She’d have recognised Marnie Bruce anywhere, DI Fleming realised with a sense of foreboding as, unseen, she watched her sitting in the hall waiting to be fetched for the interview.
It wasn’t that Fleming remembered what the child Marnie had looked like: she’d talked to her that time in hospital, but on the visits to her mother she’d barely glanced at the child on the way in. It was her striking resemblance to the photograph of a fair-haired, bright-eyed ten-year-old that the tabloids reproduced every time they ran an article on child killers.
It wasn’t exact, of course. Kirstie Burnside’s pretty, elfin features had been much remarked on, while her daughter’s face was heavier and a little rounder. But with the line of the jaw, with that unusual hair colour and the light-blue eyes … Anyone who had known Kirstie, or had even studied the photo, could guess her daughter’s identity, and from the sound of what had happened last night, someone had.
Fleming wasn’t going to go into that, though. If Marnie raised it, she would say firmly that she would have no information about it until the reports came in later in the day. She was determined to confine the discussion to events in 1993 – nothing before and nothing after. If she could.
She went through the security door into the hall. ‘Ms Bruce? I’m DI Fleming. Come on through. I gather you have some questions you want to ask me.
‘Coffee and biscuits to room 5, please,’ she added to the Force Civilian Assistant at reception, then led the way, making an anodyne remark about the heavy rain.
Marnie followed silently and sat down in the chair nearest the door of the bland, impersonal room. It left Fleming, who was attuned to body language, with an awkward alternative: to sit directly opposite in what would look like a confrontational pose or to start shifting chairs into a more relaxed social position, which suggested an attempt at control. She sat down opposite, wondering how conscious Marnie’s choice had been.
Leaning forward to lessen the distance between them, she smiled at her. ‘Right, what was it you wanted me to tell you, Marnie – if I may call you that? I still remember you as a little girl!’
‘If you like.’ Marnie didn’t return her smile. ‘I want to know what happened the night when my mother disappeared. Halloween, 1993.’
Fleming spread her hands wide in the classic gesture of openness. ‘To be perfectly honest, we don’t know. My personal involvement was limited to coming to see you in hospital, but I’ve read up all the reports and the only thing we can really say for certain is that a neighbour of yours at Clatteringshaws Loch found you the following morning. Douglas Boyd – you may remember him?’
Marnie shrugged.
‘You had a nasty head injury and you were alone in the house. After that, extensive searches were conducted, inside and throughout the whole surrounding area, but there was no sign to suggest any struggle or violence, or even the presence of another person. We couldn’t tell whether your mother had taken clothes and personal effects with her but we didn’t find a handbag or any official identity documents, and a car registered to your mother was later found abandoned at Dumfries Station.
‘Every effort was made to find her but she has never been traced.’
The light-blue eyes had not wavered from Fleming’s face since she had begun speaking and she was starting to feel uncomfortable under their scrutiny. The door opening as the FCA brought in coffee was a welcome distraction.
‘Ah, thanks, Sue. How do you take it, Marnie?’
‘I won’t. Thanks.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I’ll grab a cup – haven’t had time for my usual caffeine fix today.’ She gave a little half-laugh, and felt foolish.
‘Are you telling me that my mother just hit me over the head and then left me – without knowing how badly I’d been hurt, without knowing if she’d actually killed me?’
Fleming took a sip of coffee. Thinking time. Then she looked up and met the other woman’s accusing gaze.
‘Yes, Marnie. On the evidence available, I’m afraid I would have to say yes, probably. We can’t prove it, of course. We never found the weapon that was used to hit you – perhaps she took it away with her to dispose of later. But there simply isn’t a scrap of evidence to indicate that there was anyone in the house that night, except the two of you.’ She felt brutal, but those were the facts and at this stage there was no point in trying to soften them.
Marnie’s expressionless face gave no clue to her feelings. Was this really a shock, or could it be something she had suspected?
Fleming went on, ‘What sort of relationship did you have with your mother? You were asked at the time but you said, I think, that it was “all right” – the sort of thing most children would say. Would you say the same now?’
‘Yes.’
She had expected to be pinned down with questions but this lack of reaction was almost harder to handle. By way of diversion, Fleming turned to the large cardboard box she had placed earlier in the corner of the room, still blackened with the grime of years in the storeroom. When she folded back the lid, the smell of old, unwashed clothes rose from it.
‘These are the personal belongings that were found in the cottage your mother had rented. They’ve been kept in storage in case you wanted to reclaim them. The car had to be scrapped.’ She picked up a form that lay on the top and held it out. ‘No MOT, illegal tyres, worn brake pads—’
‘That would figure.’ Marnie sounded defeated, almost resigned. She hadn’t even glanced at the contents of the box.
Perhaps it wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. ‘I know this isn’t a very satisfactory outcome for you, Marnie, especially after coming all this way,’ Fleming said with genuine sympathy. ‘What are you going to do now?’
Suddenly, the blue eyes blazed. ‘Find out the truth. What do you think? I’m just going to take your word for it that my mother tried to kill me, say, “Oh dear, I’d better just forget about it then”?
‘Anyway, why was it that you used to come to see her? You didn’t just pop in to say hello in passing, did you?’
Fleming relaxed too soon. This was the hard part, now.
‘No, of course not. My visits were official but there’s every reason to suppose that your mother is still alive so I’m afraid I’m unable to discuss that with you. I’m sorry.’ It was the best she could do and Fleming found she was holding her breath.
‘You’re stonewalling. It’s the same as the last time – it’s all just going to be brushed under the carpet. You’re not going to do anything to look again at what happened.’
‘Marnie, unless we find your mother, there’s nothing more we can investigate. The only other source of information we have about that night is you and you told us you didn’t know anything. If we had fresh information, something you’ve remembered—’
‘That’s the whole problem! I can remember everything – except this!’ There were tears of frustration in her eyes. ‘And there’s something else I don’t understand – the way people treat me here.’
They were getting onto even more dangerous ground. ‘Oh yes, I gather there was some sort of problem last night and officers are investigating. I’ll make a point of reading the report when it reaches my desk.’ She glanced at her watch and stood up. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else—’
Marnie got up too, looking defeated. ‘I suppose there isn’t,’ she said listlessly. With some relief, Fleming went to open the door. It hadn’t been nearly as bad as she had feared; even if she hadn’t told the whole truth, she hadn’t been asked a question that forced her to lie.
Then Marnie said slowly, ‘You knew my mother. Do you think she would have tried to kill me?’
Fleming felt colour creeping into her face. ‘I-I simply wouldn’t know, Marnie. I’ve never really considered it.’
That most certainly was untrue and she could see that Marnie knew it was. She added hastily, gesturing towards the box that was standing in the centre of the room. ‘Oh, do you want to take away the box? It’s a bit bulky – you could collect it later, if you preferred.’
Marnie gave her a contemptuous look then turned away. ‘No, I’ll leave the things with you. You may need them for the investigation if my mother’s body turns up.’
‘I see.’ Michael Morrison’s face was grim. ‘What more could she know?’
He listened to the response, his lips tightening. Then he said, ‘Yes, I think cancelling is the best we can do, in the circumstances. I’ll talk to the others later.’
Putting down the phone he stared blankly at his study wall, plastered with photographs of his wife, his daughter and his grandson – particularly his grandson. Gemma was always teasing him that soon there wouldn’t be any need for wallpaper. There was Mikey at a day old, Mikey learning to walk, Mikey on his trike, Mikey looking up at his grandfather with total love and trust.
He had been scribbling notes on a sheet of paper as he listened. In a sudden fury of rage he grabbed the paper up, crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the waste-paper basket, swearing. Then having second thoughts, he retrieved it and walked over to the handsome old-fashioned fireplace where he put it onto the hearth, found a match and burnt it before neatly sweeping up the ashes and tipping them over the piled-up logs set in the grate.
He’d have to get in to the office. There was a big building project he was working on so he was going to be busy, anyway. Morrison was frowning as he went out into the hall and almost tripped over his daughter who was hoovering.
She switched off the machine and smiled at him. ‘I’m Mrs Mop today,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Mikey’s at nursery, so I hadn’t an excuse not to roll up my sleeves.’
‘What’s happened to Ameena?’
‘They phoned from the farm to say she’s got flu and won’t be in for a couple of days. She told me her husband’s away at the moment so I thought I’d do this and then pop across and see that she’s all right – take her some grapes or something.’
‘Dear me – a bit Lady Bountiful, wouldn’t you think?’
Gemma looked crestfallen. ‘Do you think so? I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘To be honest, she’d probably think you were checking up to see if she’s really ill or just throwing a sickie and resent it. I’d leave it, if I were you.’
‘I never thought of that. Oh dear, I’m sure you’re right – I could have walked straight into it and upset her. I’m too naive, that’s my problem.’
She was obviously disappointed at not being able to carry through her charitable impulse, and her father laughed. ‘You’re a sweet girl, darling. Stay just the way you are and I’ll do the cynical bit on your behalf.
‘Tell your mum I’ll be a bit late back, will you? Busy day at the office.’
‘Hope you’re not too late. Mikey always acts up if you’re not around at his bedtime.’
‘I’ll do my best but I can’t promise.’
He left, with Gemma calling after him, ‘See you do! Your title of World’s Best Granddad is at stake!’
‘You’re making this too personal,’ Macdonald said to Hepburn as he drove off. ‘It could cause a lot of trouble if you take it upon yourself to get involved.’
‘You would know about that, of course,’ she said lightly with a sidelong glance and saw him colour angrily.
They’d fallen out already over whether they should go and check on Anita Loudon before reporting back. Hepburn had pointed out that if Fleming was busy with Marnie Bruce they could end up kicking their heels when they could be discovering useful information about what had really gone on. Macdonald had given way but with a bad grace and the atmosphere in the car as they drove to Dunmore through the rain was thick with tension.
She was determined not to volunteer any information unless he asked for it and they had been on the road for ten silent minutes before he cracked. Concealing a smug little smile, she told him the story as far as she knew it.
‘I don’t know what Big Marge’s agenda is, but there’s definitely something she doesn’t want Marnie to find out. It screams cover-up to me, and that’s crazy. It’s not the mistake that causes the big scandals, it’s the cover-up, every time.’
‘The boss is totally straight,’ Macdonald said flatly. ‘I’ve worked with her for years and if there’s something she’s not telling Marnie Bruce she’ll have good reason for it.’
‘Good reason? A kid badly injured, her mother nowhere to be seen, the whole thing obviously hushed up – and all Tam MacNee can say is that fortunately the press didn’t bother so much in those days! Her mother could be lying dead somewhere and Marnie has a perfect right to know exactly what happened. If Fleming fobs her off—’
‘—it’s nothing to do with you.’ Macdonald finished the sentence for her. ‘Anyway, have you considered that perhaps it’s your friend Marnie who has an agenda? Her interest may be financial rather than social – there’s a lot of money in compensation for police failure.’
It hadn’t occurred to her and it brought her up short. ‘Well … I can see that, of course, but I don’t believe it. I think she’s a very troubled person, looking to lay some of the ghosts of her past.’
‘Oh, very romantic,’ he said sardonically. ‘I’ll give you troubled, though I’d have said weird. Anyway, what’s with the Dunmore business? Do you really believe she doesn’t know what it’s all about?’
‘You don’t? For goodness’ sake, the woman was terrified this morning. She told you in detail what happened and she’s totally confused.’
‘It was the detail that bothered me, quite honestly. She could be some sort of fantasist.’
‘She didn’t fantasise the mob outside her window,’ Hepburn said tartly.
‘Yes, I’ll give you that. But she provoked it somehow – what did she do?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I hope we’re going to find out. But I believe her, and I’m on her side.’
Macdonald groaned. ‘For God’s sake, we don’t have sides if we’re police officers. Look, you irritate the hell out of me but I don’t want to see you screw up totally. The boss is handling this so leave it to her. You need to look at this as just another professional case.’
Hepburn turned her head to look out of the window, her lips set in a stubborn line, and silence fell again. She knew Macdonald was right, in a way, but there was a more important imperative. Marnie Bruce was a victim, being pushed around by authority and terrorised by bullies. She deserved a champion and, though she might not realise it yet, she’d found one.
Anita Loudon smothered a huge yawn and Vivienne Morrison smiled sympathetically. ‘Late night?’
‘Can’t take it the way I used to.’ She tried to sound upbeat but she knew her voice was flat.
Vivienne was looking at her in concern. ‘You don’t look great. Headache?’ She was digging in her bag, ‘I’ve got some ibuprofen somewhere – here you are.’
Anita thanked her and went into the dress shop’s tiny back room where there was a sink and a kettle. Her head was indeed pounding but the turmoil inside it was worse. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day.
Vivienne was the most considerate employer anyone could hope for. If Anita said she was feeling ill she’d be told to go home, but Drax would still be there, probably. Somehow here, in the cosy little shop with the thick pile carpet and the pretty wallpaper and the clothes hanging in neat colour-coordinated ranks she felt safe, as if in Vivienne’s pleasant, cheerful world nothing could ever go wrong.
She was always so kind, so understanding. Anita suspected that Vivienne knew there was a man involved on those occasions when she’d suddenly wanted a day off – Dunmore wasn’t a good place for keeping secrets – but it had never been a problem, there had never been awkward questions.
Anita had occasionally thought of telling her about Drax. The need to talk to someone had sometimes been almost overwhelming, but she’d always managed to resist. Now, though …
There couldn’t be anyone better than Vivienne to confide in: sympathetic, discreet. If she talked to her in confidence, made her promise not to tell a soul – but if she told her everything, would Vivienne keep it secret? How could she?
Not everything, then – just something, a bit of it. She desperately needed the sort of advice someone sensible, someone just ordinary and normal could give her about the bizarre, awful situation she was in.
Anita took a deep, shuddering breath. Perhaps she could—
The bell on the shop door jangled. With a quick look in the mirror, Anita patted her hair, pinned on a smile and came out to greet the customer.
A man and a woman had just come into the shop and even before they introduced themselves and produced ID, she knew they were police.
There were nine bed and breakfasts on the information centre’s list and Marnie Bruce had tried eight of them. Demand for accommodation in Kirkluce seemed to be surprisingly high for a wet Wednesday in November, and seven of the eight had no vacancies. The eighth showed her a room, then on hearing her name, said bluntly, ‘Oh, you! Sorry, forget it. I’m not looking for trouble.’ The vile Mrs Wallace had clearly done an efficient job.
There was still one she hadn’t tried but it was at the other end of the town and Marnie had a pretty clear idea of the response she was likely to get there too. Wet, tired and discouraged, she pulled her case along the High Street, holding her battered umbrella over her head. The sullen intensity of the rain suggested it was on for the day; her town coat was too thin and her hands were red and stinging with the cold.
She couldn’t just go on walking aimlessly. There were plenty of cafés in the High Street so she chose one, wrapping her hands gratefully round her mug of coffee when it arrived.
This had to be the turning point. This was when Marnie could choose to do the sensible thing or to do the crazy, stupid thing that was just asking for pain and grief.
She’d been counting on the interview with Fleming to provide at least some of the answers she was looking for, or suggest a way forward at the very least. She’d psyched herself up for it, determined not to be fobbed off, prepared to be as rude as she needed to be when the inspector ducked and dived.
Only she hadn’t. Fleming had readily given her a straightforward account that squared with what Marnie knew herself. She believed, too, that what the woman had said was true, partly because it had been so obvious that she was lying when she’d said she hadn’t considered whether Marnie’s mother would have attacked her. Clearly she had, and clearly she thought the answer was yes.
She’d even been open about concealing information, but the reason she gave left Marnie with nowhere else to go. She hadn’t even got anywhere with her question about what had happened at Dunmore.
Perhaps she needed to accept that this was a mystery she’d never solve, forget about it and get on with her life. The aggression and abuse she’d suffered already wasn’t going to stop, might well get worse. Was it really worth putting herself through all this?
Her problem was that she’d never been able to understand the comfortable, casual way people would say ‘I can’t remember what I did.’ She couldn’t see why it didn’t drive them mad; her brain simply wasn’t geared to the state of ‘not knowing’. So how could she walk away now?
And there was still one way forward – Anita Loudon. At the very least she must know perfectly well why there had been shock and anger in Dunmore, because she’d shown the same shock herself. Marnie was much too angry about her lies and deceit to let that go. She needed to see her again, to force her to explain – and perhaps tell her some other things too.
Like how to get in touch with Drax. Marnie gave a little involuntary shiver – a goose walking over your grave, someone had told her once. She hated the thought of bringing him back into her life, but she might have to, if she was going on with this.
No, she certainly couldn’t leave now. Not yet. Not until she’d seen Anita.
Which left her with the problem of finding somewhere to stay. She could go to Newton Stewart, say, or even Stranraer – surely the landlady network didn’t extend that far. It would be a long way to go on public transport, though, only to find out that it did.
Then another thought occurred to her. She’d had an employer who needed someone to drive a van and had got her driving lessons; she kept her licence tucked away in her purse. If she rented a car, she could move about freely and privately: no more standing around at bus stops, afraid that unfriendly eyes might be watching her.
Renting cars cost money, though, and her nest egg was dwindling fast. She’d have to find somewhere really cheap—
Or free. Suddenly, the picture came up before her.
She’s locking the door. She’s looking at the key, still dirty with rust-specks on it and she’s drawing back her hand to throw it away into the bushes when, for no particular reason, she decides to bury it again and she puts it back under the stone where it was always kept …
‘Know this? I’m getting a bad feeling about this whole thing,’ DS MacNee said. ‘A very bad feeling.’
‘And you don’t think I am?’ Fleming was staring gloomily at the file on the desk in front of her. ‘I’m not sure it’s been a good idea to try to keep us at arm’s length from it. I sent Andy to deal with the disturbance at the B & B because I didn’t want to put you face-to-face with Marnie, but I forgot it would be Louise going with him and when I buzzed down to speak to them after the interview they’d gone to pursue enquiries at Dunmore. I’m not sure why, but it sounds to me like Louise in full cry.’
‘That’s all we need. She’s got—’
He was interrupted by the phone ringing on Fleming’s desk. She listened, then said, ‘All right, leave it with me.’
MacNee raised his eyebrows and she sighed.
‘That was the duty sergeant. Grant Crichton’s come in, wanting to talk to “someone in authority” and he thought I might want to know.’ When MacNee did not immediately react, she went on, ‘Crichton – Tommy Crichton, remember?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! What now? Is this to do with the business last night?’
‘He hasn’t said that, but it certainly could be. I’d better take that myself.’ She stood up.
‘Overkill,’ MacNee said crisply. ‘You’re not wanting him to think there’s anything going on that’s inspector’s business. I’ll take it.’
‘You’re probably right.’ Fleming sat down again. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to get on with my commission from the super to solve the problem of illegal immigration with a few well-chosen discreet enquiries.’
‘Maybe when you’ve done that you could fix the economy. And get Rangers back into the Premier League.’
He left her smiling wanly. She picked up the file Rowley had given her and leafed through the first few pages, pausing at a list of local firms operating through Cairnryan. A name caught her eye – Grant Crichton.
It was amazing how often coincidences like these happened, usually in threes. She’d probably see the name again in some different context in the next day or two.
‘I understand that Marnie Bruce came to see you yesterday,’ the detective whose name was Macdonald said.
Anita Loudon’s heart was beating so loudly she thought that everyone in the shop must hear it. ‘That’s right,’ she said, then to give herself time to think before she was asked another question, she added, ‘I knew her when she was a little girl. Her mother was a friend of mine.’
‘Yes, she told us that. Can you tell me what happened?’
Vivienne, who had been looking awkward, said, ‘I’ll just go through the back and leave you to it, shall I?’ But Anita protested, ‘No, no, there’s no need for that! There’s nothing private about it.’ She felt safer, somehow, with Vivienne at her side.
‘Marnie just turned up at the door,’ she said. ‘She was in the area, a sort of holiday, I think. It was very sad, actually – she seemed to have lost touch with her mother and thought I might know where she was, but I haven’t seen her for years. Not since they left the area.’
‘When was that?’ The woman detective, Hepburn, was studying her in a way that made Anita nervous.
‘Oh goodness, twenty years ago, I suppose.’
Unexpectedly, Vivienne chimed in. ‘That’s right. She visited Gemma my daughter yesterday too – they were great friends at school until she and her mother suddenly vanished. She was a funny wee soul, I remember. Gemma says she has perfect recall of everything that’s ever happened to her and perhaps that made her – well, a little dreamy.’
The detectives exchanged glances, then Macdonald said, ‘I gather she had an unpleasant experience before she arrived at your house, Ms Loudon.’
Keep the voice level, Anita told herself. ‘Did she? She never mentioned it to me.’
‘Really?’ Hepburn’s eyebrows were raised. ‘She said she had.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t recall that.’
‘And she said that an aggressive group of women came to your door looking for her and she had to escape out of the back.’
Anita gave a puzzled frown. ‘An aggressive group? I don’t know what she’s talking about. I was chatting to her in the sitting room and when the doorbell rang I went to answer it. It was someone doing a marketing survey and I spoke to her for a few moments.’ That had worked before. ‘Certainly, when I came back Marnie had gone out of the back door, which I did think was a little odd. But that was all.
‘As Vivienne said,’ she gave the other woman a grateful smile, ‘I did think Marnie was – well, a little strange. She certainly seems to have got very confused in what she was telling you.’
The look that Macdonald gave Hepburn looked oddly triumphant. ‘I see. Thanks very much for your help, Ms Loudon. And you don’t know anything about a disturbance in Kirkluce last night outside where Ms Bruce was staying?’
Anita felt sick. Lorna Baxter, no doubt, and all the fire-fighting she’d been doing could prove to have been pointless. ‘No,’ she said, but it was hard to keep her voice steady and the policewoman pounced.
‘You don’t sound very sure. Where were you last night?’
‘I was at home all evening. And it wasn’t that I was unsure, I was just surprised.’
‘I see,’ Hepburn said, and Anita was very much afraid she did. However, she only said, with a look at Macdonald, ‘I think that’s all for now, anyway,’ and they went out.
Vivienne turned to look at Anita. ‘That was strange! I wonder what on earth’s going on?’ Then her voice changed. ‘My dear, you’re shaking! Is there something wrong?’
Anita burst into tears.