by Ed James
Made sense — the mother was throwing money at her guilty conscience, and the daughter was trying her best to be someone else, someone unaffected by her own traumatic past.
The bedside chest’s top drawer was open a fraction.
Hunter snapped on a glove and eased it out. An orange blister pack sat on top of white knickers and bras, all designer labels. The first row and a half of the pack were empty, each line of plastic bubbles marked out with days of the week.
Hunter’s stomach churned as his fists clenched. He shut his eyes and sucked in paint fumes.
Well, that proved what Doug had said… Steph was on the pill. At sixteen.
He thundered down the stairs and stormed into the living room.
‘—can’t get my head around any—’
‘What’s this?’ Hunter held up the blister pack, like he was presenting evidence in court. ‘Have you seen these before?’
Pauline squinted at it, her forehead ridged like it was made of coral. ‘Aye, they’re Stephanie’s. What the hell were you doing in her sock drawer, you dirty pervert?’
Hunter held them higher. ‘Care to explain them?’
‘Look. I had to take her to the doc’s a few months back. Poor thing was crippled by PMS. The doctor gave her them.’ She covered her face with both hands and let out a squeak as she started crying. ‘Oh, Steph…’
Ailsa got in Hunter’s face. ‘You see what you’ve done to her?’
Hunter gave her a hard stare. ‘Sure she’s not been aiding and abetting what Doug’s been doing?’
Ailsa’s acid spit sprayed across his face. ‘Shut your mouth.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘How can you suggest—’
Hunter got out an evidence bag and dropped the pills in it. ‘That’s going into evidence.’
‘You’re way over the line here, sonny.’
Hunter’s Airwave chirruped. ‘Control to PC Hunter. Safe to speak?’
Hunter walked into the hall and nudged the door behind him. ‘Receiving and safe to speak, over.’
‘Can you get out to South Queensferry nick?’
‘I’m kind of busy here.’
‘Oh, sorry to interrupt. It’s just that serial alpha have responded to your BOLO.’ Mag’s voice distorted through the speaker. ‘They’ve collected Robert Quarrie and taken him to the station for you.’
16
‘After you.’ Hunter held the door open for Jain, South Queensferry Police Station towering above them. One-and-a-bit storeys of muddy brick with too many windows, the kind of building eighties Chief Constables thought would serve the cause better than the Victorian ones they’d sold off to property developers.
‘Pretty much the only station left round here, this. Drylaw’ll be chokka with arseholes from Pilton and Muirhouse.’ Jain stopped just inside, hands on hips. ‘Anyway, you’ve not said a word all the way over.’
‘This case is making me feel sick.’ Hunter released the door, let it bounce off his toecaps. ‘How could she let that happen to her daughter twice?’
‘It’s no consolation, Craig, quite the opposite, actually, but I’ve seen it a few times. And I’ve only been in SO a few months.’
Hunter took in the empty concourse, built for a much busier time. A time before call centres and twitter accounts. Looked shut, but shouldn’t be yet. ‘Think Doug knows Quarrie?’
‘It’s worth asking.’ Jain made for the counter, striding across the black rubber flooring with a sense of purpose that almost lifted his spirits. Almost. ‘Might be something in the original case’s paperwork that tallies with this one.’ She rapped on the glass. ‘Open up!’
The curtains pulled back. Old Colin sat behind the counter, looking a couple of days short of retirement. Or a heart attack. Whisky scar tissue lined his ruddy face. He squinted at them, then frowned. ‘Craig Hunter? And in uniform too. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.’
‘I’m hardly mighty and I’ve not fallen far.’ Hunter avoided his gaze, focusing on the ned behind him as he was led out of sight by a hulking uniformed officer. Torn green hoodie and a split lip. Then back at Colin, who had eyes only for Jain. ‘Gather you’ve got a suspect for us? One Robert Quarrie.’
Colin relayed the name to his keyboard, the plastic rattling off the beige melamine counter. ‘He’s in interview room two. Stale bread and water. Spat in of course.’
‘Cheers.’ Hunter swiped his warrant card through the security system and led Jain through, stuffing his cap under his arm.
‘Old pal of yours?’
‘Had a few dealings out this way when I was in CID.’ Hunter ruffled his hair, the gel having reverted to that horrible form of sticky, and rested his hand on the door to interview room two. ‘Stabbing in South Queensferry. And another in Muirhouse about six months later. My DI always used this station as a base. Closest to his golf course.’
‘Old guy back there seems to have loved you.’
‘He hated us. Caught Ally rocking the vending machine when his crisps didn’t fall.’ Hunter pushed the door open.
Robert Quarrie sat picking at the table’s grain with a nail. Didn’t even look up. He wore an MC5 T-shirt with a flying panther and his lank hair hung down to his shoulders, like it hadn’t been washed in weeks. He was clean shaven, thin pencil sideburns just about touching his jaw. Obvious where Stephanie got her height from — even sitting down he had the look of a seven footer.
The custody officer gave them a nod. Poor guy looked bored rigid.
Hunter stayed on his feet and waited for Jain to sit first. ‘Mr Quarrie?’
‘That’s me.’ Still not looking up, just scratching at the varnish.
‘My name’s PC Craig Hunter. This is DS Chantal Jain of the Sexual Offences Unit.’
That got a look. Quarrie’s bloodshot eyes widened. ‘Aye?’
‘We need to ask you a few questions.’
Quarrie swallowed. ‘Lawyer-y sort of questions?’
‘Depends.’ Hunter slowly sat down. He took his time placing his cap on the desk. ‘Have you done anything that’d necessitate a lawyer?’
Quarrie stared back at the table, scratching harder. ‘What is it?’
‘Little bird tells me you lived in Stranraer?’
‘Live in Cramond now.’ Quarrie lifted a shoulder. ‘Been there a few months.’
‘Cramond, eh?’ Hunter nodded his head slowly. Wasted on a man like Quarrie. Seemed more interested in his fingers and the pile of varnish dust he was building up than in Hunter’s psychological power play. ‘Nice bit of Edinburgh. Other side of town from Mountcastle, though, isn’t it? Used to live there, didn’t you?’
‘Few years back, aye. Had a flat on Moira Terrace.’ Quarrie locked eyes with Hunter. ‘Why did you bring that up?’
Hunter flashed him a smile. ‘So you work in Cramond?’
‘Working in the kitchen at the Almond. Pay’s shite, but they rent me a nice wee flat down the road for below the market rate. Can’t complain.’ Quarrie shrugged and went back to his scratching. ‘Why am I here?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘No idea.’ Scritch, scritch. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
Hunter nodded slowly, this time getting an audience as Quarrie looked up. ‘When did you last see your daughter?’
Quarrie’s head jolted up, dark eyes sunk into the depths of his sockets. ‘Steph?’
‘Have you got another one?’
‘No.’ Back to scratching the table. ‘Last time I saw my daughter was when her mother kicked me out.’
‘That’s a few years ago now.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘And you’ve not seen her since?’
‘You saying I have, eh?’ A quick glance. ‘Well, I’ve not seen her since 2007, must be. Feels like a lifetime ago.’
‘We know why you were kicked out.’
Quarrie arched his eyebrows. ‘Right.’
Hunter gave him a warm smile. ‘You got anything to say about that?’
‘What’s there to say?’ Quarrie swallowed and went back to his scratching. Didn’t seem to mind that the police knew about his deviant history. His raping past. His incest. ‘Expected Steph to be in court, but they used that video tape thing.’ He stopped and blew away the little pile of grated varnish. It disappeared into the air. ‘I’ve served my time. Paid my debt to society.’
Must be some bloody overdraft…
Hunter tried to look him in the eye again, but got nowhere. ‘There were some strong accusations against you.’
‘Aye, don’t I know it.’ Scratch, scratch. ‘That ruined my life.’
‘Some might think it ruined Stephanie’s life, not yours.’
‘Why have you got me in here?’ Quarrie sighed. Fists clenched, resting on the table top. ‘I need to get to my work.’
‘Because Stephanie’s run away.’
‘What?’
Seemed like genuine surprise. Hunter exchanged a quick look with Jain, then he went back to Quarrie. ‘She disappeared this afternoon from Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. You don’t know anything about it, do you?’
‘What? Of course I bloody don’t.’
‘So you’ve no idea where she’d go?’
‘As you know, my daughter isn’t part of my life.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
Quarrie flexed his fingers, staring into space. ‘I’m not happy about it.’
‘You abused her. For years.’ Hunter left enough space for Quarrie to give him some eye contact.
Scratch, scratch.
‘Mr Quarrie. Your daughter’s run away. Don’t you want to help us find her?’
‘Of course I do.’ Quarrie brushed the fresh pile of varnish away. ‘Not sure you digging into my past’s going to help, though. I’ve served whatever debt to society that jury decided I was due and I’ve not seen her since she was a wee lassie.’ He pulled his shoulders tight, nibbling at his thumbnail. ‘She’ll be fifteen now.’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Ah, Christ.’ Quarrie rubbed at his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. ‘Steph…’
Jain rested her elbows on the table. ‘Do you know a Douglas Ferguson?’
Quarrie’s eyes opened. ‘That’s the prick who married Pauline, right?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No.’ Quarrie narrowed his eyes at Jain. ‘Look, I’ve got to get to my work.’
‘Have you ever had any contact with him?’
‘You know something?’ Quarrie leaned forward on his elbows, seemed to prop himself up on more than the table. Years of festering resentment? Dreams of revenge? ‘That arsehole met me out of prison, said he was a taxi the prison service put on. Drove me to a wee country lane and threatened to kill me. Said he’d take his time hurting me.’
Jain got up and grabbed the back of her chair, keeping her focus on Quarrie. ‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing. Prick’s not got the balls for it. Gave me twenty and dropped me at the bus station in Stirling. Said if he ever hears about me getting in touch with Steph or Pauline, he’ll go at me with a hammer and a blowtorch. That’s the last I heard from the shiteing bastard.’
‘Mr Ferguson never came to visit you in prison?’
‘That was the first time I met him, okay?’
‘Sure about that?’
‘You got some evidence suggesting I know him?’
Jain looked up at the ceiling for a second, then smiled at him. ‘If we go through your prison visits, say, I won’t find anyone matching his description?’
‘I know what you’re getting at and you can forget it, you little bitch.’
Jain scraped her chair back and reached across the table to grab a handful of his T-shirt. Looked like she was going to smash his head off the table. ‘I’ll batter seven shades of shite out of you, sunshine. You really want to do this?’
‘Come on, then.’
Hunter was on his feet, trying to separate them.
‘You think I don’t know how to handle myself?’ Jain was tightening her grip, pulling Quarrie close enough to whisper. ‘You think I’ve not dealt with worse scum than you?’
Hunter got hold of her wrists and pulled her back. When she let go of the shirt, he gently guided her back into the corner. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Jain gazed over his shoulder, her nostrils quivering. ‘It’s just … hard. Being face-to-face with pure evil like that.’
‘I think the bad cop/bad cop routine isn’t working. Shall we try again with at least one good cop?’
‘On you bloody go, then.’
‘Just don’t go all 1970s on him again.’ Hunter took his seat, then waited for Jain to saunter over and sit next to him. ‘Mr Quarrie, can you confirm whether you had any contact with Mr Ferguson while you were incarcerated?’
Quarrie licked his lips, slowly, like he was thinking something over. ‘You know I could say, aye, he visited me inside. We were mates. Shared some stories. Met on some weird forum online or something. I set him up with Pauline.’ He sighed. ‘But I’m not going to. I never met the guy before he tried to kill me.’ He ran a nail across the table top. ‘I had a lot of time to think when I was inside. Made me question everything about myself, what I did to Steph and her mother.’ He closed his eyes and rubbed at his cheeks. ‘I just want to help you find her. I don’t even have to see her.’
A likely tale…
Hunter drummed on the table. ‘Where were you this afternoon from three o’clock onwards?’
Back to the scratching. ‘I was working till half five. Then I walked home to my flat and watched a bit of telly. ‘“Neighbours”, I think.’
Hunter exchanged a look with Jain. ‘Is that still on?’
‘It’s on Channel Five these days. Starts at six.’
‘What happened in it?’
‘You really want to know?’ Quarrie shook his head. ‘Paige kissed Mark for the first time.’ His red face was enough to commute the embarrassment of truth. ‘That do you?’
Hunter nodded slowly, then let a frown settle on his forehead. ‘One last thing. If you were working earlier, why do you need to get back tonight?’
‘Double shift today. Been on since breakfast. Won’t get off till midnight. Best case.’
Hunter put his cap on. ‘How about we drop you off at work, shall we?’
Hunter turned left at the Almond Arms, a tall Georgian building with two rear extensions stepping down to the busy car park. It was only a few doors down from the Cramond Inn, the village’s other pub, an even older fisherman’s boozer. He pulled onto the back street and parked behind a Saab. The engine shook with a few final coughs, then gave its usual theatrical rendition of death by asphyxiation.
Over the road, a glorious sunset burnt the sky deep orange, dusted with a few clouds.
Hunter gave Jain a nod. ‘Are you okay?’ Got a shrug in response, then looked at Robert Quarrie behind the grille in the back. ‘Want me to keep an eye on laughing boy here?’
‘I’ve got a call to make, so can you go inside?’
‘Fine. Just keep him here.’ Hunter got out of the car and crunched across the pebbles towards the rear atrium.
Looked like The Almond had moved up in the world from its days as an underage drinking den. The back door was wide open and the place was still heaving just before nine. Red faces from too much wine, plates clinking below the bellow of laughter and shouted conversation. The charcoal grill smelled like someone had left the smoking area’s door open.
The noise cut dead as he entered.
A waiter in fine French attire stopped and tilted his head. Dicky bow, white shirt, black waistcoat. The sophisticated outfit marred by the ginger moustache and rounded shoulders. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Purest Midlothian accent, trying to sound refined and expansive but falling a country mile short.
‘PC Hunter.’ He ignored the stares from the nearby tables. ‘Looking for a Stevie Ingram.’
‘That’s myself.’
‘Can I have a word in private?’
/> ‘Would it be possible for you to come back later?’ Ingram waved around the room. ‘You can see we’re very busy tonight and my sous chef’s called in sick. Ten covers still to do and people are getting impatient.’
‘I’m afraid it’s important, sir.’
‘Follow me.’ Ingram powered through the space, tottering like a ballerino, arms out, hips swivelling, radiant smile beaming at his customers. He stopped just past the kitchen hatch and opened a heavy oak door that led into a small room. Two dark-green Chesterfield sofas faced each other over a chunky coffee table. ‘In here, sir.’
‘Thanks.’ Hunter perched on the arm of the settee and took off his cap. ‘I need to ascertain whether a Robert Quarrie was working here this afternoon.’
Ingram scowled at him as he sat on the facing sofa. ‘Why?’
‘His daughter’s missing. We want to know—’
Ingram clutched his hands to his chest. ‘He’s got a daughter?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘Well, no. Robert’s not the sort to share.’
‘I’ll bet he’s not.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something?’ Ingram couldn’t take his eyes off the door, shaking his head slightly. ‘What’s he done?’
‘I just need to check he doesn’t know anything about his daughter’s whereabouts.’
‘Well, wee Gemma’s off sick, so he’s been covering in the bar.’ Ingram stared at the coffee table. ‘He helped with the lunches in the kitchen, then did a shift pulling pints in the afternoon.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Robert was here until half past five. He’s the reason I’m sweating like— The reason I’m so flustered.’ Ingram checked his watch. ‘He was supposed to be here an hour ago.’
‘What about after half five?’
‘Well, I walked home with him. My house isn’t far from his flat.’
‘And you rent this flat to him, correct?’
‘I don’t, personally, but the business does. They own a row of cottages which they keep talking about—’
‘What time did you last see him?’
‘Ten to six? It’s not far. I wanted to see my kids before they went to bed.’
