by Kerry Watts
‘Please, come in. You’re very welcome here.’ Paul stepped forward to greet the strangers and frowned when they held up official identification. He pulled his glasses from his pocket and squinted at the IDs. ‘Hello, Detectives. What can I do for you?’
‘Hello again.’ Bridget’s face was stern. Even today there didn’t appear to be any emotion in her eyes, Jessie noticed, and that bothered her. What was that all about? It made her feel quite uncomfortable, if she was honest.
Father McKinnon shot a glance at Bridget, then averted his eyes, his cheeks gaining a pink hue. ‘Is there anything I can help you with? Please come through to the house. We can talk more comfortably in there. My housekeeper, Mrs Laing, might even make us a pot of tea and find some biscuits.’
Jessie shook her head. ‘It’s Mrs Moran I’m here to speak to, but thank you, Father. Her husband told us she would be here. Maybe next time.’
‘OK, I’ll be in the house if you need anything.’ He lightly touched Bridget’s back then left the three of them to talk. ‘Please tell Claire and Darren they will be included in my prayers.’
Bridget nodded while she watched him leave, avoiding Jessie’s gaze – she could feel it burning into her cheek. Jessie waited for her to turn round, still unnerved by how aloof she was. How cold.
Bridget slowly sighed and split her icy stare between the two detectives. ‘What can I do for you?’
Jessie glanced up at Jesus, hung painfully on the cross not far from where they stood. Bridget couldn’t lie to her. Not standing under her Lord and Saviour.
‘I was sorry to hear that Theresa has been taken ill,’ Jessie began. ‘Can you tell us what happened? Your husband mentioned she was upset about something that happened yesterday.’
Bridget sat down in the closest pew and pressed her khaki skirt tighter over her knees. She pulled a tissue from her shirtsleeve and wiped her nose. ‘Not that it has anything to do with your investigation, but Theresa’s mental health has been bad for a long time. I found out she has been skipping her medication and her mind was very mixed up, so I thought it would be better to have her be admitted so she can sort herself out. Before it got any worse. Maybe have her medication reviewed.’
‘Does she know what’s happened to Finlay? I imagine that would be a difficult thing to tell her. Probably best to leave that until she’s feeling better.’
Bridget shot straight back up, startling Dylan, who stepped backwards involuntarily. ‘Why would you ask such a thing?’
It didn’t surprise Jessie. Of course Bridget would do that – become indignant and answer questions with questions. That way, she wasn’t really lying in front of Him, was she?
‘If there’s nothing else other than your interest in Theresa’s mental health then I have things I need to get on with.’
‘So she didn’t tell you what caused her such anxiety,’ Jessie persisted. ‘Did she tell you why she was at Claire’s that day?’
‘I don’t know. Have you tried asking Claire?’ Bridget suggested with a steely glare and tidied the collar of her jacket as she spoke.
Jessie watched the back of Bridget disappear out of the chapel’s door. Their conversation was postponed, not over. Not over by a long shot. Bridget Moran knew far more than she was letting on, and Jessie intended to find out what.
Thirty
Jessie hated public appeals with a passion, but they were something that went with the territory. She peeled her black scrunchie out and shook her hair, then traced her fingers through to remove as many tugs as she could find. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a lipstick from the bottom of the chaos. She puckered her lips in the station bathroom mirror. It would have to do. Mocha was more professional than red, for sure. All the comb achieved was to make her stringy, thin hair look even worse. She tied it back from her face again, then pinched the skin on her cheeks. She exhaled loudly before making her way outside. These things always made her feel so self-conscious, and the sound of her own voice was weird to her own ears. Like someone else’s voice had taken over. She wondered if everyone felt like that. Her throat was so dry, and her lips. She sipped from her water bottle before stepping out of the main door of the police station to stand in front of a small crowd of expectant faces; some she recognised, some she couldn’t recall ever seeing before.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Jessie Blake, and I am heading up the investigation into the disappearance of a vulnerable six-month-old baby boy. Thank you all for coming at such short notice, but it is imperative that we get this information out to the public as soon as possible.’ Jessie held up a photo of a smiling, blond-haired infant. ‘This is Finlay Lucas. Yesterday afternoon, between 3.30 and 5 p.m., he was taken from his cot and is now a missing person.’
Jessie’s eyes scanned the crowd, silent apart from the odd click from a camera. Some held up digital recorders and phones to capture Jessie’s words. It made Jessie feel self-conscious again, but she swallowed it down. Holding the press conference now meant they could make the evening’s news bulletins and tomorrow’s papers – that’s what mattered, not her ratty hair and pallid skin.
‘What I’m asking now is for anyone who was in the vicinity of Kintillo Road and Forgandenny Road in Bridge of Earn yesterday afternoon to please come forward. What you saw or heard might seem like nothing to you, but could be vital in establishing what has happened to Finlay. Did you see anyone in the area that you’ve never seen before? How did they seem? We also need any businesses and private residences with CCTV to contact us with any footage obtained yesterday afternoon. Even dashcam footage would be helpful to us. If anybody thinks they have seen a friend or relative with a baby they don’t recognise, it is vital that you contact us immediately. Also, if a friend or relative who is acting out of character concerns you, please let us know as soon as possible, especially if they can be placed at the scene yesterday afternoon. I urge you in the strongest possible terms to contact us. All of this information and this photo of Finlay is on Police Scotland’s website, Facebook and Twitter feed. Finlay’s mum and dad are understandably anxious to find their son. Thank you.’
Jessie started to turn away, just as a barrage of questions came at her back.
‘Detective Inspector,’ one dominant male voice bellowed above the others, ‘has he been kidnapped with a view to obtaining financial reward, do you think? Have his parents received a ransom demand yet?’
Jessie spun back round to address his point.
‘At this time we are looking into every possible motive. Thank you. As you can probably understand, I’m not about to speculate. Thank you for your cooperation.’
Jessie shoved her shoulder into the station door and enjoyed hearing the crowd disperse behind her. She hadn’t lied. Everything was a possibility right now.
Thirty-One
The little one had kept her awake most of the night and she was exhausted, especially after the long day yesterday. But the infant had slept for a large part of the journey, so it wasn’t surprising they were both wide awake most of the night. Right then, she regretted agreeing to help out. It was too much at her age and in her condition. With her hip so bad now. The little tyke was crying for breakfast, and she wondered where all that energy came from.
‘Hey you, what’s all this fuss about? I know I’m not as fast as Mummy, but it’s coming, I promise.’ She rocked the hungry child soothingly as she heated the bottle in a jug of warm water.
She checked the fridge. There were two left. She would have to get more made up if she was to babysit much longer. She was so out of practice with all this and she’d breastfed her sons anyway, and used real nappies, which hadn’t done them any harm. They, on the other hand, had never fastened a terry nappy in their lives, choosing instead to use disposable ones on her grandchildren, which looked like paper to her. That couldn’t possibly be comfortable, she’d told them, but their response was to laugh at their mother’s old-fashioned ways.
‘Here you go.’ She offered the teat to the famished baby and
the milk was guzzled with enthusiasm. ‘My, you were hungry, weren’t you?’
She lifted a tiny hand and watched it grip her finger.
‘You’re perfect, aren’t you?’ she whispered, and leaned her face close. She lifted the little hand and kissed it gently.
She watched those big round eyes struggle to stay open, and pulled away the bottle once her little house guest had had his fill. She lifted the boy up and held him over her shoulder to pat his back, then grinned at the loud rumble that started in his tummy and quickly erupted from his lips. She glanced across at the flashing red light on her answering machine. It would have to wait; she had meant to check it last night.
‘I bet that feels better,’ she laughed a little and laid him back into the travel cot, wondering just how long she would be caring for him now that the plan had changed.
Thirty-Two
Jessie was concerned that Dianne Davidson’s aunt still hadn’t called back to confirm what Dianne had told her. Jessie had left a message, but wondered whether it was worth asking for a local officer to pay her a visit. Dianne’s story sounded legitimate enough to Jessie, but she needed to be sure. To lose a baby that way must be awful, and an anniversary can stir up so many memories. It was bad enough for Jessie to lose Ryan when she did – Dan’s sentence could never be long enough for what he did. The death of her son had broken Jessie’s heart. Jessie didn’t think she would ever recover from the darkness that followed, or even if she wanted to. There were days it had been so bad she’d considered joining her son, but something always pulled her back from the edge. More accurately, someone. Jessie missed her friend Carol. She scribbled Call Carol on her notepad.
It would be good to catch up.
Jessie opened the file she’d been handed – details of the first few calls the station had received after her public appeal. She also opened her email on her phone to watch a video of dashcam footage that had been sent to the station’s address overnight, with no note attached. It was blurry, but the child being pushed in the pram was clearly much older than Finlay. She laid her phone back down and focused on the file. The pile of paper inside was bigger than Jessie thought it would be at this stage, but clearly a missing baby stirs the emotions. As it rightly should.
‘Davidson’s builder’s van, interesting,’ she murmured and nibbled the end of her pen.
Why would someone call in about that? Colin lives right next door. Of course his van would be there. Maybe the caller didn’t know that and was only trying to help. Jessie leafed through the pile and pulled out another one that caught her eye. A CCTV photo of another van parked on Kintillo Road, a little further along the street.
I wonder why they didn’t mention that? She grabbed her car keys and yanked her jacket from the back of her chair. Time to get some straight answers.
Thirty-Three
Dianne poured a cup of tea from the pot then clicked the kettle on again. The young woman had barely spoken after coming round the day before; she seemed to be building up to something a couple of times but then retreated into silence before Darren had eventually come looking for her. Despite Claire’s reticence, Dianne hadn’t been surprised to find her at her back door again this morning.
‘Here you go,’ she said as she laid the mug in front of Claire on the kitchen table. She pushed the plate of biscuits closer to her. ‘Come on, you have to eat. Take a biscuit at least. If you don’t want a sandwich, at least have a Kit Kat or a Jaffa Cake.’ Dianne tried to smile then quickly rubbed away a falling tear.
Claire’s freezing-cold hand reached forward and lifted a Jaffa Cake from the plate. She held it close to her lips then pulled it away and dropped it on the table.
‘Just one bite,’ Dianne whispered. Claire looked at her with a fixed, glazed expression, like her eyes had misted over, and she emitted a slapping, grinding sound Dianne had never heard before. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ she screamed when Claire tumbled off the chair, writhing and jerking with white froth fizzing from the corner of her mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness, what’s happening? Don’t worry. I’ll get help.’ Dianne left her back door hanging open as she ran as fast as her surgical pain would allow her and burst into next door. ‘Darren, Darren!’ she shouted into the house.
‘What is it?’ PC Isla Wilde intercepted Dianne in the hall, concerned by the commotion.
‘It’s Claire, I don’t know what’s wrong with her.’ Dianne winced from the tugging pain low in her abdomen. ‘She’s having some kind of fit. I don’t know what to do.’
The toilet flushed and Darren stepped into the hall. ‘Dianne?’ he called out.
‘Come on, Claire is having another seizure,’ PC Wilde told him as they followed Dianne, running, back to her kitchen.
Darren dropped to his knees and lifted Claire’s motionless body into his arms then shook her. ‘Claire, wake up.’ He squeezed her cheeks and tapped them gently. ‘Shit, she’s not breathing.’
‘I’ll call an ambulance.’ Dianne grabbed her phone and dialled 999. ‘Come on, come on.’ It felt like forever before her call was answered. ‘Ambulance, please.’ She pleaded with the operator and gave them the details before hanging up. Dianne gasped when she watched what was happening. Tears rolled down her cheeks now. She scrubbed her face with the palms of her hands to move the moisture out of her eyes and stop it obscuring her vision.
‘Oh Claire, sweetheart,’ she murmured, her voice trembling.
‘We’ll have to start CPR, Darren.’ The young policewoman helped him lay Claire onto the kitchen floor and leaned her ear close to Claire’s mouth.
‘I already told you she’s not breathing!’ Darren shouted.
‘Calm down,’ PC Wilde replied. ‘That doesn’t help.’ She began compressions, her own heart racing; she had to stay calm. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.’ She listened again for breath sounds and repeated the compressions as Darren watched on, horrified.
Isla Wilde thought the ambulance would never get there. Her arms stung from continuous compressions. The sound of sirens had never been so welcome as Darren and Dianne clung to each other.
Thirty-Four
Dylan sniffed and blew onto his hands, regretting losing his gloves, which he figured he must have left in Jessie’s car. He stamped his feet against the winter chill, his every breath visible in the freezing air. He stood tall at the sound of the large wooden door being unlocked and pulled open.
‘Can I help you?’
Dylan held up his ID to the greying older woman. She could only be five foot tall at most, and wore her hair in a neat, tight bun. She tugged her cardigan tighter against the cold air.
‘I’m Detective Constable Logan. I wonder if I could have a chat with Father McKinnon, if he’s there.’
Gertrude Laing looked him up and down then held the door wide open and ushered him inside.
‘Go through. I’ll go and get Father McKinnon for you.’ Mrs Laing smiled before she marched towards the door at the end of the long hall.
Dylan’s eyes wandered the length of the hall, coming to rest on the high ceiling. No wonder it’s cold in here, he thought. He moved towards the reception room Mrs Laing had pointed him to. It was large, with tall windows. He was impressed with the antiques on display, especially those in a locked cabinet at the far end of the room. Father McKinnon’s desk looked old, too. Mahogany most likely, although Dylan had no idea what period it was from. The chapel house dated back to the early 1800s, so he wouldn’t be surprised if it was an original piece.
‘Hello again, Detective.’
Dylan took hold of Father McKinnon’s outstretched hand.
‘I’m sorry for the intrusion again, Father,’ Dylan said with a sombre smile. ‘But as you know, time is against us. We are talking to everyone with a connection to Finlay’s family.’
‘Of course, and I’m happy to help in any way I can.’ Father McKinnon flattened down his unruly silver hair then pointed towards the large mustard armchair by the window, before flopping down himself on a
tall-backed leather office chair behind his desk. ‘Please take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ Dylan sat and retrieved his notebook from his pocket. He coughed once and clicked the end of his pen. ‘How well do you know Claire and Darren Lucas?’
A gentle smile spread across Father McKinnon’s lips. ‘I’ve known Claire and her sister Theresa since they were no more than toddlers. Bridget and Phil are active members of our church community – always have been as long as I’ve been here, which is almost twenty years. Gosh, has it really been that long?’ He shook his head with a long sigh. ‘Where does the time go?’
Dylan smiled. ‘So you would say you know them quite well, then?’
Father McKinnon’s elbows rested on the edge of his desk and his eyebrows twitched. He exhaled another long breath.
‘I would say so. Terrible business all this, with little Finlay.’
‘Indeed it is.’ Dylan tapped his pen on his cheek. ‘Would you say they were a happy family, Father?’
Father McKinnon frowned. ‘Yes, of course. They are good Christians, Detective.’
And that makes a difference how, exactly? Dylan thought, but he held his tongue. His own father was a good Catholic man to the outside world, but that didn’t stop him punching Dylan’s mum black and blue of a boozy Saturday night. Particularly when the result of the Old Firm derby didn’t go his way.
‘And Theresa. How much do you know about her illness?’ Before an answer was forthcoming, the door creaked open and Mrs Laing carried in a tray – a pot of tea and a plate of scones, which Dylan thought looked home-made.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I thought you two gentlemen would like some tea, and I’ve brought some of the scones left over from the bake sale. They’re still fresh and tasty.’
