his lips. ‘Hello, Officer. I didn’t realise it was the police. I’m sorry. You’d better come in. I’m Mike, the owner.’
‘Thank you, I’m PC Isla Wilde.’ She followed him into the small garage office. ‘Your company van was spotted in the vicinity of Kintillo Road around the time Finlay Lucas went missing. Were you driving it, Mr McCabe?’
‘No, that would have been one of my boys. You’ll be wanting to know if they saw anything suspicious?’
‘Of course,’ Isla replied. ‘Are either of them here?’ She glanced pointedly at two mobile phones lying on the desk.
Mike frowned. ‘No, sorry. Peter’s ill today, and Tim’s out on a job.’ He nodded at the phones on the desk. ‘Look – I can’t even call him. Stupid boy has left his phone here. Do you want me to pass on a message, or something?’
Isla was disappointed. She had hoped to be able to bring something more concrete back to DI Blake. The two mobile phones had been explained away, but that didn’t account for the two mugs waiting next to the kettle. She wasn’t sure what the McCabes were hiding, but she wanted to do some more digging before telling Jessie.
‘Nah, it’s fine. I’ll come back later. Don’t worry about telling them I was here. I’m sure I’ll catch up with them.’
Mike watched her get back into her patrol car and drive off.
‘You can come out now. She’s gone,’ he called out in the direction of the toilet.
Fifty-Four
Jessie didn’t think Claire Lucas looked well enough to be discharged from hospital, but she was prepared to trust the doctors on it. This couldn’t wait. Claire’s father had arranged for his solicitor, Michael Rogers, to go to the station as soon as he’d heard. Michael was a friend of the family’s from church, too, apparently. Jessie knew Rogers’ firm – they didn’t come cheap. Clearly Phil Moran wanted the best for daddy’s wee girl. Rogers shuffled papers on the table as Jessie and Dylan took their seats opposite Claire, who kept her head down. She didn’t even lift it to confirm her name and that she understood why she was there.
‘I’d like to start by asking you, Claire, did you tell Darren that you’d done something to Finlay?’ Jessie waited for an answer.
Michael Rogers whispered into Claire’s ear.
‘Claire,’ Jessie repeated. ‘Did you tell him that you’d done something to Finlay?’
Claire lifted her head, then shook it. ‘I don’t remember.’
Rogers whispered in her ear again, much to Jessie’s irritation. Was that part of their training? The art of the perfect whisper?
‘Do you know what happened to your son, Claire?’
‘He died,’ Claire said, without looking at her.
‘How did he die?’
This time Claire looked Jessie in the eye. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Would you like me to tell you?’ Jessie continued, but Michael Rogers interrupted.
‘Where are you going with this, Detective? This seems highly irregular to me. I insist on a break, so I can consult with my client.’
Claire shook her head, her eyes wide and searching. She grabbed for Jessie’s hand. ‘No, I don’t want a break. Tell me, please, what happened? Nobody has told me anything. Not even Darren.’
Jessie shot a glance at Rogers, then allowed her eyes to drift back to Claire. She patted the back of Claire’s hand. ‘Post-mortem results indicate that Finlay passed away from sudden infant death syndrome. Do you know what that is?’
Michael Rogers was furious. ‘Detective Inspector Blake, I really don’t think—’
‘Shut up!’ Claire stood up and screamed in his face, then spun back to Jessie. ‘What do you mean? Of course I know what that is. Cot death. How is that even possible? Who took him?’
‘I’m sorry, Claire,’ Jessie probed. ‘That’s what we need to find out. How did Finlay’s body end up in Moncreiffe Wood?’
‘I don’t know.’ Claire fell back into the chair and sobbed, then wiped her face with the sleeve of her cardigan before clutching her head in her hands. She started swaying from side to side. ‘I can’t remember.’ She balled her hand into a fist and started hitting her forehead. ‘Why can’t I remember?’
‘I think it’s time my client had a break,’ Rogers insisted.
Reluctantly, Jessie had to agree with him.
Fifty-Five
Jessie swallowed down a couple of paracetamol in the hope of relieving the headache that was beginning to grow.
‘What did you make of that, then?’ Dylan asked, setting a mug of strong coffee down in front of his boss. ‘Strange answer, “I can’t remember”, don’t you think?’ He sipped from his mug and looked between Jessie and Isla, who’d filled them in on her fruitless trip to the garage. She’d also told them she planned to keep looking into the McCabes.
Jessie rubbed at her temples, cursing the pain in her head. She prayed it wouldn’t take the pills long to kick in.
‘What’s your take on all this, Dylan?’ Jessie was curious. ‘What do you make of Claire?’
‘I’ve been thinking about the epilepsy,’ he announced.
‘Yes, and?’ Sometimes her DC would benefit from getting to the point. Maybe that was the headache talking, though.
‘Seizures and blackouts. Memory loss, even. Perhaps she genuinely doesn’t remember and fears she has done something.’
Isla Wilde remembered something a childhood friend once told her, and jumped in with it. ‘When I was a bairn, I had a pal who had a big brother with epilepsy.’
‘Go on,’ Jessie invited.
‘Katie’s brother used to have blackouts. Periods when he just couldn’t remember what he’d done. She said they thought his epilepsy caused it. He had memory loss and a really bad headache after a seizure, too. Temporal lobe epilepsy could explain what’s happened.’
Jessie felt like she was getting a clearer picture of Claire Lucas. She’d lived with epilepsy most of her life, which, if Darren was to be believed, was under control. But that was the key question. Could Darren be believed? Could Claire? Had any of that family been telling the truth? The one thing that can’t lie is physical evidence, which showed Finlay’s death to have been a sad, unpreventable tragedy. But what happened to his body afterwards was very much preventable. Someone removed him from his cot, broke his bones and dumped his body like it was a piece of rubbish. Jessie needed to find out who that person was. Or, indeed, people.
Without enough evidence to hold her, Claire had been bailed pending further investigation. It served no purpose to hold her in a cold police cell. She had no recollection of confessing to Darren, and there was no evidence against her. The young woman might be fit enough to leave hospital, but she was still weak. Jessie wasn’t an ogre. She wasn’t going to keep her there just for the sake of it, no matter how much the sight of Finlay’s broken body distressed her.
‘Wilde, you’re with me. We’re going to have another chat with Bridget Moran. See if she’s ready to shed any light on Theresa’s illness, and whether what Tim McCabe saw has anything to do with what happened to Finlay.’
PC Wilde grabbed her jacket. She wanted to punch the air in victory, delighted that Jessie was taking her and not Dylan this time, but she resisted.
‘Dylan, I’d like you to go back to Father McKinnon. See if you can shake some information loose. Hopefully he’s had time to think about what withholding information might mean for him.’
If Father McKinnon was willing to tell them what Bridget Moran had spoken to him about, his information could fill in the missing pieces. Before she could leave, the phone on her desk rang.
‘DI Blake,’ she answered, while trying to push her arm into her jacket sleeve. She waved at Dylan to wait a minute as she took in the information from the call. She frowned and dropped back into her chair. ‘OK, thank you.’ Jessie put down the phone. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
‘What’s happened?’ Dylan asked.
‘Dianne Davidson has been rushed to hospital after a suspected overdose. Colin just rang from A and E. He says he needs to talk to me. He said it was urgent.’
Fifty-Six
Gertrude Laing dusted the top shelf of the pine Welsh dresser in the kitchen, taking extra care around Father McKinnon’s display of antique toby jugs. His set from the First World War were his favourite. His Henry VIII was the most recent addition; he had been so proud of himself when he’d haggled the price down, leaving the antiques dealer in Abernyte scratching his head over how he’d let it go so easily. Something about the dog collar influenced his decision, most likely. The doorbell chime echoed through the hall. Gertrude wiped her hand on her apron and walked towards the front door, knowing Father McKinnon was taking confession this evening. She wondered if Bridget Moran would be there again. She seemed to have been there permanently recently.
‘Hello,’ Gertrude held the door wide for Dylan. ‘Come on in, Detective. I’ll call Father McKinnon for you, but I can’t say when he will get the message –he doesn’t take his phone into confession.’
‘That’s fine, I’ll wait for him,’ Dylan answered. ‘If that’s OK?’
‘Of course, go through.’
Dylan pushed open Paul McKinnon’s office door and moved towards the bookcase. Some of the volumes on its shelves must be over a century old, he decided. He peered closely at a copy of the Bible that looked even older than that. He lifted his head when he heard Father McKinnon’s shoes on the wood floor of the hall.
‘Detective, hello again. What can I help you with?’ he held out his hand, then sat down behind his desk. ‘Please take a seat.’
‘Thank you,’ Dylan answered with a smile.
‘Terrible business.’ Father McKinnon shook his head. ‘I’ve told Bridget and Phil the church doors are always open to them, and Claire and Darren too, of course.’
‘Yes, it’s a very difficult time for them all.’
Father McKinnon scratched at the two-day growth on his chin. ‘What is it you think I can help you with?’
Dylan noticed that the priest looked nervous. The pink flush on his cheeks increased and he seemed unable to sit still. He crossed and uncrossed his legs several times, on top of shuffling his feet more than once or twice under the desk.
‘I believe you’ve heard Bridget Moran’s confession since Finlay went missing. Is that right? I wondered if you’d seen her again today, or yesterday perhaps.’
He shook his head and looked away. ‘I’m sorry, no. I haven’t seen Bridget since we both saw you and your colleague at the chapel. Not since little Finlay was found.’
That had to be true, but Dylan sensed he was holding something back. A bit of appropriately placed pressure might release his burden.
‘Can you tell me what she discussed with you during confession that day?’
Father McKinnon’s focus returned and he looked shocked. ‘You know I can’t disclose what’s said in confession.’
Dylan’s fingers rubbed across his cheek while he considered his next move. He wished he’d had time to shave that morning – he was beginning to look like a hobo.
‘What if I told you that any information you gave me could help shed light on what happened to little Finlay Lucas? Wouldn’t you like to help?’
Father McKinnon sat right back in the tall-backed leather chair and pinched his fingers together before tapping them on his lips. On this he could be adamant. He was unwavering on the importance of confession to his faith. He had to protect his congregation. There was so much at stake, after all, and God had given him the responsibility when he took his vows thirty years ago. His career in banking in the mid-1980s had shown Paul what his true path was. He was sure he’d seen the devil himself in that world.
‘I’m sorry, but you don’t seem to understand how important the sanctity of the confessional is. It’s something I cannot break. Under any circumstances.’ He glanced towards the Bible on his desk. �
�Even these.’
Jessie was not going to be pleased, and Dylan hoped they wouldn’t have to take the matter further with Father McKinnon. He seemed like a genuinely nice bloke. Committed to his faith and to his congregation. Dylan wished he would remember that Finlay was also one of his flock.
Fifty-Seven
The hospital wanted Dianne to stay in for observation, especially after finding so many of her antidepressants in the vomit she’d produced. They told her how lucky she was that Colin had arrived home when he did. Lucky was not the overriding feeling she’d had when she woke in the back of that ambulance. First Stacey. Now Finlay. How many more babies were they going to rip from her arms.
Colin paced up and down outside the cubicle curtain. The on-call psychiatrist had told him he would refer her for an emergency mental health assessment, but even that could take more than a week. Would there be enough support for her at home until then? Colin knew what that meant. It meant they didn’t want to admit her to the mental health unit unless they absolutely had to, because resources were so limited. He didn’t think she really wanted to die. Dianne was hurting, and it was her way of crying out for help, of stopping the pain. That was how she explained it the last time. She didn’t want to leave him. She just wanted the pain to stop. The grief was physical as well as emotional. Every part of his wife’s body had ached for Stacey. Now it was aching for Finlay, too.
Jessie hadn’t long entered A&E when Colin Davidson spotted her and approached. The look on his face said it all. The strain of the past few days was evident in the dark circles under his eyes. It was like their own child had died, not Claire and Darren’s.
‘Colin, how is she?’ Jessie asked.
He shrugged, then led Jessie away from Dianne’s cubicle. ‘Not good. Can I talk to you?’
