Clare was so used to bypassing Stepps on the new motorway that she only just saw the turnoff. She signalled and pulled over, earning herself a blast on the horn from the car behind. The road layout was unfamiliar, but she soon saw the distinctive Buchanan Tower standing out against the skyline and knew she was heading in the right direction. Despite the sad nature of their visit, her spirits rose as she drove past rows of houses built in the red sandstone, so redolent of Glasgow. Her home town but no longer her home.
Chris was looking out of the passenger window as they drove along. ‘Nice town,’ he said.
‘I imagine it’s a lot nicer without the motorway traffic.’
‘Take a right here,’ he said, eyes trained on his phone. Then he looked up. ‘This is the street. It should be just along here on the left.’
Clare slowed the car as Chris checked house numbers and finally they saw the house and pulled into the kerb. Clare thought she saw a figure at the window but it vanished seconds later.
They stepped out of the car and surveyed the street. There were houses along one side and what seemed to be a park, bordered by trees on the other.
‘Think it’s a tennis club,’ Chris said.
‘Never mind that. Remind me of their names.’
‘Andrews. Roy and Irene.’
‘Interesting that Lexy kept Harris as her surname when her mum remarried,’ Clare said. ‘I wonder if she didn’t get on with her stepfather…’
Chris shrugged. ‘Maybe. So… how do you want to play it?’
‘Not a clue.’ Clare began walking towards a gap in the hedge. A long monobloc drive led to a wooden garage and to the right of this sat the house. It was a two-storey villa in blonde sandstone with dormer windows built into the roof. A neat square of grass was surrounded on two sides with a narrow earth border and a path led off the drive to the front door. As they approached, the door was opened by a man who looked to be in his sixties. He was about the same height as Clare, with receding hair so black it had to be dyed. He wore dark grey trousers and a navy ribbed pullover.
‘Inspector Mackay?’ he said, not moving from the threshold.
Clare smiled. ‘And Sergeant Chris West. Thanks for agreeing to see us.’
He stood his ground. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘My wife – well, she’s struggled for years to put things behind her. It’s not good for her, you see.’
‘We’ll keep her as short a time as possible,’ Clare said. ‘If we could maybe come in…’
Roy Andrews hesitated then stood back, just enough to allow Clare and Chris to pass through the door. He led them into a square sitting room. It was pleasant enough, Clare thought, with an off-pink carpet and a beige velour suite but it lacked personality, somehow.
Irene Andrews was standing by a living flame electric fire. She was spare, dressed simply in dark trousers and a purple sweatshirt. Clare’s overriding sense was of someone who was tired. Not sleepy-tired, but tired of life, of going through the motions day after day. She recalled some of the fitter-looking residents she had seen on her brief visit to Pitlethie Care Home and thought how much more life they had about them than this woman.
She introduced herself and Chris, and Irene invited them to sit. As Clare moved to the sofa she took the chance to scan the room for family photos. But she could only see a small one in a silver frame showing a white-haired boy of about two. Sam Harris, she guessed. There didn’t seem to be any of Lexy and she wondered about that. Had there been a rift?
Irene waited until they had sat then she perched on the edge of a dining chair pulled out from a small gateleg table.
‘You should have a comfy seat,’ Roy Andrews said, but she waved this away.
‘I’m fine here.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘Maybe you could make us some tea, Roy? I’m sure the officers would appreciate that after their long drive.’
Roy Andrews stood for a moment, clearly unwilling to leave his wife.
She inclined her head towards the door. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He left the room and Irene rose from her seat to close the door. Then she turned back to face them. ‘He fusses,’ she said. ‘Thinks it’s not good for me to dwell in the past.’ Then she lowered her voice. ‘What he doesn’t realise is I like dwelling in the past. It helps, you know?’
Clare smiled. ‘I understand. And we’re so grateful to you for seeing us, Mrs Andrews.’
‘Irene, please.’ She resumed her seat then said, ‘What is it you wish to know?’
Clare cleared her throat then began. ‘If it’s not too painful, I’d like to ask you about the day your son Sam died. I understand it was your daughter’s birthday party.’
‘Lexy, that’s right. She was eleven. Actually her birthday was the day before but it was easier to have the party on a Saturday.’
‘Were there many children there?’
Irene nodded. ‘Quite a few. Probably a dozen girls, plus Lexy and Sam, of course.’
Clare took out the photo she had taken from Ingrid McKinnie’s house. ‘I think some of the children in this photo were there. Is that correct?’
Irene took the photo and studied it. A smile spread over her face. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen this before. I don’t suppose…’
‘I can have a copy made for you,’ Clare said. ‘Once our enquiries are complete.’
Irene smiled then she looked back at the photo. ‘These three girls…’ she broke off for a minute then she said, ‘I always wondered – Lexy – when she said she wanted them to come to the party – I wasn’t sure. They hadn’t always been kind to her, you see, and I didn’t want her party to be spoiled. But she assured me they were friends. So I relented.’ She squinted at the photo again then said, ‘And that’s John, I think.’ Then she looked up at Clare. ‘I hope it doesn’t sound unkind but I always thought he was quite an odd boy.’
And how, Clare thought but didn’t say. Instead, she asked, ‘Odd in what way?’
Irene sat back, considering this. ‘Oh, I don’t know – just a bit strange. Not very talkative but always hanging about the girls. I suppose he lacked confidence and those girls, well, they were the in-crowd, you see.’
Clare smiled. ‘Was the party going well? Before your son went missing, I mean.’
Irene’s gaze dropped and she seemed to be running through the events in her mind. Then she nodded, slowly. ‘I think so. We’d had some games in the garden and then we were making pizzas.’ She smiled. ‘Lexy loved pizza and she’d asked if the party guests could add their own toppings. So, I was in the kitchen doing that with the children, a few at a time. Lexy was there too, supervising – that’s what she told me. She was quite a shy child. I think she enjoyed feeling she was in charge.’ Irene paused for a minute and her brow furrowed. Then she continued.
‘It was only when the last four came in and their pizzas went into the oven that I realised Sam was missing. I asked the children and they said he’d been playing on the climbing frame. So I sent Lexy out to bring him in. And that’s when we realised…’ Irene reached into her sleeve and pulled out a tissue. She dabbed her eyes then said, ‘We realised Sam wasn’t in the garden.’ She swallowed.
‘Would you like a break?’ Clare asked but she shook her head.
‘No, I want to tell you. To talk about it. Roy…’ she gestured towards the kitchen. ‘I can’t talk to him about it. He won’t…’ She blew her nose on the tissue then carried on.
‘We searched everywhere. It was quite a big garden, you see. Lots of trees. But I think I knew from the start. Knew he wasn’t there. I ran – ran for the gate. And I saw his shorts. They were red, you know. And his hair, his lovely blonde hair – almost white…’ she nodded, as if to emphasise this. ‘Lovely hair. Anyway, I ran down the bank. I fell. Nearly ended up in the water myself. And I picked him up.’ She broke off again, reliving the moment. Then she said, her voice barely above a whisper, ‘He was heavy, you know? A dead weight. There was a noise. An awful wailing. I didn’t know it was me. Then someone tried to take him but I wouldn’t – wouldn’t let go. And then Dan – he was Sam and Lexy’s dad, you know – Dan, he said it was the ambulance and I had to let them have him. But I knew, if I did, they wouldn’t give him back.’
The tears were coursing down Irene’s face now and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Then she turned a tear-stained face towards Clare. ‘I knew he was gone, you see. I had known Sam since the moment he was conceived. I knew every inch of his perfect little body. I knew his personality and how his eyes would light up when he was happy. And I knew – I knew that the light had gone from his eyes for the last time.’
The door opened and Roy Andrews came in bearing a tea tray. He looked at his wife and set the tray down on the gateleg table. ‘I told you she wasn’t to be upset. You shouldn’t have come.’
Suddenly, Irene seemed to snap. ‘I want to talk about it,’ she cried. ‘Don’t you understand, Roy? I want to talk about it!’
Roy stood for a moment, stunned into silence, then he picked up a cup and saucer from the tray and handed it to her. ‘Here,’ he said, his voice lower. ‘This will help.’
She took the cup and gave him a smile. ‘Thanks, love.’ The teaspoon rattled on the saucer as her hand shook and she set the cup and saucer down on a side table.
As they drank their tea, Clare asked, ‘Are you in touch with Lexy? We weren’t able to make contact with her.’
Irene shook her head. ‘She’s not had it easy, Lexy. What with Sam, then us moving. She never really settled in Bristol, you know. Then her dad and I separated, and he died a few years later. I thought, maybe, if we changed our name, moved back to Scotland, she might be happier.’
‘And was she?’
Irene shrugged. ‘Not really. She did well at school, though. She’s a clever girl. Then she took a couple of years out and never moved home again. She went off to university but she always managed to have a holiday job. I helped her as much as I could, financially. But, until I met Roy,’ she threw her husband a smile, ‘it was a bit of a struggle – bills and so on.’
‘Did she finish university?’ Clare asked, wondering at the lack of a graduation photo. Irene seemed so proud of her daughter. The absence of a photo seemed odd.
She beamed. ‘Oh yes. She did really well. First class honours. But she didn’t want a graduation celebration. Said she had a job lined up in Manchester and off she went.’
‘Does she come home much?’
Irene glanced quickly at Roy then away again and she shook her head. ‘We’ve kind of lost touch.’
Clare drained her cup then said, ‘We won’t keep you much longer. If I could just ask one more thing?’
Irene looked at her. Waiting for the question.
‘You said when the last four came in. For the pizzas, I mean. Can you remember who they were?’
Irene nodded. ‘The girls in the photo. Those three girls: Alison, Ingrid and – oh, I’ve forgotten the other one’s name.’
Chris seemed about to prompt her but Clare nudged him.
‘Ruth,’ Irene said at last. ‘Ruth Williams.’
‘And the fourth?’
‘That lad John. As I said, always hanging about the popular girls. I think maybe he felt safe with them…’
They made their way back through the streets towards the motorway in silence. But once they were on the M80 Clare set cruise control to sixty and relaxed back into her seat.
‘What do you reckon?’
Chris sighed. ‘Sad.’
‘Isn’t it. One child dead, another estranged. And I’m not even sure she’s happy with that man.’
‘He does seem a bit – it’s hard to say what he is.’
‘He’s like a bloody mother hen,’ Clare said. ‘The poor woman probably didn’t have any counselling at the time. And the first chance she gets it all comes tumbling out.’
‘Yeah. Not sure where it gets us, though.’
‘It makes you wonder,’ Clare went on, easing the car into the left lane to take the road to Kincardine, ‘whether John Mason was responsible for little Sam’s death.’
‘Why would he be?’
‘Well, that’s two people who’ve said he was a bit odd. What if he had caused Sam’s death and those girls were the only ones to witness it?’
Chris shook his head. ‘No. Doesn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well for a start, if he did kill Sam then he killed the three girls to shut them up, why wait until now? Twenty years later?’
‘Suppose.’
‘And then there’s Sandra Holt,’ Chris went on. ‘It doesn’t explain why he would attack her. Unless…’ he broke off.
Clare glanced at him. ‘Unless what?’
‘Unless he’s not our killer. Unless the attack on Sandra’s unconnected to the other killings.’
Clare groaned. ‘Don’t say that, Chris. We’ve nearly got this case wrapped up. Anyway, the Rohypnol. And Sandra told us he said something about how he would arrange her body – in the shower…’
Suddenly there was a blast from a car horn and Chris grabbed the steering wheel. ‘Christsake, Clare! You nearly drifted into that car.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ And she raised a hand to wave to the driver of the other car. They were almost at Kincardine now and she indicated left at a sign for a service station.
‘Clare?’ Chris said. ‘You feeling okay?’
‘Chris, I need to think,’ she said, slowing her speed and following the Services sign. She drove on towards the car park and drew into a space in front of a Premier Inn. She switched off the engine and rubbed her temple.
‘You want to catch me up?’
‘The shower,’ she said. ‘In Sandra’s statement. She said that John Mason planned to arrange her in the shower.’
‘Yes, you said.’
‘Then she said like the others.’
Chris was silent, thinking this through.
‘You noticed it at the time,’ Clare said. ‘I saw you react but we were still trying to find out what had happened, I think we kind of forgot.’
Chris looked at her. ‘Are you saying…’
‘Chris, it doesn’t fit. Sandra Holt. It’s not the same as the others. She’s not on Attracto…’
‘Nor was Ruth Williams.’
‘No, that’s true. But Jessica Peters tried to get Ruth to join. Sandra Holt wasn’t in that WhatsApp group either. We don’t know where she went to school. She didn’t even know the other women. She’s an outlier.’
‘Oh God…’ Chris said.
‘So John Mason might not be our killer. He or she might still be out there.’
Chris rubbed his head. ‘But the shower, Clare – how does that fit? Oh wait, she must have heard it on the news.’
‘That’s just the point, Chris. We didn’t give that information out. Nothing was released about Alison Reid being found in the bath, or Ruth Williams with her head in the sink.’
‘Alison’s neighbour might have said something about it.’
‘But who to? It’s not been in the papers and I doubt Sandra Holt would have heard it from Alison’s neighbour. So how did she know about the water?’