Marie and Joe McKinnie lived in Cupar, a small but busy town ten miles west of St Andrews.
‘Head for Tesco,’ Chris said, peering at the map on his phone. ‘Then take the left fork, signposted Ceres. After that, turn right at the primary school.’
‘What’s the name of the road?’ Clare said, swinging the car up and round as they crossed a bridge over the railway line.
‘Erm… Sandylands Road.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Nice café, that,’ Chris said, as they passed a modern building with what seemed to be a full-size vintage car on the roof. ‘Plenty of parking too.’
‘No promises.’
‘I was only saying…’
Clare hesitated then said, ‘Your teeth…’
Chris sighed audibly. ‘Can we please change the subject?’
‘It’s a serious question!’
‘Go on then.’
‘Can you eat? I mean is there anything you can’t have?’
‘A list as long as your arm, Clare. But basically the advice is to avoid anything that might stain the teeth for the first forty-eight hours.’
‘So no coffee then?’
‘Aye right! I’m taking it with lots of milk. And anyway… if they got a bit less white… turn here.’
Clare indicated and turned right, past the entrance to the cemetery and began driving slowly up Sandylands Road.
‘Stop,’ Chris said. ‘That’s it – red door. Are they expecting us?’
Clare switched off the engine. ‘Yeah, I phoned ahead.’
‘Do they know?’
‘About Ingrid being murdered? I didn’t want to do it over the phone.’
‘Oh hell.’
The McKinnies must have been watching out for Clare and Chris. As they walked up the path a tall man with a shock of silver hair appeared in the doorway. Clare held out her ID badge and he simply nodded in response, standing back to admit them. He introduced himself as Joe McKinnie. He looked the outdoors type, dressed in cargo pants and a Rab bodywarmer. His face and hands were tanned and Clare felt his hand was calloused when she shook it.
‘My wife’s just making some tea,’ he said, indicating the sofa. ‘Please, sit.’
It was a cheerful room full of light wood furniture and bright cushions. There were oil paintings too, similar in style and she wondered if one of the McKinnies was the artist. Or Ingrid, maybe. ‘Lovely paintings,’ she said, breaking the silence.
‘My wife,’ Joe McKinnie said, his voice tired. ‘She’s the artist.’
‘She’s very talented,’ Clare said, and Joe simply nodded.
Her eye was drawn to one wall which was given over to a collection of photographs, fanning out from a central point. Portraits of the same child, by the looks of it, taken at different ages. Baby photos with a head full of curls, then gap-toothed school photos, gradually becoming older until the graduation shots, one a smiling Ingrid with a scroll and another flanked by Joe and Marie, clearly bursting with pride. How sad, Clare thought – their only child who now lay dead in the police mortuary.
The door opened and the small dark-haired woman from the graduation photo entered, carrying a tray with a teapot and mugs. Joe jumped up to take the tray from his wife. She was dressed in a thick grey jumper and jeans; her feet clad in pink furry slippers. Her face was attractive, her hair well cut but there were shadows below her dark eyes and her cheeks were tear stained. She sank down beside her husband, her shoulders sagging as though even the effort of sitting was too much. She seemed enveloped by her grief.
Clare introduced herself and Chris, and Marie looked from one to the other, her eyes full of fear.
‘Thank you so much for seeing us,’ Clare began. ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you at a time like this.’
Joe McKinnie glanced at his wife. ‘I er… I think we’re both wondering why you’ve come, Inspector.’ He took hold of his wife’s hand, clasping it between both of his. ‘We thought maybe… the funeral, you know – we’d like to begin making arrangements.’
‘I’m afraid not quite yet,’ Clare said. ‘In fact, I have some news about the manner of Ingrid’s death.’
Marie sat, unmoving, her eyes fixed on Clare’s.
‘Yes?’ Joe said, after a few seconds.
‘I’m so sorry to tell you that we think Ingrid’s death is suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’ Marie said. ‘In what way? What do you mean?’ Her voice was rising and her husband put his arm round her, rubbing her arm.
Clare hated this. The worst part of the job. The pain this couple had already endured must be immense and now she was about to make it so much worse. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid we believe Ingrid was deliberately killed.’
Joe opened his mouth to say something then seemed unable to form the words, his mouth resting in an O shape.
Clare went on. ‘We think that Ingrid had been drinking somewhere that evening and that someone put a substance called Rohypnol in her drink.’
‘Ohhh,’ Marie gasped, her hand going to her mouth. ‘You mean somebody…’
‘We don’t believe Ingrid was sexually assaulted,’ Clare said quickly. ‘We’re not sure why someone chose to doctor her drink, but we think whoever it was followed her on her way home and killed her, leaving her to fall into the Kinness Burn.’
Marie began to cry, her shoulders shaking while her husband sat staring at Clare and Chris in disbelief.
‘I think maybe we should have that tea,’ Clare said, rising to lift the teapot. She stirred sugar into Marie’s mug and put it down on a coaster. After a minute or two Marie lifted the mug and sipped, screwing up her face at the taste.
‘I don’t take sugar,’ she said, putting the mug down.
‘You’ve had a shock,’ Clare said. ‘It might help.’ She glanced at Joe and saw his eyes flicking left and right, as he tried to order his thoughts.
‘Inspector,’ he said, after a moment, ‘…what happened to Ingrid? I mean, how did she die?’
‘This is confidential at present, but she was asphyxiated.’
‘You mean strangled?’ Joe said, his voice sounding tight.
Marie emitted a loud sob and Joe pulled her in to his chest, both arms round her now.
‘Our daughter – was strangled?’ he said again.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Clare said. ‘And, if you are up to it, we’d like to ask a few questions.’ She indicated the mugs. ‘Maybe we should drink these while they’re hot?’
Joe lifted his mug and sipped but Marie pushed hers away.
She rose. ‘I’ll get another mug. I can’t drink that.’
Over tea and biscuits, Joe and Marie began to speak about Ingrid.
‘She was so bright,’ Joe said.
‘Very bright,’ Marie agreed. ‘She studied English at university, you know, Inspector.’ She indicated the graduation photos on the wall. ‘First class honours.’
‘She must have worked hard to be so successful,’ Clare said, smiling.
‘Oh, she did,’ Marie said. ‘Always a worker, our Ingrid. She won the English prize at school, you know.’
Clare steered the conversation round to Ingrid’s workplace. ‘Had she worked at Tradgear long?’
‘About eight years,’ Marie said. ‘She’d tried to find something where she could use her degree. But there was nothing she fancied. And she’d always been a keen climber so Tradgear suited her.’ Marie smiled at her husband. ‘She was good with the customers, wasn’t she?’
Joe nodded. ‘We heard her, a couple of times – when we popped into the shop, you know. Very knowledgeable. Made us quite proud.’
Clare let them talk on for a bit then she said, ‘Did Ingrid have a boyfriend?’
The couple looked at each other. ‘Not that we knew about,’ Joe said.
‘Not for a few months now,’ Marie agreed. ‘There was a lad – Kelvin – but he went off to Canada. Just before the summer, Ingrid said.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘I think he’s still there…’
Joe nodded.
‘If we could have his details – just to check,’ Clare said.
Marie rose. ‘I’ll get some paper.’
Clare waited while Marie jotted down what she knew of Kelvin then she carried on. ‘Friends? We believe Ingrid had been out somewhere in St Andrews on the twenty-eighth. Would you know who she might have been with?’
Again, the McKinnies looked to each other. Clare wondered how much they’d known about their daughter’s life.
‘Just folk from work, I think,’ Marie said, at last. ‘I mean, with her having her own place, well, we didn’t really know who her friends were.’
Clare asked a few more questions, then she said, ‘Did Ingrid ever mention a friend called Alison Reid?’
Marie’s brow creased as she considered this. ‘I’m not sure… I mean, there was an Alison,’ she said. ‘Long time ago now – when they were at primary school. I think she and Ingrid were friendly at the time.’
‘Did they keep in touch?’ Clare said, trying to keep her tone light.
Marie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. If I remember correctly, Alison went on to Albany High and we sent Ingrid to Melville Academy.’
‘Any particular reason?’
Joe frowned. ‘Reason for what?’
‘Sending Ingrid to Melville Academy?’
‘It is allowed, you know, Inspector. We worked hard for our money and we can spend it how we like.’
Clare held up her hands in a gesture of apology. ‘Oh, please – I wasn’t suggesting anything by it. Melville Academy’s a lovely school. I just wondered if there had been any problems – with Ingrid’s classmates, I mean. Sometimes children are moved because of bullying and the like.’
Joe nodded. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Sorry for snapping. I don’t remember anything like that.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Marie?’
Marie shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that. We just wanted Ingrid to have the best start in life.’
Clare smiled. ‘Of course.’ She glanced at Chris and they rose from the sofa. ‘Thank you both so much for your time. We won’t keep you any longer.’
Joe McKinnie saw them to the door. He put a hand on the Yale lock to open it then said, ‘Alison – why were you asking? Do you think she’s involved with Ingrid’s death?’
Clare looked at his face, lined with worry and her heart went out to him. His worst nightmare had come true and here she was compounding the misery. ‘I’m afraid Alison was also found dead.’
Joe’s hand went to his face. ‘Dead?’ he whispered. ‘Do you – I mean, do you think it’s anything to do with what happened to Ingrid? Is there someone going round doing this?’
‘At the moment, Mr McKinnie, we just don’t know. So, if you do remember anything that might help us – anything at all – you will let us know?’
Joe nodded. ‘Of course.’ He looked at Clare for a moment then said, ‘You’ll catch him, won’t you? This person – you will catch him?’