Another day, Bethany thought, but wasn’t sure. She’d no way of marking time.
She was having visitors, they came, they went. Sometimes two of them, sometimes more. Never fewer than two. One of them had a soft voice, friendly even.
She was trying to gain their trust by being obedient, hoping that they would make a mistake or that she might be left alone with Soft Voice. If she had the chance, she might be able to talk her round, gain some traction with her friendship, but so far her captors had worked like a well-drilled team.
The first time, they called out the instructions before they opened the door. She had to kneel down and slip the hood over her head. She’d panicked, not able to see a hood. They told her it was the black fabric beside the bucket. She had to fold herself up and put her covered face on the concrete.
The door opened. There was a rush of movement. She felt a foot on the back of her neck, jamming her chin to the floor.
Then they left.
Shaking the pain and the hood from her head, she saw a bucket of fresh water, an empty one with a sponge for her to clean herself, and a small packet of antibiotic wipes.
And an apple, the end of a wholegrain loaf, a carton of juice.
The rope on her wrists had been loosened.
Not by much, but it was a start.
William Robertson took his time coming to the front door. His appearance and movements were those of an older man, late sixties, early seventies, older than Caplan would have presumed to have a daughter Bethany’s age. The possibilities of a second marriage crossed her mind; a more complex family situation than might have been noted in the brief report she’d read. Within two hours of her not returning home, this man had reported his twenty-one-year-old daughter missing.
Caplan and Craigo followed him through the hall of the sandstone Victorian terrace on the highest tier of Pulpit Hill with spectacular views over the bay, Kerrera and Mull. The décor was the usual mishmash of a lived-in home. Robertson showed them into the traditional front room, complete with heavy mahogany table at the window. The notepaper, pen, landline handset, mobile phone and a half-drunk cup of coffee showed that this was where he’d been most of the night.
On the wall over the settee hung a selection of family photographs. William. Rosemary, the younger-looking wife who had passed away two or three years previously. And Bethany, an auburn-haired girl, the feminine version of her father. At the opposite end of the room was a set of open double doors showing a modern extension beyond, pale wooden floor, cream rugs, low-slung sofas and a large TV up on the wall. Here, in the front room, thick olive-coloured curtains hung round the double-glazed bay window. The curtains framed the incredible view.
Caplan had read that Robertson, like Aklen, was a retired architect. Unlike Aklen, Robertson bothered about his own house as well as everybody else’s.
They waited until their host settled himself, pulling one of the dining chairs towards him, resting his hands on the back of it, needing the support. In his light-blue shirt and tie and his matching woollen V-neck pullover, he looked like a golfer about to explain why his round had gone badly.
He cleared his throat, looking at the two detectives, as if their presence here in his home had reminded him of the reality of his daughter’s absence. A man trying to keep himself under control. Caplan could sense Craigo not so subtly trying to peer out the window. One of Bethany’s ‘last seens’ was the evidence of one Sean Mathie, the neighbour, as he was leaving his own house for work and had seen Bethany cross the road on her way to her volunteering. From the layout of the street, that hadn’t been a casual glance out the front window.
‘Do you have any news?’ Robertson asked.
‘No. Why were you anxious about her? So soon?’
‘Why are you so anxious about her?’ he retorted.
Caplan looked at him, finding him difficult to read. He looked nervous, his eyes darting over her face, looking for clues. He seemed impatient to get on with whatever it was they were here for.
‘Have you made a list of her friends and acquaintances? Her routine? Where she drank coffee, her gym, the library.’
‘I did that.’ He handed over a single sheet of A4 paper and Caplan hesitated before taking it from him. ‘It’s not much.’ He slumped onto the chair. ‘She didn’t live a busy life, not now.’
Caplan took the single sheet with its scant contents. ‘The more friends and contacts a person has, the more eyes are on them, and on their world. The more people’ll notice anything odd,’ Caplan continued, keeping her voice quiet. ‘Did she say anything that made you think she could be in jeopardy? An ex-boyfriend causing trouble? Somebody harassing her or bullying her?’
He shook his head, a little too readily for Caplan’s liking. ‘Oh no, nothing like that.’ Quick, full of denial. Out the corner of her eye, Caplan saw Craigo shuffle slightly, as if noting the slight discord. He opened his mouth to say something then seemed to decide against it. Had there been a boyfriend and Daddy had not approved?
Caplan’s eyes skimmed across the books in the alcoves that bordered the fireplace. Architecture and design. She recognised them and the pile of magazines, including the Architectural Digest; the same ones that Aklen had collected, though her husband’s books were now wrapped up and secured in a storage facility.
Robertson’s bookshelves were completed with back copies of the National Geographic, Astronomers World, Night Photography and Scottish Field, which all looked well read.
Robertson asked, ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘DCI Christine Caplan.’
‘Any relation to Aklen Caplan? Architect? It’s not a very common name and I heard that he’d moved out to the west coast.’
‘My husband.’
Robertson’s expression relaxed. He gave a little nod. ‘Well, tell him I was asking for him. I hope he’s on the mend.’
‘He’s fine. Got a thing about roofs now.’ She smiled back then let her smile harden. ‘What about names Bethany mentioned? Anybody making her feel uncomfortable?’
He shook his head. ‘If there were she would have said. And to be honest, she wasn’t the type to suffer fools. If she was having trouble, she’d sort it out herself. Nicely, but it would be sorted.’
‘And she helps out with advocacy? Good communication skills, an empathetic listener? No issues there? Nobody latching onto her, mistaking her advice for friendship?’
‘She did enjoy helping those less fortunate navigate the world. She was very kind like that, knew that it would look good on her CV. She was intending to do human rights law at university, but she changed her mind.’ He was on firm ground now. ‘Social work. There’s nothing that she said that caused me any alarm. I haven’t been happy about the Revolve place since day one. When she was late, I contacted Rory Ghillies, asking what I should do. I’m scared.’ He blinked slowly, a deep breath. ‘Never been this scared in my life.’
Caplan responded. ‘You’re a dad, of course you are scared. Do you know what she was wearing when she set off for the Revolve on Saturday morning? The local branch has confirmed that she was at the Revolve and left after three o’clock.’
‘Yes, I’ve a picture of her. Wait a moment.’ He picked his phone up and started to scroll through. ‘She was wearing jeans, her usual trainers. She’d taken to swirling her hair up and round in that scarf thing.’
Caplan creased her forehead. ‘You took a picture of your daughter as she left the house? On exactly the day that she disappeared? That sounds a little … odd.’
Robertson nodded, looking uneasy. ‘I photograph her every day. When she leaves.’
Caplan sat down beside him.
‘I know how bad that sounds but her mother, Rosemary,’ his eyes drifted up to the photograph on the sideboard, ‘went out that door and didn’t come back in. She died suddenly. Once that happens, you live in fear of it happening again.’
‘What happened to your wife?’ asked Caplan, softly.
‘She left to go to work, went to the gym first as she always did. She collapsed on the running machine. Aneurysm. She died immediately. No warning, no nothing.’ His eyes welled up. ‘I can’t let that happen to Bethany. She was scanned to make sure she won’t go the same way. It’s hereditary.’ His eyes drifted over to the middle distance, looking for a place to rest. ‘Sometimes I can’t remember what the woman I was married to for thirty years actually looked like. Except at three o’clock in the morning – then I see her all the time.’
Caplan gave him a moment. ‘Was Bethany suffering from any other condition? We’ve an alert out in all hospitals. She’s not been admitted anywhere. She walked out of the Revolve into a busy little town. If she had collapsed, somebody would have noticed.’
‘But something has happened to her. She wouldn’t walk away of her own free will, not without letting me know. Has she been abducted?’
Caplan didn’t feel she could agree or disagree, she simply didn’t know. ‘Not that we can say.’
‘Rory was saying something about teenagers going missing. I’ve been thinking about all those children that disappear and never make it back home. Has she been trafficked somewhere? Is that possible?’
Caplan said, ‘Intelligent, middle-class girls like Bethany are not the target group for traffickers. Did Rory say there was a connection with Bethany and teenagers going missing?’
Robertson shook his head. ‘No, sorry, it was something he said ages ago. I was going over it in my mind, that’s all. You think all sorts at a time like this.’ He rubbed his face, exhausted.
‘Mr Robertson?’
‘Bill, it’s Bill, please. Has Shiv turned up?’
Caplan shook her head.
‘You have had no sleep. I think Craigo here should put the kettle on. Might give both of us some energy.’
Robertson responded with a weak smile. ‘I’m not sure Bethany’s right to do this volunteering. It was all because she lost her mum. But then she was ill herself. She’s a determined wee lassie. Takes after her mother,’ he added wistfully.
‘I’m going to the Revolve Centre later. Do you know what she was doing there yesterday, specifically I mean?’
‘Well, she helps out with applications for benefits, though Christ knows that type know their way around the system pretty well. And lifestyle skills, whatever that is. She was talking Shivonne through a job interview, like turning up and being on time.’
‘How long had she been volunteering there?’
‘Since June last summer, nearly full time. But her hours vary. Always a Wednesday morning and Saturday though.’
‘But she’d have been at uni, surely?’
‘She had an operation, on her back, had to take some time out. That’s why her list of friends is so short. She was neither here nor there.’
‘An operation?’ She heard Craigo clattering around in the kitchen. A rush of warm air wafted into the room from the heat of the glass wall at the back. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘She’s fine now. It was a pilonidal sinus. Takes ages to heal. She was out of circulation for a while. It’s not like the city where her uni friends would pop in.’ Robertson sniffed. ‘No, Bethany never goes out with friends without saying. She always lets me know where she is.’
‘I’ve a twenty-year-old son and I’m not sure what he does day to day. I’m not sure that I want to know. They live in a different space from us, different generation. It’s natural.’
‘Not Bethany.’
‘You last saw her at breakfast yesterday.’
‘Yes.’
Caplan looked at the picture on his phone. The way the auburn curls were rolled tight under her yellow headscarf made her look like Rosie the Riveter on her way to Tesco. Caplan opened up the image as far as it would go. ‘It’s time-stamped at eight-fifty? Is that the normal bag she carries with her? Or was she going to the gym?’
Robertson looked at the picture, seeing the large bag swung over Bethany’s left arm, mostly hidden by her body as she walked from the house, and the smaller strap of her rucksack across her shoulder.
He shook his head, appeared to rethink, and then shook his head again. ‘Sorry, I don’t think so. She normally has her rucksack, with her wee owl mascot hanging from it. Her mum bought her that.’ He took the phone back and swiped once. ‘That was Friday’s picture. She’d the rucksack then. And Thursday.’ Another swipe. ‘Or the day before, and she was going out to Revolve each time, covering for somebody’s holidays.’
He took a photograph of Bethany every day and it appeared that she had no idea. Caplan decided it could wait. ‘Can I have a look in her bedroom?’
‘Is that necessary? It’s private.’
‘Your daughter’s missing, of course it’s necessary,’ said Caplan blankly. ‘Helps us get a sense of the young woman as she is, not as she is filtered through the eyes of her dad. There’ll be things in her life that she’ll have kept to herself, things that could help us find her.’
For a moment they stood in silence as Craigo came back with a tray with three cups and a teapot. They all jumped when Robertson’s phone rang. He looked down at it, and gave Caplan a meaningful look.
‘Rory.’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll only be making sure that I’m doing as I was told,’ reassured Caplan.
As he took the call, Caplan gestured that she was going to go upstairs and have a look round. Robertson looked like he was going to protest, but if he mentioned it to his friend on the phone, all Ghillies would say was, ‘What do you expect her to do, she’s only doing her job.’
Craigo subtly moved himself in front of the door as Caplan left the room to make her way upstairs. The dark-blue carpet in the hall needed a good vacuum. On the stairs as she went up she looked at the watercolours. They had matching frames and the subject matter was similar. All Scottish mountain landscapes. There were four in all, two painted in daylight and two painted against the backdrop of a starry night sky. What Constable would have painted if he had been born in the Western Isles. At the top of the stairs, the square wall was adorned with an arranged group of four framed photographs showing the moon in certain phases; deep tones of blue contrasted with the lunar bright grey and whites. They were breathtakingly beautiful images, much more appealing than the standard vase of flowers or the cottage garden prints that hung on the walls downstairs. Two conflicting styles, one bumped upstairs out of the way. Who had been the dominant one in the marriage, Mr or Mrs Robertson?
Who did Bethany take after?
And how badly did she feel the need to escape her father’s benevolent but watchful eye, because Caplan had no doubt that Bethany did.
Four doors led off the upper landing, one obviously the toilet, positioned at the front of the house. On passing the door straight ahead of her, she tried the handle. It was locked. From the open doors of the other two, she could see the main room had a double bed, which put Bethany in the back room with the beige and yellow carpet, perfectly hoovered.
Caplan walked into the room, slowly, resisting the temptation to knock. The smell of a pomegranate perfume lingered in the air, even though the hopper on the main window was open.
Bethany hadn’t had the easiest of times. Her years of early adulthood had been difficult. Materially comfortable, but she had lost her mother, had been ill and off university for nearly a year. She left her school friends, made new allegiances at university, then left them behind as she took a year out, before starting again in the year below. Both Bill and his wife had been only children. Bethany, here in this house, on the outskirts of town, was a little out of step with everybody else, slightly isolated. In the investigation, there had been nobody mentioned as a best friend, nobody’s name cropping up again and again as the one who would know, the one she was always on the phone to, the Instagram friend. Nobody.
Aklen had been a hermit for seven years and he had more friends than Bethany Robertson. She looked round the room, incredibly neat and tidy, her eyes drawn to the framed photographs, telling her story. Bethany with her parents, no best friend here. The photographs were arranged chronologically. There was no mum in the most recent ones. Caplan’s similar story showed her husband being missing from their kids’ life for six or seven years, give or take.
Maybe that’s why, from what her dad had said, Bethany had fitted in at the Revolve Centre, with the rest of society’s misfits, finding new and unlikely friends, keeping them away from her father, who would not approve. Her eye caught a small series of photobooth snaps; Bethany and a peroxide blonde who she recognised as Shivonne. They were pulling faces and messing around; besties as the youngsters would say nowadays. Was Shiv the confidante Bethany had been looking for? A girl who had grown up with so little, making a friend of one that had grown up with so much.
The single window looked out onto the glass roof of the extension and the back garden beyond that. It was the room of a tidy student with a well-ordered mind; everything was in its place. Caplan had already suspected that Bethany was a methodical young woman. Her dad was right, she wouldn’t do anything unless it was planned.
Which begged the question, was her disappearance deliberate? Caplan took another look back at Shiv’s mischievous eyes, a survivor because she had to be. Were they somewhere together, drinking shots and having the time of their life? Caplan doubted Bethany would be that cruel to her father. She might have gone, but she’d have left a message.
The design of the room suggested it had been remodelled when she went to university. A bespoke bookcase bridged across the top of the bed. Each little dookit had the right number of books, photographs or ornaments. Nothing looked overcrowded. Caplan spotted some trophies for Irish dancing. The photographs here were from her early life; mum, dad, the same pony eating carrots and getting rosettes, then eating the rosettes. The books went way back to her childhood; some very old editions of Enid Blyton, the Children’s Pictorial Bible, more modern children’s classics. Bethany had a wide taste in books, and they all looked well read. Her desk had a laptop on it and a phone charger with no phone. The single bed was neatly made with a yellow duvet cover with a crumpled area, no doubt where Bill had sat, wondering where she had gone. On the pillow rested a plush, fluffy owl, peering back at her with huge eyes. The bedside table nearest the door had a photo of her mum and dad taken a few years ago and a bottle of eyedrops for nighttime use. Beside that was an ornate wooden box. Caplan opened the lid. It was a typical young woman’s jewellery collection; a few precious items still in boxes, the rest lying in little compartments. Mostly silver, good quality, ethnic pieces, nothing vulgar as Caplan’s mum would say. And there were no gaps, she’d taken nothing with her. There was a half empty bottle of Jo Malone, Pomegranate Noir, and on top of the other bedside table was a stack of books by Lucinda Riley, then a porcelain hand with a pair of glasses resting on the arch between thumb and finger. Caplan bent over to look through the lens, spreading her fingers behind them. It appeared Bethany needed her glasses to read her book at bedtime.
On the opposite wall hung a mirror with a narrow shelf underneath, and two large prints, both of birds of prey. A hawk, a falcon, hooks of claws. Caplan thought of the threat the falcons were to the kittens and shuddered. Was there a side to Bethany that wasn’t obvious in her gentle character?
Caplan pulled drawers open. The bottom drawer in the chest had a small jewellery box, tucked under a pile of gloves and scarfs. Caplan opened it. Medication tucked away where her dad would not see. The contraceptive pill, taken up to date, but she hadn’t taken it with her. The other was Trazodone. Caplan pulled out her phone and photographed the labels, suspecting the latter was either an antidepressant or an anti-anxiety medication. God knows, Aklen had been on them all over the last seven years.
The contents of the drawers suggested that some items of clothing were missing; they could be in the wash, or they could be away with her in the bag she had slung over her shoulder.
Could they look at her laptop? Another question for her dad.
Caplan’s eyes drifted back to the mother, Rosemary. Always smiling, happy, she looked full of life and cheer. Each picture of her face glowed with an inner happiness and peace, no sign of the abnormality in her brain that would end that life so suddenly.
No wonder Bethany was struggling with anxiety, or maybe sleeplessness. Did her dad have any idea? Was he the same, each keeping their fear to themselves so as not to worry the other?
Caplan looked over onto the roof at the high gable end, a dormer window put in, the flat roof of it slightly risky in a country with a high rainfall. That was the roof over the room with the locked door. Might be something or nothing.
Caplan slid open the mirrored door of the wardrobe, looking for a gap, anything that Bethany might have packed to take with her, wherever she had planned to go. The wardrobe, like everything else, was well-organised with shoes at the bottom on double row racks, from boots through to training shoes through to sandals. There were two pairs missing, if usually every part of the rack was taken. Given the range, it looked like one pair from the trainer end and one from the shoe end. More than that she couldn’t tell. Up on the clothes rail there was a gap where the hangers had been parted; maybe something missing there.
Caplan looked at what was before and after the gap. A missing dress? Something formal?
It didn’t seem right, and she didn’t think that asking Robertson would be of any use.
She closed the wardrobe door, her fingertips touching the mirrored glass as it floated past, smooth, expensive.
Looking at her reflection as the image floated into sight, she saw how tired she looked. The black marks under her eyes had darker marks under them. Still, she wouldn’t be doing her job right if she could sleep well during this. It was hard work; long hours and hard work, the daily grind. And she suspected that there was something with Bethany, or her situation, that was very concerning. But as yet, she couldn’t put her finger on it.
It was the small things that would solve the case. The devil was in the detail.
Which begged the question, who was Bethany sleeping with, and where was she going with good shoes and a dress?
Caplan listened at the top of the stairs to the chatter below, trying the handle of the first door again, definitely locked. Craigo was doing his disarming idiot act no doubt. She crept into the bathroom – very white, very clean. The window was open and the draught of the brisk autumn day was enough to chill the top floor of the house. She opened the door of the bathroom cupboard then poked around in the chrome shelving underneath the sink. Nothing much but bleach and toilet rolls. The cabinet above the sink showed that somebody had piles, somebody wore contact lenses, they had good dental hygiene, and somebody was taking Gaviscon by the mouthful.
But the pills? The glasses? These were things that Bethany would have taken if she’d gone voluntarily.
Which led to the conclusion that she had not.