by Ed James
‘Sorry, none at all.’
‘Is it possible Stephanie would … consider taking her own life?’
‘I don’t know.’ All the puff and fire seemed to drain from Gaynor as her shoulders rounded, her thick arms hanging by her sides, hands disappearing below the table edge. ‘I mean, maybe. She’s talked about it to me, but it seemed more like an intellectual curiosity. You don’t listen to the music she does without thinking things…’
‘What bands?’
‘You know, Goth stuff. The Cure, Joy Division, The XX. I’m not really into it.’
‘Anything sinister in it?’
‘Well. There was a girl in Musselburgh killed herself a few months ago. Steph was obsessed with it, kept reading all the stuff in the paper. There was a Facebook group about it.’
‘I heard about that.’ Hunter let her have some space, but she was just shaking her head. ‘Do you know a Neil Alexander?’
Gaynor snorted back a tear. ‘Who?’
‘Her boyfriend.’
She shook her head. ‘Never said anything about a boyfriend.’
Olivia plonked a cup down in front of Gaynor. ‘Did you say Neil?’
Jain frowned at the girl. ‘Do you know him?’
‘He’s Steph’s boyfriend.’
‘You know him?’
‘Just met him the once. Few of us from school went bowling with them at Fountain Park. He didn’t exactly fit in.’
‘He’s older than you, right?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Have you got a number for him?’
‘Mum told me not to give my phone number out.’ Olivia picked up her own cup and blew on it a few times, then gave the steam a brief respite. ‘But I saw him on the bus a couple of days ago.’
‘So he lives near here?’
‘No, he was driving it.’
10
Hunter pulled into the right-turn lane towards the bus station. Car after car after car streamed past them, a blur of commuter traffic — Leith to Portobello or Musselburgh. He glanced over at Jain. ‘What are you thinking there?’
‘I’m thinking suicide’s a lower threat now. Probably.’ Jain clinked her Airwave off the passenger window a couple of times. ‘This boyfriend, though… If he’s mid-twenties… A ten-year gap isn’t good at that age, is it?’
‘It’s legal.’
‘But is it moral? He’s almost twice her age.’ She ran a hand through her hair, fingers disappearing in the sheer black as though she’d dipped them in ink. ‘You’ve spent more time with her than I have. Does she seem mature for her age?’
‘The opposite. Seemed like a wee girl.’
‘Which makes it even worse.’ Jain held her Airwave out in front of her, the plastic screen flashing in the sunlight, but it didn’t look like she was focusing on it. ‘She might be physically old enough, but… These scumbags don’t always prey on children because they’re young…’
‘It’s because they’re weak, right?’ Hunter inched forward, then hit the brakes to let an old man on a mobility scooter struggle out of the bus depot. ‘Same with the scum who pick on disabled people, right?’
‘Scum isn’t a strong enough word.’ Her knuckles were bone white against the matt grey of her Airwave. ‘But let’s see what he’s got to say first before we start lighting the torches and sharpening the pitchforks.’
Hunter trundled forward, trying not to startle the old man. ‘Any update on Stephanie’s whereabouts?’
She huffed. ‘It’s supposed to be me chivvying you along.’ She released her grip on the Airwave enough to dial a number, leaving it on speaker. ‘Shaz, it’s Chantal. You found her yet?’
‘Still a negative.’ Even the sweltering heat in the car was no match for the frost in McNeill’s voice. ‘We’ve only just been taken through the CCTV for the hospital car park. Looks like she got on a bus into town.’
Hunter glared at the handset, like that would transmit down the line. ‘I thought we’d checked the buses.’
McNeill paused on the line. ‘Well, clearly not your finest hour. You sure you want to be a detective when you grow up?’
Charming…
Hunter hared across an oncoming Audi and squeezed through. ‘Ma’am, I suggest you redirect some units to search along the bus route in both directions. She could’ve got off.’
‘We’re about seven steps ahead of you, Constable.’
‘Right. Good.’ Hunter pulled into a disabled bay by the entrance. ‘Well, we’re at the bus depot just now.’
‘We’ve got a lead on the boyfriend.’ Jain craned her neck round to glare at Hunter. ‘Do you want us to ask for the bus CCTV?’
‘It’ll save me sending that … what’s his name? Finlay? That clown’s supposed to be in charge of getting hold of it.’
‘We’ll see what we can do.’ Jain stabbed her Airwave, killing the call. ‘Do you want to stop talking over me?’
Hunter stared over at the bus depot, dark grey concrete lit up by the evening sun. A squad of mechanics worked at the few empty buses that weren’t on the rush-hour commute. Gulls wheeled around between the building and the firth of Forth beyond it, the tide encroaching on what passed for seaside in the capital’s suburbia. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’
‘Look, it’s not that, it’s just…’ Jain let her seatbelt whiz up. ‘I’m not long in this role and I’ve got three DCs reporting to me. None of them are exactly ideal, so the heat’s on, you know?’
Hunter replaced his cap and walked up to the security desk. Wood and laminated steel rather than glass and chrome. He smiled at the guard, generously ignoring that the man was just about a bottle of whisky short of the full Rudolph red nose. Whippet skinny, mind. ‘Constable Hunter and DS Jain. We’re looking for a Neil Alexander.’
‘Just a sec, officer.’ The guard hammered the keys of a computer, sniffing like he’d taken a gram of coke with his Irish tea. ‘Well. He’s not on a route just now.’
‘So he does work here?’
‘Aye, lanky streak of pi— Sorry, he’s a tall lad, you know. The boys call him Rodney.’
Hunter leaned on the counter. It groaned like it might give way at any second, so he stood up tall again. ‘Have you got an address for him?’
‘No need, son. Just spotted the boy in the canteen. C’mon, I’ll show you.’
Jain raised a hand. ‘I need to speak to someone about CCTV.’
‘Just you wait there, darling.’ The guard gave her a wink. ‘I’ll take you there next.’
‘Now, let me see.’ The guard opened a glass door and led into a wide room, dark as a gambling den. Groups of men crowded around long tables, some holding court, others reading books or staring at phones and tablets. He squinted around the space and jabbed his finger over to the far side. ‘Aye, see him over in the window?’ A tall man hunched over a paperback. ‘That’s him.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter nodded at him and caught the guard’s eye as he made for the exit. ‘What’s he like?’ He waved his fingers between them and gave a conspiratorial grin. ‘Just between us, you know?’
‘Like I say, lanky streak of piss. Harmless, like.’
‘Ever talk about his girlfriend?’
‘Well, I never.’ The guard’s eyes widened. ‘Thought he was a horse’s hoof.’ He shrugged and wandered back the way they’d come. ‘That’s a bet I’m not owning up to…’
Charming bastard…
Hunter strode through the space, conversations dying as he passed, nervous eyes sticking on him like dog shit. He stopped by the window table. ‘Neil Alexander?’
‘That’s me.’ Neil didn’t look a day over twenty. Had the air of an art-school dropout — Heroin-thin, his dark hair swept over in a lank fringe, hoops in the top of his left ear. He glanced up, still chewing a mouthful of sandwich, and went back to his book. “Postcapitalism” by Paul Mason. Whatever that was. Whoever that was. ‘Can I help, officer?’
‘Constable Craig Hunter.’ He sat opposite and picked up a sachet of sugar, started tossing
it in the air. ‘Need to have a word about young Stephanie.’
Neil reached for a plastic cup of water and took a sip.
That’s how he’s playing it, is it?
Hunter took out his notebook and turned to a fresh page. ‘You do know one Stephanie Ferguson of Mount—’
‘Of course I know her.’ Neil dropped his sandwich in the tub and brushed flour off his fingers. ‘Is she okay?’
‘Are you her boyfriend?’
Neil carefully licked the tip of his left forefinger. ‘What’s happened to her?’
‘Are you her boyfriend?’
‘Fine, I am.’
‘Have you spoken to her today?’
Neil gave a slight shake of his head. ‘Last saw her on Saturday night. We went to the Filmhouse.’
Hunter raised his eyebrows. ‘The Filmhouse?’
‘You think it’s funny that a young woman should enjoy going to an arthouse cinema?’
Woman?
Hunter flashed a grin. ‘I’m sure you’d pass for her dad if she ever wanted to see a PG film, right?’
Neil ran the nail of his pinky through his canine teeth, followed it up with his tongue. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Have you heard from her today? Texts, emails, Facebook messages, anything like that?’
‘I’m not into all that stuff.’ Neil held up his book. ‘I’m a reader. Biographies, political books. I like to educate myself, keep my brain in shape.’ He tapped a finger against his temple. ‘I only use Facebook to see photos of my nieces and nephews.’
Hopefully fully clothed…
Hunter picked up another sachet of sugar, returning the other one to the jar. ‘You don’t have kids of your own?’
‘Never had the time.’ Neil sat up tall and cracked his neck. ‘Anyway, being a bus driver suits me. It’s great for thinking. The pay’s okay, as well.’
Must be a good half-foot taller than me, though probably weighed a lot less.
‘Thinking, right.’ Hunter slouched back in his chair and took in the place. Ten pairs of eyes discovering the endless wonders of the cafeteria ceiling. He focused on Neil again, eyes narrow. ‘Stephanie’s gone missing.’
‘Shite, what?’
‘Have you got any idea where Stephanie could be?’
‘None at all.’ Neil stuck a bookmark in his paperback and carefully shut it, like he didn’t want to crack the spine. ‘What’s happened?’
Hunter made a couple of notes, took his time doing it. He sat up and gripped the edge of the table. ‘Mr Alexander, is she in your flat?’
Neil raised his hands, twisted his head to the side. He seemed to lose a few inches in height. Obviously been in a defensive position a few times. ‘What? No, of course not.’
Hunter frowned. ‘Does she have a key?’
‘We’re in a trusting relationship.’
‘So I wouldn’t find her if I went round there just now?’
‘Look, if she’s missing, then I share your concern.’ Neil placed his hands palm down on the table. ‘You’re welcome to come with me to see if she’s gone there.’
11
Hunter followed Neil up yet another King’s Road stairwell, reeking of soiled newspapers and wet dog. The red paint was chipped and rolling off, coiling up at the corners. Could use the place as a kiln.
Neil stepped aside as a dog trotted down the stairs, soaked through.
‘Come back here, Alfie!’ An old man trundled down, carrying a faded beach towel and a dog lead. He did a double-take at Hunter’s uniform as he passed.
Neil led up, his desert boots slapping against the puddles on the red staircase. ‘Just in here.’ He twisted his key in the lock and nudged the door open with his foot.
Jain trudged up behind them, just finishing a phone call. ‘They’re sending it over now, Shaz. Get Elvis on it, if you can.’ A flick of her eyebrows let Hunter know he was in charge.
‘Wait there, Mr Alexander.’ Hunter placed a hand just in front of Neil’s chest and entered the flat, happy to get away from the stink. ‘Stephanie?’
His words echoed around the hall. It was rammed with books, floor-to-ceiling shelves lining both sides. Barely enough space to get through, just a thin strip of pale laminate flooring. Just like he’d said — Philosophy, left-wing politics, economics, popular science.
Enough to start up a bookshop.
Enough to start Amazon.
‘Stephanie? It’s the police!’ Hunter looked around, already with a good idea of the flat’s layout. The living room door stood open to the left, next to a closed door at the back — the bedroom, most likely. Another two doors reeled off — kitchen and bathroom. ‘Stephanie?’
Still nothing.
Hunter opened the living room door and stepped inside. He heard breathing from somewhere. ‘Stephanie?’
A ginger blur flew out from under a groaning bookshelf and tangled up around his legs. He caught his feet together and fell forward, just catching himself on a bookcase. Thing just about toppled over, a couple of books flying down from the top.
The cat swished around his ankles, rubbing its neck against his shin and calf.
Flirtatious little rascal. Clearly hungry.
Hunter flicked the light switch on and took a good look. Not really anywhere for her to hide in there. He walked over to the front window overlooking King’s Road. A couple of neds were giving his squad car the once over. He had a clear view back to the hall as the cat scampered out. The room had a sofa bed and more bookshelves.
Nowhere to hide in there either.
He went back into the hall and opened the bedroom door. The cat sprawled on the bed like it owned the place. A pile of books lay beside the unmade bed, on the verge of tottering over. More bookshelves filled the wall opposite the bed, though it looked like fiction this time.
A laptop sat on a desk at the window, unmoved by the cracking view across the bus depot. Or perhaps it resented having to look at Fife, the Kingdom of boredom on the other side of the water. Anyway, a few speedboats were out on the Forth in the evening sun, and the droning engine noise brought him back to the here and now.
Stephanie wasn’t there.
Back in the hall, he tried the third door. The bathroom, bright light gleaming through the glass. He opened the shower cubicle — empty. The tiles were bone dry.
Again, nowhere to hide.
The last door led to a small kitchen. The left half was filled with coffee-making equipment, an AeroPress sitting in front of a posh espresso machine and a wooden hand grinder. The cat darted through and started nibbling at an open sack of coffee beans lying in the space under the counter.
Hunter opened the cabinets and the washing machine door — all empty, certainly nothing big enough for a tall teenager to hide in.
So she wasn’t there.
Bollocks.
Hunter went back to the flat door, where Jain’s glower was just about burning holes into Neil’s head. ‘In you come, sir.’
‘Very kind of you.’ Neil thumped through to the living room, pausing halfway to scoop up the squirming cat.
Hunter stayed by the door, letting Jain wander around the rest of the place. ‘Do you own this flat, sir?’
Neil collapsed on the sofa bed, surrounded by his crowded bookshelves, and started stroking the cat’s long fur. ‘Inherited it three years ago.’ He tickled the cat, starting up a crackle of purring. ‘When my folks died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’ Hunter waved around the room. ‘I trust you spent a fair chunk of that inheritance on books?’
‘Not as much as you’d think.’ Neil stopped stroking as the cat lay down. He picked it up and dropped it at his side, then wandered over to the window, jangling keys in his pocket. ‘So do you believe me now?’
Hunter tried to focus on his face, lost in the bright backlight. ‘Did Stephanie ever talk to you about her stepfather?’
‘A bit.’ Neil ran a hand through his greasy hair and started bunching it up. ‘Didn’t have a good w
ord to say about him.’
‘She told her mother he’d been abusing her.’
Neil drummed his fingers on the window ledge behind him. ‘Jesus…’
‘You knew about this, didn’t you?’
He collapsed against the glass. ‘I said she could move in here.’
‘You didn’t think to call the police?’
‘Look, I tried to persuade Steph to go to you. I couldn’t force her, though.’ Neil crouched down to stroke the cat at his feet. ‘She thought her mum might not believe her and, even if she did, that she wouldn’t do anything about it.’
‘Why?’
‘Pauline loves Doug. Steph said this would break her. Didn’t want to have to make her choose.’ Neil put his hand back in his pocket, leaving a clump of hair standing tall at the back. ‘I just wanted to love her and help her get over it. I’m glad she’s done this.’ He shook his head, the hair flopping over. ‘She’s a smart woman, knows her—’
‘She’s sixteen.’
‘Calm the beans, man.’ Neil raised his hands, eyes wide. ‘Steph’s old enough to know her own mind. You seem to think she’s a wee lassie. She’s not. Reads a lot, you know. Smart stuff, too. She’s no idiot.’
‘How old are you, Mr Alexander?’
Neil folded his arms. ‘Twenty-seven.’
Eleven year gap… Dear god.
Hunter tried to keep his face straight as he saw his disgust mirrored in Jain’s face.
‘Look, we haven’t had sex, if that’s what you’re thinking, okay? We’ve not been going out that long. Just a few months.’ Neil held up his hands. ‘And she was sixteen when we met.’
Methinks the lady doth protest too much…
‘Did Stephanie ever talk about suicide, anything like that?’
Neil nudged the swarming cat away with his shoe. He started scratching at his neck, like he’d just discovered a welt of acne there. ‘Never explicitly.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Jain stepped over to the window, getting close to Neil. ‘She’s talked about killing herself or she’s not. Which one is it?’
