In Plain Sight
Page 1
In Plain Sight
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Sunday, 22 September
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Sunday Evening
Chapter 6
Monday, 23 September
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Tuesday, 24 September
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Wednesday, 25 September
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Thursday, 26 September
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Friday, 27 September
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
Detective Clare Mackay
Copyright
For Graeme,
who would have spotted all the mistakes
Sunday, 22 September
Chapter 1
‘It’s like this, Detective Sergeant West: either you take your trousers off now or I’ll take them off for you.’
Chris West glanced at his boss. ‘I think you’ll find you can’t order me around, Clare. We’re not on duty now.’
‘And I think you’ll find I can put you on the traffic rota for the next month.’
Chris scowled at a Lycra-clad runner who elbowed her way past him to the start line.
Clare waited. ‘Well?’
‘You wouldn’t…’
‘Try me.’
Reluctantly, Chris West unzipped a pair of navy-blue Adidas trousers, pulling them off over his feet with some difficulty.
Clare appraised her DS’s white legs. ‘Flipping heck, Chris. When did those legs last see some sun?’
Chris did his best to look offended. ‘We can’t all go jetting off to the south of France on fat inspector’s salaries, you know.’
‘You calling me fat?’
Chris handed his trousers to a young girl seated at a desk with dozens of plastic boxes behind. ‘Seventy-three,’ the girl said. She handed him a numbered token and put his trousers in the corresponding box.
Chris took the token and zipped it into a pocket in his shorts.
Clare observed this, noting the shorts were straining at the waist. ‘You really need to lose some weight, Chris. When was the last time you went for a run?’
He pulled his T-shirt out of his shorts to cover his gut. ‘I’ll get back to the gym. I just haven’t had time lately.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘So, how was the holiday? Good time?’ Chris said, deflecting the conversation away from his bulging waistline.
Clare tried not to smile but she couldn’t help it. ‘I’ve had worse.’
‘You and the sculptor still on, then?’
‘I am still seeing Geoffrey, yes.’
The crowd of runners began moving slowly along the West Sands towards the start line. Ahead of them lay a stretch of silver sand, almost two miles long, the freezing waters of the North Sea to the east. The midday sun glinted off the waves, which were dancing in the gentle breeze. Clare was glad to see the tide was well out. It would be far easier running on the hard sand. As they fell into step with the other runners she looked over the dunes to the west, where the famous Old Course lay. The dunes obscured her view of the fairway but, on a Sunday, she knew the golfers, with their gaudy sweaters and oversized golf bags, would be absent. It was the one day of the week when the course was open for tourists to wander and explore.
The runners in front came to a halt. Clare craned her neck and estimated there were fifty or sixty ahead of her. She wondered if she could work her way up to the front. Something caught her eye and she turned, squinting into the sun. A uniformed PC was waving at them from the sand dunes. ‘Oh, there’s Sara,’ she said.
Chris turned to see PC Sara Stapleton and a smile spread across his face.
Clare saw this and nudged him with her elbow. ‘You two still an item, I take it?’
‘Mm-hm.’
Clare gave Sara a wave and thought how happy she looked. She glanced back at Chris. She was fond of him but was he really was right for Sara? ‘You see you don’t break that girl’s heart,’ she said, ‘or you’ll have me to answer to.’
Chris was prevented from answering by a garbled announcement over a megaphone.
‘It’s about to start,’ Clare said. ‘Come on. Let’s get up to the front.’
Chris stepped to the side to allow a clutch of pink-shirted men to pass him. ‘My lace is loose. I’ll just…’
Clare scowled back at him as she was carried along with the pink shirts. ‘You’d better not duck out,’ she shouted.
He responded by cupping a hand to his ear as if he hadn’t heard, before the crowd swallowed him.
Typical. Clare knew he hadn’t done any training.
Looking along the dunes, she saw Jim, her uniformed sergeant, smiling and waving from the side. He wasn’t in uniform today, of course. Still signed off work. He was shouting something but it was lost on the wind. She shook her head to indicate she hadn’t heard.
‘Good luck, Clare,’ he shouted again. ‘And thanks.’
Clare gave him a thumbs-up. ‘Is Mary with you?’
Jim shook his head. ‘A bit tired today, you know. But she’s so grateful to you all for the sponsorship money. Means a lot.’
A klaxon sounded, disturbing the herring gulls. They soared upwards and out towards the sea, screeching in protest. Clare gave Jim another thumbs-up and moved back into the sea of runners. She glanced over her shoulder and saw them snaking along the beach behind her. There must be two hundred of them, at least. The dunes were lined with spectators and she suddenly felt outstandingly happy.
The queue had stopped again now and she became aware of some movement among the spectators, a bit beyond the start line. ‘They’ll be knocked over if they’re not careful,’ she said to her neighbour, a girl of about eighteen who was jumping up and down on the spot, clearly impatient to be off.
And then they were shifting forward again, funnelling towards the start line, as the overhead digital clock came to life. But almost as soon as they started to move, they came to an abrupt halt. Clare bumped into a tall man in front of her but managed to steady herself. There were shouts and some swearing, and she strained to make out the instructions being given via the megaphone. She looked over to Jim who was walking quickly along the grassy bank to the start line. Clare ducked out of the queue of runners, jogging up and onto the bank.
‘What’s going on, Jim?’
‘Bloody protesters. Must be thirty of them at least. Lying down right across the beach.’
The race forgotten, Clare scanned the beach for Chris but he was nowhere in sight. From her vantage point on the bank she could see the start line. The runners’ progress was blocked by around thirty men and women in green T-shirts, lying down on the sand. They were chatting amiably among themselves, with the odd apologetic gesture to the organisers. The runners, now stuck in a bottleneck beneath the overhead clock, were remonstrating with them, to little effect. Clare looked back along the dunes and could just make out Sara, talking to someone, probably Chris. Putting two fingers in her mouth, she gave a piercing whistle. Sara put up a hand up to shield her e
yes from the sun and Clare waved her arm. When Sara began running towards her, Clare ran back down onto the sand and forced her way through to the head of the race. The organisers were arguing with the protesters who wore T-shirts, emblazoned with a tree logo and the letters NEFEW.
‘What the hell’s NEFEW?’ Clare called to Jim, but his answer was lost in the clamour. She saw two uniformed officers approaching and ran across to them. ‘Get onto whoever’s manning the station. Tell them we need another six bodies and a couple of vans, just in case. We’ll get this lot shifted so the race can carry on.’
Sara arrived; Clare motioned to her and the other officers to follow. She moved to the start line and commandeered the megaphone. She introduced herself in the hope that the presence of a Detective Inspector would carry some weight. ‘Would you all please move to the side to allow the race to proceed?’
The protesters laughed at this and there was more swearing from the runners, impatient to be off. The clock was showing two minutes now, and counting.
An elderly man with a shock of white hair eased himself up to his feet, wiping sand from his hands, and approached Clare. She saw that, as well as his green T-shirt, he wore faded brown corduroy trousers and a pair of well-used trail shoes.
‘Detective Inspector,’ he began. ‘We represent NEFEW—’
Clare cut across him. ‘I can see that, sir. What’s this all about?’
‘McIntosh Water. You’ve doubtless heard they plan to build a bottled water plant on Priory Marsh. Are you familiar with the area?’
The name didn’t immediately ring a bell. ‘No, sir, I’m not. But I do know that you’re—’
‘Priory Marsh is home to several rare examples of lichens, and provides a haven for wildlife. To threaten this in the name of plastics production is something we cannot allow.’
There was a ripple of applause from the protesters, some offering ‘hear hears’.
Clare regarded them, unimpressed. ‘I appreciate that but you’re disrupting a charitable event here.’
‘An event which is sponsored – unsurprisingly – by McIntosh Water,’ the man continued. ‘Call me cynical, Detective Inspector, but it wouldn’t be the first time a business tried to buy goodwill through philanthropy. They think if they donate a few hundred bottles of water and a box of medals, people will forget the damage they do.’
Across the dunes, Clare could see the first of the police cars approaching. Then she saw the photographer from the Fife Newsday website. He recognised Clare and pointed his camera.
‘Don’t you dare!’ she warned him. ‘We’ve enough to do here without you splashing us all over the Internet.’
The cars were coming closer now and she could see a police van a short distance behind. She turned back to the man. ‘I’m guessing you don’t have a permit for this protest.’
The cars drew to a halt on the other side of the dunes. Doors slammed and a small group of uniformed officers began making their way towards the protest. Clare glared at him. ‘Do you?’
‘I’m sure you are aware, Inspector, that the right to peaceful protest is enshrined in law.’ He smiled and Clare felt her patience evaporating.
‘Very well. My officers will shortly assist your group across the sands, away from the start of the race, where you can continue your protest.’
The white-haired man opened his mouth to speak, but was forestalled by an ear-piercing scream. It came from somewhere behind Clare, further down the queue of runners and spectators. She turned to see a woman a short distance away, one hand on a pram handle. She was in her early thirties, Clare thought. Her hair, dark with blonde highlights, was scraped back in a doughnut bun, accentuating her heavily tinted eyebrows. Her head jerked back and forth as she looked all round. Her magenta lips were opening and closing but no words were coming out. And then, finally, she found her voice, the words a strangled cry.
‘My baby. Someone’s taken my baby.’
Chapter 2
They stood, huddled together, the woman joined by a man now – the baby’s father, Clare assumed. Were they married? The woman’s hand was still on the pram and Clare’s eye went to a platinum band on her ring finger. She noticed they had matching tattoos on their arms. A name – beginning with A, she thought – with a collection of little hearts surrounding it. The woman seemed frozen while the man’s eyes flicked left and right, as though struggling to take in the events unfolding around them.
They mumbled in response to Clare’s gentle prompts for information. The baby was a girl. Six months old. When Clare asked what the baby was wearing, they looked at each other for a moment, confusion in their eyes. Then:
‘Pink,’ the man said. ‘Pink sleepsuit.’
‘Red rosebuds on it,’ the woman said.
‘Any distinguishing features?’
The man’s face clouded. ‘Eh?’
‘Hair, teeth. That sort of thing,’ Clare said.
The woman said, ‘Tooth. She has one tooth. In the front. Just through.’
‘And her neck,’ the man said. ‘Small birthmark. Sort of purple.’
‘This is really helpful,’ Clare said, writing in a notebook borrowed from Sara. ‘Erm, which side of her neck?’
‘Left,’ the woman said and she lifted her hand, indicating the spot on her own neck.
The sun had gone behind a cloud and the woman began to shiver. The man lifted a blanket from the pram and put it round her shoulders. She looked at him then down at the blanket and clutched it round her front.
Another police van came to a halt on the road close to the start of the race, and disgorged four uniformed officers. Clare waved at them and they ran across.
‘More on the way,’ one of them said. ‘Want this lot shifted?’ He indicated the green-shirted protesters, now on their feet, looking shamefaced.
‘Hold them here for now and keep an eye on them. I want every last one of them spoken to,’ Clare said. ‘Meantime, we’ve a missing baby.’ She held out her hand. ‘Your radio, please.’
The officer handed over his radio and Clare was soon issuing instructions to the control rooms in Glenrothes and Dundee. ‘We’re probably too late now but I want every car leaving town searched. We’re looking for a six-month-old female baby, pink sleepsuit with red rosebuds, a single bottom tooth and small birthmark on the left side of her neck.’
A second van drew up and Clare set about directing the officers. ‘Interview everyone; I don’t care if they saw anything or not. Names and addresses. Ask if they saw anyone hanging around who didn’t look like a runner or a spectator. Anyone who didn’t fit in.’ Clare turned to Sara, whose face was chalk white. ‘Sara, I want the parents taken home. Stick to them like glue. Keep the pram here. SOCO will need to process it.’
Sara didn’t respond, her hand over her mouth, as if she might be sick.
‘Sara! Missing baby – do your job.’
She shivered involuntarily. ‘Sorry boss. It’s just – well, a baby – who would do this?’
‘Detach, Sara, and quickly. Get the parents home and I’ll join you as soon as I can.’
Clare watched the young PC lead the parents to a waiting car and hoped she was up to the job of dealing with them. Chris jogged up, having retrieved his trousers.
‘Chris, can you arrange for a Family Liaison Officer? As soon as I’m done here you and I will follow Sara to the parents’ house. And, when you’ve done that, get onto the Dog Unit. See how many dogs we can get out within the hour.’ She pointed in the direction of the town, south of the beach. ‘I want dogs all over this part of the beach. Start them at the rocks and work north, along the dunes and west to the hotel.’
‘Even the golf course?’
‘It’s a missing baby, Chris. I want every inch combed, so get as many dogs and cops as you can lay your hands on. Any problems, refer them to me.’
The grey-haired protester was standing, waiting to speak to her. ‘Inspector,’ he began, ‘my volunteers are at your disposal. If we can help at all…’
The man swallowed and moistened his lips. ‘Oh, but…’
Clare felt a stab of guilt. ‘Look, sir, I know you mean well, but unless you saw the abductor, I doubt you can help.’
Chris appeared at her side. ‘Dog Unit alerted. More cops coming from Dundee and Cupar.’ He checked his watch. ‘Cupar lot should be here in about twenty minutes. Dundee probably another ten minutes behind them.’
Clare nodded. ‘Thanks, Chris.’
The runners were becoming restive, some rubbing their arms to keep warm. Others were queueing at a burger van which was parked on the road behind the dunes.
Chris nodded towards them. ‘Please tell me you don’t want all the runners interviewed?’ He indicated the crowd. ‘We don’t have the manpower.’
He was right. There were hundreds of runners, thirty-odd protesters, the distraught parents to support and a baby to find.
‘Fair enough, Chris. Just names and addresses for now – unless they saw anything.’
Jim appeared, his face creased with worry. ‘Is it right, Clare? A baby’s been taken?’
‘Afraid so, Jim.’
‘Right,’ he said, ‘tell me what you want done.’
‘You’re still on compassionate leave. Go home and look after Mary.’
Jim shook his head. ‘How do you think she’d feel, knowing I wasn’t out helping find the wee soul? You can count me back to work, as of now.’
Clare smiled at him. ‘Oh, Jim. I’d love to turn you down, I really would. But the truth is I could do with your help.’
‘Right. I’ll take the uniforms from the vans and start with the runners. They’ll be getting cold, hanging about.’
Another group of uniformed officers appeared. Clare scanned them, assessing their numbers, and decided she had enough to begin interviewing the protesters. ‘You six,’ she said, ‘take the protesters. Don’t waste time, though. Names, addresses and, unless they saw something, get them out of here.’