Troubled Waters (27 page)

‘What do you mean, “if such a person exists”? We know she exists, lots of people have told us about her.’

‘No,’ Alice said, stopping by the car, her hand on the door handle. She looked across the white, frost-hardened ground of the Meadows, watching as a couple of dogs frolicked together, their owners walking side by side.

‘No,’ she continued, ‘we know someone exists – but not that she’s Anna Campbell. Various things don’t make sense. Mr Stimms, in particular, he doesn’t make sense, and he’s the one who filled us in about Anna Campbell. Last night I was reading a book a friend lent me that opens up a few questions. I think we’ll go and speak to the Stimms again . . . to both of them.’

‘How do you mean?’ DC Cairns said, getting into the car, pleased to be back where some warmth from the heater lingered from their journey to Melville Terrace.

‘He said he allowed his younger daughter to see her sister,’ Alice replied, climbing in herself.

‘What’s odd about that?’

‘For most people nothing – for them, everything. His daughter, remember, either left the Elect, or was thrown out. He suggested it was because of her lesbianism. They were the ones, the Stimms, who first started that hare running. The Elect abhor homosexuality. What we know is that she was no longer part of the sect, either because she left them or they had “withdrawn” from her.’

‘“Withdrawn” from – what d’you mean?’

‘It’s one of their expressions. It’s a form of excommunication; if it happens the sinner is cut off entirely from all family, church, Elect society – they’re regarded as a pariah. The same happens if one of them leaves voluntarily. Then
they’re viewed as no longer “walking in the light”, having chosen Satan’s path instead. Either way, under the doctrine of separation to which they subscribe, from then onwards they’ll have nothing to do with you – even if it means splitting spouse from spouse, parent from child, sister from brother, sister from sister . . .’

‘So what?’

Alice’s phone rang and she picked it up, fumbling for her safety belt at the same time. It was Trish Rennie at the other end.

‘The DNA results have just been phoned in,’ she said, ‘I thought you’d like to hear them as soon as possible.’

‘OK, fire away.’

‘In Miranda Stimms’ flat, they found DNA from Hamish Evans and, probably, her sister’s DNA too. The rest of the stuff they haven’t been able to identify. They can tell family members, as you know. Amongst a mass of unidentified stuff from the common stair, the blood and so on did come from Miranda. It looks as if she did get the head injury in the stair.’

‘And the DNA in Hamish’s flat?’

‘His and hers, plus a mass of unidentified stuff.’

‘I don’t suppose they told you about the foetal sample, did they?’

‘They did. Max muttered something about Helen Cash begging for it to be done, cashing in a favour or something – seems unlikely, I thought. He said she felt bad about some remark she’d made to someone. None of it made any sense to me. Anyway, thanks to her grovelling we do have an answer. He said to pass on “thirteen weeks” too, from Helen, whatever that’s to do with anything.’

‘Have they got the result?’ DC Cairns asked excitedly.

Signalling for her to be quiet, Alice listened to the rest of what Trish had to say and then put her phone back in her pocket.

‘They have. As I said, we’re off to the Stimms – to talk to them about their daughters.’

15

The Mazda 6 was parked as close to the school’s entrance on Montpelier Street as he could manage without drawing too much attention to himself. From his location by the school gates, he could see into the playground at an angle but was himself partially concealed by a roadworker’s tent. Enclosed within its newly painted black metal railings, the Wargrove special school looked more like a museum than any kind of educational establishment. Tarmac had been poured right up to the walls of the turreted Victorian building and the place looked oddly sterile and uninhabited, except that large yellow litter bins had been placed at regular intervals round the yard. The staff car park took up the only area where there might have been play equipment.

He gazed at the building, examining it intently, staring at the windows, trying to see into it. Nothing. But it must be the one, he thought, there were no other likely candidates left on the list. This time he would succeed. He could not afford to fail again. This was it. The fiasco that had been Monday did not bear thinking about – the time wasted waiting outside in the icy air, worried that someone, somewhere, would sense, somehow, the fear that must have been oozing from his every pore, filling the air, infecting him and everything around him. Second by second, he had been convinced that he would feel a hand on his back, on his shoulder, ushering him gently or
not so gently into the headmaster’s office. And the police would be called to investigate him, this stalker, prowler or potential paedophile or whatever sort of monster they convinced themselves that he was. He could see it all. In one corner would be their informant, probably one of the smug mothers from the gates, explaining that she had seen him there before, watching the place, hanging about with nothing but evil on his sick mind.

And what about the business? So many hours lost, so many orders lost, and the takings were low already. He breathed in deeply, calming himself, reminding himself that it had not happened yet, and would not happen. Not least because that school had not been the one. But Lambie, Lambie’s reaction had been all too real, unbearable, her scream when he told of another failure had pierced his brain, caused him to cover his ears. Looking at her, as he broke the news, he had feared for her sanity. But all of that must be lived through, endured, accepted and would pass. He had survived so far and she, whatever happened, she would do so too. She was not as fragile as she seemed, she understood him, understood what had happened, would understand him whatever happened. Despite everything else, and without the child, she had not lost her mind.

A lollipop woman walked past him, stopping at the school gates and planting the end of her lollipop stick on the pavement. At that moment, the near silence in the street was broken by the ringing of a bell, a harsh, electronic, inhuman ring. Why was that silly woman there? Did some of the pupils just stay for the first few periods or something, up until the first break and then go home? Mind you, if they did, so much the better. He might be able to lose himself in all the movement, the hustle and
bustle, merge into a crowd and become invisible within it.

He rolled down his window, inhaling the welcome fresh air, wiping the sweat from his forehead, unpleasantly conscious that it was now running down his whole body as if it was midsummer or he was in a sauna or something. The flesh was weak, it always betrayed you. His eyes, like a predator’s, were fixed on the school yard, looking for movement, alert for any signs that the children had been released and were about to come out for their playtime. A teacher, or assistant, moseyed out of the building, smiling at the lollipop woman then heading off in the direction of the staff car park. The doors remained open. Suddenly, their appearance heralded by raucous shouts, a stream of children flowed out, some with hands in the air, some mouths open shouting excitedly to each other, some running or hopping, some hobbling on crutches, a few holding back on the doorstep as if afraid of the outside world.

A girl, tall and fair, came to the railings and pushed her head between them, as if to see whether her face would fit between the bars. He watched her, studied her, noting the pale complexion and near translucent skin. She looked unwell, so thin as to be almost transparent. But it was her, unmistakeably her, and at the sight he thought his heart would explode. It was beating so hard he could feel it like a living thing within him, battering him, fighting for its own release. Adrenaline, like liquid fire, was now coursing through him, speeding everything up, exaggerating any sound, making the world too bright.

He took a deep breath, put his hand on the door handle and got out. Walking fast, confidently, he crossed the narrow cobbled street, entered the school gates and went
straight up to her. Her back was to him, and he tapped her on the shoulder. Disengaging her head from the bars, she looked at him, registering who he was, and allowed him to take her hand in his. A boy, dark-haired and sporting an eye-patch, joined them, taking the girl’s other hand and starting to walk in the opposite direction, pulling her towards the staff car park. Smiling widely at the boy, the man forcibly disengaged his hand, finger by finger, saying quietly, ‘No, lad. Not this time.’ Immediately, the child’s expression changed, his face creased up, chin wobbled and tears began to pour from his eyes. In his frustration he began pummelling his thighs with his fists but, to the man’s relief, he made no noise other than a strange, hissing, snake-like sound. Patting him on the shoulder, the man eased the girl around another child standing in their way and back towards the gates.

Just before they got there, a tall black youth spotted them and came hurtling over with a bag of crisps in his outstretched hand. Saying nothing, the man took it from him, immediately passing it to the girl, so that the donor would see the intended recipient had got it. Her hand still clutched in his, they strode through the gate.

The lollipop lady, seeing them, signalled for them to join her and the small band of parents and children waiting to cross. Grinning genially, the man shook his head to let her know they were going in a different direction.

The moment they reached the car, he opened the back door for the girl. As if everything was entirely as expected, she climbed in and immediately began to put on her seatbelt. Now in the driver’s seat, he secured his own, checked his mirror and moved off.

‘DDDadda,’ she said, picking a piece of dry skin from her lower lip, then dabbing her finger in her own blood
as if curious about its colour. Electrified at hearing her speak, he turned to stare at her.

Mrs Stimms, Alice noticed, appeared flustered before she had been asked a single question. Looking around the sitting room, the policewoman took in its near immaculate state once more, noticing that today one curtain remained partly drawn and that a tumbler, its amber contents only half drunk, marred the shining glass of the coffee table. A ring stained the cover of the uppermost illustrated book. Solace, perhaps, for a dead daughter.

Mrs Stimms sat opposite them, alone on her sofa, her legs as before folded primly to one side. The top button of her cashmere cardigan was undone but otherwise she was as perfectly dressed as on the previous occasion, all in navy, down to her matching court shoes. Looking at her face Alice noticed how drawn she seemed, with bruise-black coloration below her eyes, and fine lines visible around her narrow mouth. A new nervousness manifested itself in her hands, one always busy feeling the nails of the other in search of rough skin, something to pick, sometimes even to bite.

‘You heard,’ Alice began, ‘about my last visit here? I came to see you, but as you weren’t here I spoke to your husband instead.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, he told me all about that.’ She nodded, as if to corroborate her own statement.

‘Did he tell you about Anna – Anna Louise Campbell to give you her full name? Has he told you anything about her?’

‘Who?’

‘Anna Louise Campbell. Apparently, she was in a relationship with Miranda, lived with her at Casselbank.’

‘No,’ the woman said, anxiously meeting the detective’s steady gaze, ‘I don’t know anything about that side of things . . . of her life. I told you the last time, I don’t want to know.’

‘So, how did you discover that Miranda was a lesbian?’

A flash of annoyance crossed the woman’s face and, shifting her legs to the right, she said, ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything, but since you ask, my husband told me. Jimmy told me. That’s how I know.’

‘You never saw any evidence of it then, yourself? Your daughter never spoke to you about it, discussed it with you, her sexual orientation?’

‘Of course not. And I didn’t ask.’

‘How did he know about it?’

‘What is this? What has this to do with Miranda’s death? What difference does it make now?’ she asked. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she. Does it matter any more who she . . . she . . . went with? It’s all disgusting. Filthy. Why are you asking me all these questions?’

‘How did he know about it?’ Alice repeated.

‘Oh, goodness, I don’t know. He told me, it was all horrible, I know that. He told me that he’d come back from work that day and found her in bed with a woman. A young woman, they were both naked. That was proof enough, I’m sure you’d agree – enough for anyone. Too much for a father, too much for any father to have to see. I’m just glad I wasn’t the one . . .’

‘What happened when he found her?’

‘What happened?’ she raised her voice, shifting her legs again and smoothing down her skirt, ‘what happened was that he told her to pack her bags, to get out
of our house. She had made her choice – she had chosen Satan and all his ways. The other girl slunk out the back door. There was no repentance in her, no shame, not an ounce, for what she had done, for what she
was
. A disgrace. From that moment on she was dead to him . . . no, to us both.’