Her Missing Child

by Kerry Watts

  ‘The sister’s got mental health issues too, but time of death puts Finlay already dead by the time she gets there, though,’ Dylan commented. ‘Concealment, aye, but the actual killing? I don’t see it.’

  Jessie glanced from Finlay’s picture to Paul McKinnon’s. Were they really connected?

  ‘What did you two make of Lisa McKinnon, then?’

  ‘She’s broke, but I don’t think she’s capable of murder. She loved her uncle and I don’t think she would have it in her to kill him,’ Dylan told her.

  ‘I disagree,’ Wilde chipped in. ‘What’s the expression? The lady doth protest too much, or something like that. Her temper was quick to turn on us: if Paul McKinnon said no to her request for money… Well, I don’t know, anything’s possible. The supposed phone call to her fiancé doesn’t prove much in itself – we need to check the hotel’s CCTV. And we still don’t know how she found out Paul McKinnon was dead.’

  ‘Right.’ Jessie took command. ‘You two go and bring in Claire and Darren. It’s time we got some straight answers from this family. Take two cars. They don’t travel together and keep them separate when they get here.’

  Both Wilde and Dylan reached for their keys in sync, and Jessie watched them from her window as they crossed the station car park until she heard her name being called from the doorway.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but could you come down to Custody? There’s a guy been brought in drunk and disorderly, and aggravated assault. The guy he was fighting doesn’t want to press charges now, though.’

  ‘Why do you need me? I’m in the middle of an important case. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘He says he’s your husband.’

  Seventy-Eight

  The pounding stress headache grew quickly from a dull ache to a throbbing pain in her temples as she walked downstairs to the cells. How dare he? Hadn’t he already caused her enough grief? Given his history, this was the last place he should want to be. Jessie’s stomach lurched at the sight of Dan Holland, dishevelled and slumped on the bed in the cells. The angry aura oozed from him. She’d seen that so many times before. The knees of his jeans were filthy and wet where he had clearly fallen. There were grazes on his knuckles and a purple bruise was forming under his right eye. Blood around his split lip had already dried. Jessie thanked the custody officer when he opened the cell door and left them to it. Dan struggled to focus as she stood in the doorway, unwilling to get too close.

  ‘Jessie,’ Dan slurred. ‘I’m sorry but I didn’t know what else to do. He just wound me up. Thank you. I knew you’d come.’

  Jessie took a step back as he approached.

  ‘I don’t know what you expect me to say or indeed do for you, Dan. You’re a grown man and you’ll have to accept the consequences.’ She turned to leave, her heart racing and the pain in her head pounding. Dan leaped towards her before she could leave. He grabbed her arm and was so close to her she could smell the whisky on his breath. His nostrils flared and his eyes changed to black, the way they used to. Like a reflex, she covered her head the way she always did all those years ago, allowing a whisper of a squeal to escape her lips. Before he could hit her with the fist he’d balled up, two officers tackled him to the ground. Jessie fell backwards into the wall opposite the cell, struggling to keep her footing. Her heart raced and her legs trembled underneath her, threatening to give way. She watched in horror as Dan fought with the officers, spitting and screaming in their faces even after another two joined their colleagues in wrestling him to the ground. Dan’s anger seemed to give him much more strength than his simple, small frame warranted.

  Dan had known exactly what he was doing by saying he was her husband. No matter how hard Jessie had tried to keep her past a secret, Dan had ruined that. How many more ways was he going to use to destroy her? Jessie struggled to control her breathing. No matter how hard she tried, no amount of gasping could get enough oxygen into her to stop the panic. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to cry. She didn’t know which to do first. But most of all she wanted to run. She wanted to escape.

  ‘DI Blake, are you OK?’ One of the women from the admin department had witnessed what had happened and her words drifted into Jessie’s thoughts. She knew she’d said something to her but couldn’t quite make out her words. Jessie had to get as far away from there as possible. This was all wrong. She hadn’t worked so hard to get him out of her head for this to happen. Why can’t he just leave me alone? She had to get out. She had to clear her head.

  Seventy-Nine

  Dylan locked up his car and winced at the biting wind. He walked towards Claire and Darren’s house, pleasantly surprised that he had arrived before PC Wilde. He lifted a hand and waved with a wide grin when he spotted her pull in behind him.

  ‘OK, Lewis Hamilton, I didn’t realise this was a race.’ She locked up and walked towards him over the slippery ground, almost losing her balance before quickly righting herself.

  Dylan was really enjoying working with the young PC. He remembered meeting her sister, also a police officer, briefly in Inverlochty. Her sense of humour complemented Jessie’s perfectly, and he had to admit she wasn’t difficult to look at either. Not that he would ever betray his wife’s trust.

  ‘Come on, let’s go get them. Which one do you want?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘I’ll take Claire,’ Wilde suggested. ‘You’d better take the easy one,’ she added as she walked on ahead of him, leaving him processing her insult for a minute.

  The two detectives could see that Claire was sleeping on the sofa as Dylan knocked on the door. They heard footsteps echo from the hallway.

  ‘Hang on,’ Darren called out as the key turned in the lock. ‘Come in, Detectives.’

  Dylan and Wilde both wiped their snow-covered feet and followed him inside.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  ‘I need you to come to the station and answer a few questions, Darren,’ Dylan told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are a few things we need to clear up.’ Dylan stepped forward, but Darren took a step back.

  ‘Questions, what kind of questions?’

  ‘I can explain everything to you at the station,’ Dylan told him.

  ‘Explain to me now,’ Darren demanded. ‘Have you found out who dumped Finlay’s body? Because it certainly wasn’t me, if that’s what this is about. Stop wasting your time.’

  ‘Look, Darren, it’s come to our attention that Finlay may not have died the way we thought before.’ Dylan began, trying to be as diplomatic as possible.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ Darren blasted. ‘How did he die, then?’

  So the in-laws haven’t been in touch. One of our lot should have, though, Wilde thought. She stepped forward and kept her voice low. ‘Darren, come on. The sooner you come with us, the sooner you can get home, OK?’

  ‘No, I want to know.’ Darren stepped back and shook his head. ‘I want that Detective Inspector here, right now.’

  ‘Darren,’ Wilde persevered. ‘Come on.’

  Dylan watched him open his mouth to protest, until Wilde raised her eyebrows.

  Darren lifted up his hands and scratched at his head. ‘I’ll go and get my trainers on, wait a minute.’

  Dylan looked at Wilde, impressed with her negotiation technique. He was just about to tell her as much when Claire walked into the hall, a frown framing her pale features.

  ‘What’s happened? Where’s Darren going?’ She gestured through the open front door.

  Before Dylan and Wilde could react, Darren’s car spat gravel across his driveway as he drove quickly away from the house.

  ‘Shit, I’ll call it in.’ Dylan rushed out the door with his phone close to his ear.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Claire asked.

  ‘We need you to come in and answer a few questions, Claire. Are you happy to come with me?’

  Claire stared at her in an attempt to comprehend what was happening.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ll go and
get my jacket,’ she said eventually, and wandered through to the kitchen.

  Wilde spotted a jacket slung over one of the kitchen chairs and lifted it up. ‘Is this it?’

  ‘What? Yes, thanks.’ She picked up her house keys from a bowl on top of the fridge and slipped her feet out of her slippers and into a pair of black suede boots sitting under the kitchen table. ‘Right, let’s go. Get this over with.’

  Eighty

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee, Claire?’ Wilde smiled while she showed her into an interview room. ‘Your solicitor is on his way.’

  Claire spun quickly. ‘Why do I need a solicitor? Where is Darren? I need to speak to Darren.’

  ‘We’re looking for him now, I promise. Try not to worry.’

  ‘I don’t understand what’s happening,’ Claire pleaded. ‘I thought I’d been through all your questions before. What more can I tell you? I don’t remember anything.’

  Claire slumped down onto a chair and rested her head on the table.

  ‘I’ll go and get you a tea. I won’t be long.’

  PC Wilde really wished she could answer both Claire’s questions, and hoped Dylan would join them soon with good news. Jessie was not going to be pleased that they had only managed to bring one of the Lucases in. That was, if she ever turned up, too. A friend had told her what had happened down in the cells – the force grapevine could be quick – and she was worried about her new boss. Not to mention stunned. Jessie Blake was married? That really was a surprise. There had been rumours that Jessie and that young pathologist were very friendly. PC Wilde wondered if Dylan knew about Dan, the ex-husband, and, if he did, how much he knew about their obviously frosty relationship.

  Darren’s foot pressed hard on the accelerator, his speed increasing with every second. Metallica roared out of his speakers, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. His vision was obscured by the tears that filled his eyes. He hammered his palm on the steering wheel and screamed in torment at his loss.

  He slammed on the brakes and banged his fist on the horn as he rounded a bend to find a bus in front of him. His frustration threatened to boil over. ‘Get out of my way!’ He was almost bumper-to-bumper with the lumbering vehicle. As rage bubbled up inside him, he tugged his steering wheel right and squeezed the accelerator down hard to overtake. The bus driver could see an oncoming Land Rover, though, and banged his hand on the horn to try and stop the imminent collision. Darren could see it too, and didn’t care. He kept his foot down, the collision looking inevitable, but at the very last moment a lay-by appeared and Darren squeezed into it, pressing his brakes with force, causing his Ford Focus to come to a halt close to a gate into a field that ran alongside the road. Darren’s heart raced. The car had stalled. The Land Rover drove on, and Darren felt the eyes of the driver and passengers on him as the bus continued on its route.

  He staggered out and vomited into the long grass. He had never felt pain like this in his life. Losing his mum was bad – it hurt like hell – but this… This was too much. Wherever he looked, wherever he went, he couldn’t escape this grief. And now the police wanted to question him again. He’d told them everything. It wasn’t him – they were wasting their time. Darren straightened up, spat vomit-streaked saliva from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. His throat ached from retching. He’d almost died; his recklessness had almost taken the life of an innocent stranger. Darren would have had to live with that for the rest of his life. Like father, like son.

  The pain of his grief gripped his stomach again and Darren cried out into the air, startling a flock of crows that had gathered in the field. He watched them fly away and sniffed back his tears. The strong, chill wind blew through his mop of brown hair and he rubbed warmth into his bare forearms before getting back into the car. He rested his head back onto the driver’s seat and closed his eyes.

  What kind of hell was this? He grabbed his phone from his jeans pocket and rubbed his face clean, the tears making his skin raw to the touch. He had to reach out to someone, and she was the only one who seemed able to help him right now. Darren knew it was wrong, but he was desperate.

  Eighty-One

  All those years. All that distance. All that hard work in counselling. It meant nothing. In that moment, for those few brief seconds when Dan had his hands on Jessie, she felt like nothing had changed. Even though he had been swept away from her before he could do any physical damage, the psychological hurt was there. It was like he still had the power. It didn’t seem to matter how many years had passed.

  She had to gather the chaotic thoughts crashing through her brain. She had to refocus. She’d got as far as her car before realising her keys were still in her office, along with her jacket and gloves – all left behind in her rush to flee. An aimless walk around the block had followed, and now she was back outside the station, rubbing her hands together against the freezing air. This was crazy. Jessie knew that better than anyone. Dan was in her past, and she was determined to leave him there.

  ‘Come on, pull yourself together,’ Jessie murmured and blew out a huge breath, the trembling in her legs decreasing finally. It was the shock, that’s all. In trying to reassure herself, she hadn’t noticed the footsteps approach from behind her.

  ‘Jessie, are you OK?’

  She turned to see Benito striding across the car park towards her, his eyes narrowed. It was then she realised how odd she must look, standing out in sub-zero temperatures with only a thin blouse and skinny black trousers. Jessie hated the thought of anyone seeing her like this, let alone him. She looked weak, and she hated that.

  ‘Yes thanks, I’m fine, don’t worry,’ she lied. Jessie was far from fine.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he persisted, catching her gaze with his large brown eyes, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.

  In a moment of weakness, Jessie began to cry. She had been strong for so long; too long. She should never have stopped the counselling, but she just didn’t feel she had time for it. Now look at her. Standing, freezing in the station car park, she wiped away the mess of tears on her cheeks.

  ‘No, Ben, I’m not,’ she whispered.

  He didn’t speak, didn’t offer empty platitudes. He stepped forward and hugged her, and Jessie took the chance to cling on to the support she should have sought long before now, and it felt so good. Good to share her fear; her pain. A calmness drifted over her from inside his arms. A feeling that seemed alien to Jessie. She pulled away.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled, a little embarrassed, but so very grateful.

  ‘You’re very welcome, but this hugging thing between us is becoming a bit of a habit, huh?’ He laughed to break the tension.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that earlier.’

  ‘No problem. You had David baffled for a minute, but we get it. You think he was accidentally suffocated, don’t you?’

  Jessie was relieved the topic of conversation hadn’t parked on her meltdown.

  ‘Yes, but by who?’ Jessie rubbed her freezing-cold arms as she shivered. ‘Claire? Theresa? I mean, how long had she really been there? Or Darren, he can’t be ruled out either.’

  Benito removed his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s get a coffee. It’s bloody freezing out here.’

  ‘Good idea,’ she said, and walked on ahead of him.

  Eighty-Two

  Claire didn’t understand why they wanted to talk to her again, and her confusion deepened with the speed at which the interview was terminated. It seemed that telling them she couldn’t remember brought everything to a standstill. But she wasn’t lying. She couldn’t remember anything about that day. Why couldn’t she remember?

  It had been kind of her solicitor to drop her home. He seemed as confused by all this as Claire was. She pulled her door key from her pocket and lifted it to the lock, but her feet just wouldn’t take her inside. Instead, she stared along the hall and called out for Darren. When her call went unanswere
d, she slammed the door shut again and walked back across her drive and away from her home. She didn’t know where she was going, but this felt like a better idea than going home to an empty house.

  Claire slid part of the way down the slope that led to the path along Deich Burn. She passed the thick clumps of yellow and red dogwood that lined the bank. A golden retriever barked at her from across the water as he raced to the corner of his garden, which backed onto the burn. Claire slipped again on the glistening mud that had frozen over in the extreme cold. She stared into the water, also frozen on the surface, and could see a trickle running freely underneath the layer of ice. She wondered where it got its energy from. Where did its drive to flow and survive come from? There seemed to be an invisible force pushing it forward. Claire wanted one of those.

  She tugged her scarf tighter over her mouth and nose as the bitter wind snapped at her skin, and carried on along the path, past the skeletal spindles of the bramble hedge that had been heavy with fruit six months ago. Her mum’s bramble jelly was a hit with the church ladies’ scone teas, with most of the harvest being provided free by the plants that now lay bare. Claire stopped by a huge rowan tree that stood on the edge of the open patch of grass that became a football pitch in the summer months, but was now encased in thick, deep snow, with only the footprints of foxes and birds trailing through it. She wandered through the virgin snow, leaving behind the first human prints, and stopped by the burn’s edge. She wondered at the determination of the beavers, whose dams on this stretch of water had been dismantled several times by disgruntled homeowners, who claimed their homes were at risk of flooding. Claire didn’t care. Her house could be swallowed by the water. She was already drowning in her grief.