McGuigan drove. Stark knew the address. He had seen it in his dream. The street, the house number, the hedge, the trees. Such details were embedded in his mind, and doubtless would remain there, forever.
21 Elm Road. McGuigan keyed it into the satnav. North side of Glasgow. Quiet, respectable, residential, comprising row upon row of semi-detached houses with neat front gardens and nice cars parked in the driveways. Nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other slices of suburbia. Light years from death and torture.
The journey from the police station took twenty-two minutes. Stark counted. They arrived at the address. From the outside, as innocuous and unremarkable as every other house.
McGuigan opened his mouth, about to suggest calm and discretion. Too late. Stark was out of the car, marching towards the front gate. McGuigan cursed, followed.
“Hold up!”
Stark stopped, turned.
“I get it, Jonathan,” said McGuigan. “You believe your sister might be in the house. And I’ve gone along with this, even though every other copper would either have arrested you, or laughed you out of the police station. But I can’t call backup, because I can’t justify it. So it’s just you and me. I’m asking you – let me do this. Please. Right now, the best thing for your sister is for us to keep a calm head. Whatever we confront. You understand this, Jonathan?”
Stark took a long breath. His heart beat heavy and hard; thoughts raced in his mind. He understood nothing anymore.
“Calm head. I get it…”
Their shoes scrunched over clean white pebbles forming the front path. McGuigan had no real idea what he was doing, here, at this place, following the absurd conviction of a man he barely knew. But he had agreed to come, he was part of the show, and he knew if he didn’t follow it through, he would wonder for the rest of his days.
He rang the doorbell. The front door was thick bevelled glass. There was no movement or sound from inside. They waited. McGuigan rang again, stepped back. This time, a noise. A shape floated towards them, distorted by the glass, grew bigger. A key turned. A bolt slid. The door opened.
Before them stood an elderly woman, round shouldered, a round placid face, hair white and short.
She regarded them with open curiosity, but without any apparent animosity.
“Yes?”
McGuigan cleared his throat, smiled, assumed a gentle tone.
“Sorry to trouble you. My name is Chief Inspector McGuigan…” and he reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a black leather wallet, opened it to reveal his warrant card, “…and this is my… assistant.”
Attached to a cord round her neck was a pair of glasses, which she raised to her eyes to study the card.
“How can I help you?”
“We’re trying to trace someone who might be important in assisting us in our enquiries. A young woman has gone missing. This person, if we found him, could be of significant help.”
She frowned.
“I can’t see what good I can do.”
“This person, perhaps in the past, was linked to this address.”
“You’re in luck,” she said.
“Really?”
“I’ve just put the kettle on.”
They entered the hallway – the wallpaper busy and garish; intertwined red and yellow flowers with bright green leaves. She took them to an open-plan room, a living room merging into a small dining room with patio doors, and beyond, a neat garden.
She asked them to sit at the dining table. She left the room, presumably to the kitchen, and returned with three white porcelain cups on white saucers with spoons, a silver pot of tea, a silver jug of milk, a dainty silver bowl of sugar. She placed the tray on the table, and began to pour tea into the three cups. Her hand trembled as she did so. A sure sign of early Parkinson’s.
Stark ground his teeth in frustration. He held his tongue.
“Milk?” she asked.
“You’re very kind,” replied McGuigan. Stark merely nodded. She poured in the milk. She took a sip, placed the cup back on its saucer.
“Now,” she said. “How can I help you boys?”
“Can I ask what your name is?” said McGuigan.
“Mrs Karen Fleming. Full name – Karen Isabel Fleming. Isabel was my mother’s name. She died when I was young. Pneumonia.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” McGuigan showed his best reassuring smile. “How long have you lived here, Mrs Fleming?”
“Now that’s a question. We bought this place forty years ago. We never felt the need to move. Look at the young folks nowadays. Don’t stay in a place for longer than a minute. Then they see something bigger and better and want that instead. Contentment. That’s what they lack. And by the time they realise, it’s too late.”
McGuigan nodded sagely. “That’s the modern world. Everybody wants everything yesterday. You said ‘we’?”
She took another sip of her tea. She licked her lips. She was clearly warming to the conversation.
“My husband. Donald. He was a retired civil engineer. He worked for the council all his days. Took retirement at sixty-five. He loved his work. It gave him a purpose. Work’s important, don’t you think? Keeps the mind active, gives a person a reason to get up in the morning. Makes a person feel they’re still part of the human race.”
“Very true, Mrs Fleming.”
She sighed. “That’s the thing about being old. You become invisible.” She seemed to reflect, then said, “Donald died last year. So sudden.” She gestured to the back garden. “He just dropped. Massive heart attack. He loved his flowers and plants. I try to keep it going, but as you might have guessed…” and she gave a joking grin, “…I get the shakes. Old age comes with a lot of baggage.”
“Shame we don’t have baggage handlers. Life would be a bit easier.”
“But this Zoom thing is amazing,” she continued. “I can press some buttons on the computer, and I can see my daughter and the grandkids. They grow up so fast.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Helen. She married a commercial airline pilot, and they live in Boston. They tell me Boston’s colder than Scotland in the winter. But the summers are beautiful.”
“Any other children?”
“Just the one. But I go out to see her every year.” She leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, as if about to impart a great secret. “Because he’s a pilot, I get the flights for nothing. And I go business class. Have you ever been business class? All the drinks are free.”
“Never been so lucky,” said McGuigan. “Maybe one day.” He gave a meaningful glance to Stark, who understood – it meant this is getting us nowhere. Stark’s despair escalated by the second. He was sick with worry. The premonition of his dream was proving worthless. And yet, the address existed, the exterior of the house was the same, the picture McGuigan had shown him was close to the man in his dream.
“We’re searching for a particular individual, Mrs Fleming. We have reason to believe he may have stayed in this house at some point in the past. Maybe five years ago.” He got out his phone, showed her the photo. “Do you recognise him?”
She looked puzzled. “Only Donald and I have ever lived here. I haven’t seen this man. I’m so sorry.”
“Of course,” said McGuigan. “No need to be sorry.”
Something is wrong, thought Stark. We’re missing something. He had a sudden thought, a spark of intuition.
“You visit your daughter in Boston?” he said.
“Every summer. From the beginning of June up to mid-September. If I had my way, I would stay over there.” The edges of her mouth curled in a sad droop. “There’s nothing much here for me now.”
“And the house,” continued Stark. “You leave it vacant?”
She nodded. “My neighbours are good people. They watch out for anything strange.” She frowned. “Although we did rent it out one year. A short-term let, as it was described.”
McGuigan cottoned on. “That’s interesting. Can you recall when?”
She looked thoughtful. “Now that I think about it, it was maybe five years back.” Her eyes widened with sudden enlightenment. “We rented the house out the same summer I got my hip replacement. I had to wait a year. But what a difference. It’s like having a constant toothache, and then suddenly the pain’s gone.”
“Five years ago,” murmured Stark.
“You rented the house out?” said McGuigan. Stark detected the tiniest hint of excitement in his voice.
“We did. We used an agency to do it. They organised the whole thing. They found the tenant, paid the rental straight into our account. When we got back, the place was spotless. Very professional.”
“An agency? Can you remember their name? That would be very helpful, Mrs Fleming.”
She blinked, forehead creasing as she struggled to remember. Stark stared at her, willing her to spout forth the information.
Again, her expression changed – “I have a file,” she said. “Somewhere. I’ll get it.” But instead, she topped up McGuigan’s cup. She noted Stark hadn’t touched his tea. “Would you prefer coffee?” she asked.
I would prefer you find the goddamned file.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“You mentioned the file?” prompted McGuigan.
“Of course. One minute, please. I think it’s in the bureau.”
Stiffly, she got to her feet, and went across to the other side of the room, to a varnished, Victorian-style writing bureau, complete with two drawers and cabriole legs with gilt metal mounts.
“This is French rosewood,” she said. “Donald’s pride and joy. He inherited it, when his father died.”
“It’s a beautiful piece,” said McGuigan.
She opened a drawer, started to file through papers and files. She tutted, closed the drawer, pulled out the next one. Again, more rifling. “Aha!” She took out a pink folder. Written on the front, in bold thick felt pen – House Lease.
She made her way back to the table, sat. She opened the file. Inside, a bundle of papers.
“Will this help?”
She slid across a set of documents, stapled together. McGuigan and Stark looked at the first page. It was a lease document. The preamble was clear –
Lease by Donald Fleming and Karen Fleming
in favour of Apollo Letting Company Ltd
Stark picked it up. “It’s an agreement between you and the letting company. It allows them to place suitable candidates as tenants, without the need to keep changing the lease should the tenants change.”
Karen Fleming chuckled. “It’s a lot of jargon to me. Donald did all that sort of stuff. But now that I think of it, the tenant who was here left some personal items. I contacted the company, but they didn’t seem to bother. I kept them, in case whoever was here should want them back. I’ve always hoarded. That’s what Donald said. That I was such a hoarder.”
McGuigan, with some effort, kept his voice level.
“Can you show me, Karen?”
She took out more papers from the file, and handed him a photograph of a young woman, and segments of newspaper clippings.
“Could I keep these, please?” said McGuigan. “For a little while. I promise I’ll get them back to you.”
“You said there was a missing woman. Will this help?”
“Very much.”
“Keep them. I have no use for them. Would you like some cake, Chief Inspector?”
Karen Fleming stood at the front door, waving goodbye, as they got into the car.
“The portrait the killer had on the bedroom wall,” said Stark, “is the same woman in the photo. And the news clippings. All about the same story.”
McGuigan nodded. “I remember well. Alfie Willow. He went to work one morning and shot most of his staff.”
“I remember well, too. I was there.”
McGuigan looked at him, said nothing.
Stark tapped the photo of the woman with the tip of his finger. “I knew I had seen her somewhere before. If I recall, she had just started. Like me. A legal trainee.” Stark thought back, as he often did, to that terrible moment in time, when his world turned to blood. “She went to work one morning, and ended up dead.”
“In which case,” said McGuigan, “if we find who she is, we might establish a connection. I can check records. We’ll have details of all the shooting victims in our archives.”
“There’s more,” said Stark. “Apollo Letting. I know this name.”
McGuigan waited.
“It’s the trading name used by a firm of lawyers for their residential lets. A rather respectable and prestigious firm you’ve had the pleasure of visiting recently.”
“It always comes back to SJPS,” breathed McGuigan.
Clock’s ticking. “I can check the records,” said Stark. He spoke quickly. His mind was in overdrive. Panic, though he tried to contain the swell, threatened to submerge him. With effort, he kept his voice flat and hard. Now, if ever there was a time, he had to keep it together. For his sister’s sake.
“There will be something, somewhere. Records of who the particular tenant was. There would have been checks done. References. Bank account details. Proof of ID. Due diligence. Everything’s copied. Usually in duplicate. It’s a thing lawyers like to do.”
“Like Mrs Fleming,” replied McGuigan. “You hoard. Which we all do, in our way.” He took a deep breath. He was venturing into strange and alien territory, a billion miles from conventional police work. But then, he reflected, he had never been the conventional sort.
“Okay,” he said. “We keep going.”
Suddenly, Stark gripped him by the arm. “What is this, Harry? What’s this about? I don’t understand what the hell is going on.” His voice broke. His breath was a shudder. He bit back tears.
McGuigan gave him a small sad smile. It was all he had to offer.
“Nor me. I don’t have any answers. But a door’s been opened. Maybe just enough for us to see a little sunlight. And sunlight is all we need, to see a path.”
“A path to what, I wonder.”
“Let’s find out.”
A flicker of movement distracted them. They both looked round – there, standing perched on Karen Fleming’s front gate, a raven. Glossy black, beak and talons razor sharp, eyes tiny dark pools. It regarded them with inscrutable detachment.
It flapped its wings, soared up and away.