Troubled Waters (17 page)

‘We could get the time of the call, Nan’s call – that would give us a better clue as to the time of the argument,’ Alice said, turning towards DC Cairns.

‘No – no,’ Margaret Stobbs cut in quickly, ‘it wasn’t a
call . . . not then, thinking about it again. No, it was a call of nature. I had to answer a call of nature. Nan called the day before.’

‘Nan being your real – or is it your
imaginary
friend?’ Jessie inquired, a look of triumph on her face.

‘Can you give us a description of the girl, Mrs Stobbs?’ Alice intervened, halting their endless sparring for the moment.

‘Aha, she was a white “Caucasian” as they say on the TV,’ the woman continued confidently. ‘What else do you want to know?’

‘Hair colour?’ DC Cairns volunteered.

‘She’d a hat on. A woolly one, you know, with a bobble on the top.’

‘Did you see her face?’ Alice inquired.

‘Not really, not from my upstairs window, looking down on her. I don’t get out much nowadays, with my legs. Those stairs will be the death of me. And it’s been that cold, she was always wrapped up to the nines. Hats, gloves, scarves. My carers, Gloria and Theresa, do all my shopping for me.’

‘What about her height, can you help us with that?’ Alice tried again.

‘I’d only a bird’s eye view, remember. All I can tell you is that Mandy was smaller than her, quite a bit smaller than her.’

‘You’re not much help!’ Jessie said dismissively. ‘Did you never bump into her inside, on the stair or anything? You don’t know what the man looked like . . .’

‘I told you, it was her boyfriend!’

‘How d’you know that? Do you know what he looks like, then? How do you know it was him? What does he look like, then, tell us that!’

‘I’ve not seen him that night, Jessie. But it was him alright, I could tell from the words . . . anyone who’d ever been married could tell.’

‘Hopeless,’ Jessie said dismissively, ‘quite hopeless. You don’t know what the man looked like, what the girlfriend looked like. And maybe she done it – in a love triangle or something. There might be an identity parade or something and a lot of use you’re going to be. They’ve got to catch this Mandy girl’s murderer. There are a lot of white people, a lot of white women, in Edinburgh and that’s all it amounts to! Your so-called help –’

‘So, Jessie, dear,’ Margaret replied, her eyes flashing with fury, ‘what exactly are you suggesting? Should I, perhaps, just make it all up? Just to please these two ladies so that they can go away with something? A love triangle! What would you know of a love triangle . . . of love for that matter?’

By way of reply, her sister sniffed and said, ‘I watch the TV like everyone else. If you’re to get to your tea, I’ll need to start drying your hair now.’ So saying, she let rip with the hairdryer, holding it like a gun at maximum heat, its nozzle only inches from Margaret Stobbs’ pink skull.

Taking the photo of Miranda and the girl in the hat from its brown envelope, the inspector held it in front of the older woman.

‘Is that the girlfriend?’ she asked loudly, determined to make herself heard above the din of the hairdryer.

Instantly, Margaret Stobbs stuck a thumb up from under her towel and cast an exultant smile at her sister.

The stress of it all was getting to him, he knew. Nowadays, from the moment he woke up, he seemed to be in pain,
whether in his head or his tummy or, unexpectedly, across his shoulders. At work they had noticed the change in him. Steve had remarked how pale he looked and Rhona at reception had said the same, and kept offering him tea or coffee at all hours. He reached inside the glove compartment of his car, pulled out a can of boiled sweets, a packet of spare tissues, finally extracting a roll of leaflets held together by a rubber band. But, despite further rummaging, he found no headache pills. As long as it did not start thumping he would manage, he told himself. At least this time he was early.

Knowing he had over twenty minutes to kill, he started reading his newspaper, but after scanning the front page he gave up. Nothing was going in; he could not have repeated a word he had read. Never mind. Soon the women would start assembling by the gates, relaxed in each other’s company, some with buggies, some carrying their shopping, a few loners patrolling the periphery, acting like another species, aliens, apparently disdainful of their own sex. What were they playing at? Did they not like motherhood? Perhaps they were nannies, or paid carers of some sort. Disability was nothing if not democratic, after all. Among those damaged boys and girls there might well be a lord or lady to be. With that thought in mind, he turned his attention to the school itself.

Nothing seemed to be happening inside. Lights were on in a few of the rooms but otherwise it appeared to be almost dormant. It was, he noticed, a beautiful building with its cut stone exterior, pillars and long, symmetrical windows. Georgian, probably, not the usual purpose-built monstrosity considered good enough by nameless officials for those with ‘Special Needs’. Such children, apparently, had no ordinary, never mind special, need for
good architecture. But his child did, she liked Edinburgh Castle, smiled every time she saw it.

Why, he wondered, glancing at his watch, were the mothers not beginning to make an appearance? In case it was fast, he turned on the radio and caught a time check. Ten to three, as both the clock in the car and his watch confirmed. Had something gone wrong? At the very thought, the pain in his head became more intense, throbbing over one eye and making him close it in an attempt to block out the light, ease the pain. His phone went and he picked it up, hardly able to speak, knowing who it was.

‘Is she there?’ Lambie demanded. Nowadays, she was utterly single-minded, viewing him as no more than a conduit to her daughter, uninterested in anything but news of her. If she was next to him, and could see him now, bleeding from multiple wounds, her question would be the same. She had a cold, unnatural, unwomanly streak about her sometimes. Couldn’t she tell from his voice, if nothing else, that he was poorly? Early mornings and late nights, work, work, work, never mind the stress of a missing child, must take their toll. He was not made of iron.

‘No,’ he said unhelpfully, forcing her to reveal herself and ask for more.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s too early, it’s not yet three. They’re not out.’

‘Have you seen her though, is she there?’

‘No, I told you. It’s too early. Now, love, I have to go, really, otherwise I might miss her again.’

He got out of his car and wandered over towards the sole woman standing at the wrought-iron gates. Hands in his pockets, he stood beside her, ignoring her, all his
attention fixed on the playground. Surely to goodness something must happen soon. Maybe the bell would go and then they would all start flooding out, like birds released from a cage.

‘Are they not coming?’ the woman said to him in a strong Glaswegian accent. Turning to face her, he saw a stunning Marilyn Monroe lookalike with white blonde locks, blue-powdered eyelids and a mouth to die for. Her tiny waist was pulled in by the belt of her red mac, but perched on her strapless stilettos, she was a good three inches taller than him. Before he had opened his mouth to answer her, she exclaimed, ‘Fuck!’

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, watching as she shook her head from side to side, her glorious curls tumbling over her face and perfuming the air around them.

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

‘What is it?’ he repeated, moving closer to her.

‘Today’s Friday, isn’t it? It’s a half bloody day. Micky must have collected her, taken her home. I came straight from my work, dozy bitch that I am.’

‘Half-day?’ he said weakly, its significance just beginning to filter into his pain-befuddled brain.

‘You forget an’ all?’ she said, smiling sweetly at him like the screen goddess she resembled. ‘Bet your wife won’t have! How could I bloody forget, eh?’ she mused. ‘Too much on my plate, that’s how. They’ll wonder what I’m up to at my work, disappearing like that – asking nobody or anything.’

Back inside his car, he dialled home. His headache was worse, splitting his skull in two and making him overheat, sweat now running down his body.

‘Lambie,’ he said, his head bent forwards, resting on the wheel, his eyes closed.

‘You haven’t got her, have you?’ her voice sounded stern, like a schoolteacher reprimanding a pupil, cold as ice.

‘No, I haven’t,’ he replied, adopting a defiant attitude, leaving it at that, incomplete.

‘Why?’

‘She wasn’t there.’

Instantly her tone changed and the panic that he knew she tried to suppress bubbled up to the surface, audible in her unnatural, high-pitched tone, in her garbled words.

‘Why? Why wasn’t she there? Where is she then . . . is she not at that school then? I thought you were sure, I thought she was there. How do we know she’s safe? Maybe she’s got lost again, wandered away from them. That’s what she does, isn’t it? Where is she, why has . . .’

‘Lambie, Lambie,’ he broke in, softening at her first display of weakness, desperate to reassure her. ‘It’s alright. Truly, it is alright. She is alright. I couldn’t pick her up because today’s a half-day, I didn’t know that. So I turned up too late, but don’t worry yourself, I’ll pick her up tomorrow. If she’s there, I’ll get her tomorrow for sure.’

‘No . . .’ she said, sobbing, hardly able to catch her breath.

‘I will,’ he said, comforting her, making it sound as if nothing could now go wrong. Horrified by his own cruelty.

‘No,’ she repeated, ‘you won’t. You won’t be able to. Tomorrow’s Saturday, there’ll be no school on a Saturday. We’ll have to wait two more days. I’m not sure I can bear it, darling. I’ve had enough. It’s been so long. I’m going . . . let’s go, both of us, let’s just go to the police.’

‘Lambie – my love,’ he said slowly, playing for time, trying to work out the best way to handle her. ‘We could do that, of course. If that’s what you want I’ll go along with it, that’s what we’ll do.
But
. . . I really don’t think it would be a good idea. This way, we’ll get her back on Monday, I’m confident of that, I’d bet my life on that. If we go to the police now you know what’ll happen. The social services people won’t let her go, not just like that. They have no idea, remember, how difficult it is to keep her safe. Someone will be sent round, like the last time, to decide if we’re “fit” or not. Some do-gooder who knows nothing about her, or about us. What if they decide that we’re not? What then? It took weeks last time, and the time before that, remember, when she was little. This is the third time this has happened. Maybe we won’t get another chance. Have you thought about that?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘all I want is her back.’

‘Well, do. That’s all I want too,’ he said, pressing his advantage home. ‘Haven’t I done everything I said I’d do? Tracked her down, found her? I’ll get her back, and once she’s home we’ll never lose her again. I’ll lock my car door, just like you said, that’s the only weakness in our system. Everything else we’d figured out, hadn’t we?’

‘Monday, then, you’re sure about Monday?’

‘I’m sure,’ he said, relieved beyond words by her compliance, ‘You can rely on me, Lambie. You know you can. When have I ever let you down?’

‘Never . . . well, almost never,’ she answered, genuine warmth seeping into her tone as she considered the truth of this. ‘You’ve almost never let me down. Twenty years – for twenty years, you’ve looked after me.’

This was balm for his soul. With her behind him, he could conquer anything, achieve everything. All was not
lost, and putting his mobile in his pocket he smiled to himself, felt like a different man. His headache was no more than an inconvenience, one that would go soon. And on Monday, for sure, he would get her. His whole world depended upon it.

10

On Saturday morning at nine o’clock most of the inhabitants of Casselbank Street were either in their beds, dead to the world, or awake, sitting up in crumpled night attire, rubbing their sleep-filled eyes and beginning to wonder whether to be virtuous and consume muesli, yoghurt or fruit for breakfast, or, since it was the weekend, to risk clogging their arteries and enjoy a cooked breakfast instead. From the enticing smell in the murdered girl’s tenement, the majority there had opted to die young.