Candles and Roses (19 page)

McKay agreed there was little more they could do that night. He’d initially been surprised he had no recollection of the Young case, but he could see now that it had barely surfaced long enough to reach the attention of anyone but the immediate investigating officers, even locally. ‘We can do more digging tomorrow,’ he told Horton. The investigating officer, then a DI, was still around, and had now apparently reached the dizzying heights of superintendent in Edinburgh. ‘You can make him squirm by asking him why the fuck he let the case drop,’ McKay pointed out helpfully.

He’d phoned ahead to let Chrissie know that, at least by his own standards, he was expecting to be home early. She’d greeted the news with limited enthusiasm, but said she’d have a cottage pie waiting. When he turned up only thirty or so minutes later than scheduled, she was in the kitchen checking the oven. As he entered, she made a visible point of checking her watch before pouring herself another glass of wine.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I should do after all these years, shouldn’t I?’

As so often, he felt as if she was spoiling for a fight, but tonight he determined to let it wash over him. He hadn’t the energy or inclination for another slanging match. ‘How’s the pie?’

‘Just waiting for it to brown. Peas?’

‘Why not?’ He pulled down a wine glass and poured himself a decent measure, wondering how much Chrissie had had before his return. This bottle was a third empty, but he suspected there might be another in the bin.

‘How’s it going?’ she said.

‘We’re getting somewhere. But slowly.’

‘There’s a third body, then,’ she said. They’d made the announcement late afternoon. Grant and the powers-that-be had decided they couldn’t keep the news under wraps much longer. Otherwise, someone—the security guy who’d found the body, one of the paramedics who’d been on site—would leak it, deliberately or inadvertently. Then the media would be on to them for withholding information which might have an impact on public safety. Like the media cared a bugger for public safety. In the end, comms had issued a bald press release sufficiently late in the day that the media wouldn’t have time to do much digging before the early evening news broadcasts. ‘What did they say?’

‘Just said a body had been discovered near Rosemarkie. That you were treating it as an unlawful killing. There was a bit of speculation as to whether it might be linked to the other cases, but they didn’t make a lot of that.’ She left the peas to boil and sat down next to him.

‘They will, though,’ McKay commented dourly. ‘You wait for tomorrow’s tabloids.’

They sat in silence until Chrissie rose to check the oven. ‘Shall we eat in here?’

‘Might as well.’ McKay rose to fetch the plates and cutlery, setting two places opposite each other at the kitchen table. Chrissie carried out the steaming pie, and he watched while she doled out ladlefuls for each of them.

‘Nice pie,’ he said.

‘Ach, it’s tatties and mince, isn’t it?’ Not that there’s anything wrong with that.’

There was more silence while McKay topped up their wine glasses. After a moment, she said: ‘We can’t go on like this, Alec. Dancing round each other. Walking on eggshells. Not daring to say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing. Both of us spoiling for a fight all the time, but doing our damnedest to avoid it because we know we’ll say things we’ll both regret.’

‘Is that how you see it?’

‘That’s how we both see it, Alec. You just won’t say it out loud.’

He had no response to that. He wasn’t even sure she was right, not exactly. But there was enough truth for him not to want to engage with it. Which, he supposed, proved her point. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘What I’ve suggested before. Counselling. Couples counselling. You said we should give it a go.’

He felt the familiar tightening in his chest. He’d almost forgotten he’d agreed to her suggestion. That he’d actually said—God help him—that it was all they’d got left. ‘Aye, if you say so.’

‘You said so,’ she insisted. ‘So I’ve done it.’

He looked up, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. ‘You’ve done what?’

‘I’ve made an appointment for us. Tomorrow.’

‘Jesus, Chrissie, you know how busy I am. I can’t just go swanning off—’

‘Six-thirty,’ she said. ‘He does early evening sessions.’

‘Even so, I can’t—’

‘Do you want to make this work or not?’ Her voice was threateningly even. ‘Are you even prepared to give it a try?’

‘For God’s sake, Chrissie, that’s not the point—’

‘It’s exactly the point, Alec. It’s this or nothing.’

He slumped back in his chair, knowing he was defeated. ‘Aye. OK. We’ll give it a go. Who is this guy? Don’t tell me you found him in the Yellow Pages.’

‘I spoke to the GP. He recommended him. Does a lot of couples counselling work. But also has a specialism in working with troubled young people. Doctor thought he might also be able to give us some insights into— well, you know.’

‘Aye,’ McKay said, wearily. ‘Anything’s possible, I suppose.’

‘Give it a go, Alec. A real go, I mean. Not just lip service.’

‘I will. Look, I want this to work as much as you do. I don’t want us rubbing along in pained silence. Always blaming each other to salve our own guilt.’ He took her hand, conscious that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d done that.

She looked back at him. ‘Last chance saloon and all that. But, yes, let’s give it a shot.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

McKay was in the office by seven-thirty the next morning, but Helena Grant was already waiting for him.

‘Shit. Fan,’ she said, succinctly, and tossed the
Daily Record
on to his desk. ‘You seen this?’

The headline was ‘Black Isle Killer.’ McKay didn’t bother to read the story. ‘It was bound to come.’

‘Aye, I know. But my phone’s been ringing off the hook already. Chief. Deputy chief. Another deputy chief. Assistant chief. Assistant deputy chief. Chief super. Head of comms. You name it.’

‘You talk to them so I don’t have to,’ McKay pointed out.

‘Be thankful for small mercies. We need a breakthrough, though. Something. Anything.’

‘Ach, it’s like wading through treacle. We’re building up a picture of these women’s lives, but it’s slow going. There’s a definite pattern emerging.’ He outlined the ideas that he and Horton had discussed after their interviews the previous day.

‘You think this guy Cameron might be a suspect?’

‘It’s conceivable. He’s the most likely candidate so far. Scott might have had a motive, but I can’t see him coping physically with what was involved in these killings. Young’s obviously out of the picture. Cameron’s fit and able enough. There was clearly no love lost between him and his daughter, whatever the reasons. He drives a powerful-looking 4x4, so he wouldn’t have had any difficulty getting the second body out to the shoreline…’

‘But?’

‘But why would he kill the other two? It’s possible to come up with a scenario in which he might have killed his own daughter. Maybe she turned up out of the blue. Maybe threatened to expose him, if he is an abuser. Maybe threatened to tell his new wife, assuming that she hasn’t already guessed. Something along those lines. And he decides the best thing to do is to silence her. I can buy that, probably. But why the other two?’

‘Because he’s off his head? You said he seemed odd.’

‘Aye, there was definitely something not right about him. Especially the way he talked about his daughter. As if she was his property. He didn’t seem able or willing to conceal that, even talking to us. But odd enough to kill two complete strangers? I don’t know.’

‘If they really were strangers,’ Grant pointed out.

‘We’ve found no evidence of any links so far. They seem to have lived fairly parallel lives, but there’s no sign to date that they knew each other or even had any common acquaintances.’

‘It’s possible, though, surely? They all come from within a few miles of each other.’

‘Of course it’s possible. And if Cameron were predatory, it’s conceivable they might all have been victims. But that’s just speculation at the moment. Cameron’s got no kind of record, any more than his daughter did.’

‘So where next?’

‘We’ll interview Cameron after he’s ID’d his daughter. Just to take a statement at this stage. We’ve no grounds to treat him as a suspect yet. We’ll carry on plugging away at the backgrounds of the other two. We don’t know where Rhona Young was living. We’ll ask GMP to keep tabs on the misper lists in case she crops up there. We could do another request for info through the media.’

‘Let’s hold that back for the moment,’ Grant said. ‘We’ll look a bunch of numpties if that’s all we keep doing. People will think it’s because we don’t have a clue what to do otherwise.’

‘Aye, well, we don’t really, do we?’

‘No, but don’t let on. Christ knows where that would lead.’

‘The other question,’ McKay mused, ‘is why Manchester? Is it just a coincidence that that’s where the first two victims were living, or does it have some significance? If it turns out Young was living there too, we’ll have to assume it’s part of the pattern. But why?’

‘God knows. It’s one of the places you can fly to from Inverness? There aren’t that many. London. Birmingham. Bristol, I think.’

‘Bloody Stornoway and Kirkwall. But, yes, maybe.’

She pushed herself wearily to her feet. ‘OK. Well, keep plugging away. I know you’re doing your best—’

‘And my best is bloody good,’ McKay said, ‘as you well know.’

‘Aye, well, keep blowing your own trumpet, Alec, because no other bugger’s going to blow it for you.’ She stopped at the door and turned back with a smile. ‘And, yes, it bloody well is. But we still need a miracle. As soon as you like.’

***

Thomas Cameron had confirmed that the body in the mortuary was indeed that of his daughter, Joanne. His interest in the matter seemed almost non-existent. It was as if he’d been asked to confirm some detail in a report or an item of expenditure in a bill.

Afterwards, Horton had driven him back to HQ so that she and McKay could take a statement. Although it was no more than a witness statement at this stage, McKay felt that both of them should be present in case anything more substantive should emerge. Given Cameron’s taciturn demeanour, Horton wasn’t hopeful. McKay had set up the meeting, as formally as possible, in one of the interview rooms.

‘Can I ask you about your relationship with your daughter, Mr Cameron?’ he began.

He could almost see Cameron tense. ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’

‘It may not be,’ McKay said. ‘At this stage, we’re simply trying to build up as full a picture of your daughter as we can. We’ve very little information other than her address and occupation at the time of her death.’

‘Then you’re one up on me,’ Cameron said.

‘So it’s helpful to gain some understanding of her background,’ McKay persisted. ‘You said she continued to live with you after her mother left?’

‘Aye. I told you all this yesterday. Her mother walked out. We had a bastard of a fight in the courts. And I won.’ Even now, he sounded smug. McKay had already noticed that Cameron seemed unwilling even to speak his ex-wife’s name.

‘Why didn’t the court grant custody to Joanne’s mother?’

‘Because she was a waste of space. She’d always been unreliable. Had walked out a couple of times before. She was on anti-depressants and Christ knows what else. She’d had a couple of suicide attempts—’

‘All while married to you?’ Horton tried not to make the question sound too pointed.

Cameron laughed. ‘Aye, I suppose. But she’d always been flaky. It wasn’t hard for my lawyers to demonstrate she wasn’t a fit mother.’

‘You said yesterday she levelled accusations at you,’ McKay said. ‘What kinds of accusations?’

Cameron shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair. ‘Christ, you name it.’

‘Did she claim you were abusive?’

‘Among other things.’

‘Towards her or your daughter?’

Cameron leaned across the table, jabbing a finger angrily towards McKay. ‘What the fuck is this? What’s this got to do with Joanne’s death?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Cameron,’ McKay said, patiently. ‘I’m just trying to establish some background.’

‘There’s nothing to establish,’ Cameron said. ‘She just threw all kind of mud in the hope something would stick. Like I say, the court found in my favour, so you can draw your own conclusions.’

‘And why did your wife leave you in the first place?’

‘Like I say, she was a flake. Mad as a box of frogs. I didn’t realise till it was too late.’

‘And your daughter? She walked out as well?’

‘She was as mad as her mother, in her own way. Two of a kind. Always had been. When Joanne was small, her mother used to take her off to have fucking fantasy tea parties at the beach, like two kids playing together. And it wasn’t Joanne who took the fucking teddy-bears and dolls. Joanne ended up like her mother. Hadn’t a clue what she wanted to do with her life. Eating disorders. Depression. You name it.’

‘But you weren’t concerned when she left?’

‘Of course I was concerned. But there was nothing much I could do, was there? She was an adult. She could make her own decisions.’

‘You didn’t try to find her?’

‘I thought she’d come crawling back eventually. Those first couple of weeks she kept calling and asking for money. I didn’t think she’d be capable of looking after herself.’

‘You don’t know where she went? I mean, in those initial weeks.’

‘She never told me. Just kept asking me to transfer money to her account. I told her where she could stick her account. I got the impression she was staying with a mate, but I don’t know who.’

‘Locally?’

‘I’d guess so. She couldn’t drive, so I can’t see how she’d have got very far to start with.’

‘But you’ve no ideas who she might have stayed with? No friends from those days? No-one she was particularly close to?’

‘I never thought she had many friends. She was too screwed up. Always seemed a bit of a loner. But I suppose there must have been someone.’