Bethany had been woken from a sleep so deep and disturbed she knew she had been drugged. They had pulled her to her feet. The hood was already over her face. She had actually tried to brush them away; she was tired, she needed to empty her bladder, could they just wait a moment?
The blow in the ribs knocked the wind out of her. She was sure her feet left the floor with the force of it, propelled sideways into the wall where her head hit the wall and she slumped down, stunned, dazed. The disorientation caused by the hood was absolute. She landed and was dragged across the floor by her feet. She realised, at some point through all this, her bladder had emptied.
Then there was calm. They rolled her on her side, bending her legs a little, as if she was going to sleep. Something soft, like a cushion, was placed between her knees. And that was okay. Then something that felt like a finger touched her on the outer part of her shin.
She heard somebody take a deep breath.
Then she felt the blow and heard the bone break, then another blow, another, and then she allowed herself to be swallowed by the darkness of the hood.
The press had risen early. By seven a.m. on Wednesday morning the police station was surrounded by reporters and two TV crews. A rumour was spreading fast that a body had been found. Everybody wanted to know whose body it was. They were after Caplan’s blood but she was sticking to the ‘until the family had been informed’ official line. As she bounced the Duster into the car park, two uniformed officers closed a gate she didn’t know existed behind her. She sat for a moment, checking her email. There was still no official confirmation of the identity of the body. That sounded like they were dragging their feet on a forgone conclusion and that in itself had started a tsunami of misinformation about Bethany Robertson.
During the night, she’d realised there was a real possibility that they would take the case off her. On her way into the station, she had driven up to the Lorn Hospice, to have a difficult conversation with a dying woman. Is your husband the type to have a relationship with a woman thirty years younger? It was Rachel who had started the ball rolling. Caplan suspected Rachel knew exactly the type of man she was married to.
She expected a difficult conversation. She wasn’t expecting to be turned away. Only three named visitors were allowed in now.
The metaphorical door was closed, politely and firmly, in her face.
She walked into the station with a sense of dread, but Mackie was at reception, holding a cup of tea and looking out at the gathered press, her normal enthusiastic self.
‘Did you get any sleep?’
‘Yes, ma’am, I’m fine. I think we are in for a day of it.’
‘Any news on McPhee?’
‘He called Finan last night. He’s back at the flat. He’s not to go anywhere near her.’
Caplan nodded. ‘To be expected. I wish he could come back here. That would keep them apart.’
‘Is there nothing we can do, ma’am?’
‘We have done enough without it looking like interfering. They’ll get round to interviewing us. In the meantime, take the next thirty minutes to get up to speed and then we’ll be manning the phones if we don’t get any manpower.’
‘ACC Linden has already called. Ten minutes ago. She wasn’t happy you weren’t here.’
‘Bloody hell.’
As she called Linden she thought she heard Mackie mutter something about still drunk but she wasn’t sure.
‘The body?’ Linden snapped straight away.
‘Not Bethany, I’m sure of it. Awaiting confirmation from the DNA and the PM.’
‘And when did you become a pathologist?’
‘Bethany had an operation for a pilonidal sinus.’
‘A what?’
‘It leaves a scar, a bad scar. That body had no scar. Not Beth. I called last night to tell Bill Robertson that the body had no scar. He’s not daft, he knew what I meant, but I think somebody had told him that it was Bethany already.’ Caplan heard Linden tapping, as if drumming her nails on the desk. ‘Ryce knows I want her to confirm it before we go public.’
She heard Linden sigh. The ACC had been prepared to be angry. ‘The Brooke-Williams family. You’ve to go and speak to them. And be nice. On your phone you have the documentation on a DNA profile and a list of five surnames who were genetically linked to Mr Glen Douglas. There’s a black sheep of a son who hasn’t been around for a while – the youngest son with a few addiction issues. The age and broad description fits. The family think he’s away being naughty. They have no idea about the fatality. Deal with it yourself. Don’t take the wee monkey guy, don’t take the fat one, don’t take McPhee the wife beater.’
‘DC McPhee is innocent.’
‘Only because he’s not married, but the bruises are the same. Don’t underestimate what a family like the Brooke-Williams could do to the profile of this case.’
Caplan felt it was her turn to change the subject. ‘Can we think about Rachel for a moment? She watched everything, noted everything. She saw something in this case, right at the start. What was it? We know it wasn’t the body at Glen Douglas. It wasn’t her own demise. One of those murders formed a connection in her mind. Addled with disease and drugs, she’s still held onto that thought. Christ, after a bottle of wine you can’t recall my name, but Rachel, with the chemo coursing through her veins, still held onto these victims.’
‘We all have that one case that got away, the one that remains with you.’
‘Rachel wasn’t working on any of these cases so none of them could remain with her, could they?’ Caplan said.
‘If she’s wrong then this could be career ending for you. It might already be career ending. Christine, I know you like to see patterns in things. And you think I spend my life in meetings about modern policing, diversity and the quality of the vegan soap in the toilets. But I did look into the cases that Rachel Ghillies worked on, I cross-referenced them.’
‘No, you bloody didn’t,’ said Caplan quietly.
‘Okay, I got one of the tech guys to do it because I’ve got no idea how to. As you say, Rachel had no connection with any of these cases, apart from a tangential link with Welsh. Nor did her hubby. He was too far up the tree by then.’
‘But she did access them. What does that mean? No professional interest so a personal one? Could that personal interest about the perpetrator lead us to who killed Glen Douglas?’
‘Last time I looked, you were a detective, so you figure that out. But get the Brooke-Williamses onside. Speak to the family. Bethany’s the one you need to get home safe.’
In the end DCI Caplan drove to Kelbourne House alone to see the Brooke-Williamses. They had been told in advance of her visit. She presumed that the family might have some idea what it was about.
She enjoyed the solitude. The driveway up to the large house where the Brooke-Williamses lived was long and winding, through a large estate that started with smooth rolling fields filled with grazing highland cattle, whose coats shone auburn in the sun, before the road turned sharply into the woods, the daylight flickering through the canopy of leaves. She passed signs; bits of wood carved into arrows, saying ‘To the log cabins’, ‘To the picnic area’, ‘The Selkie Walk’ and ‘The River Walk’ in black lettering. These woods were not dense but there was the presence of silent isolation. She couldn’t think of herself walking through these woods, through the trees, off the path, not under any circumstances. Why were they, the victims, taking the difficult way through the trees? Why not down the track? She pulled the car over and got out, enjoying the petrichor and the sweet humid smell of fallen leaves. The single track had been cleared of autumn detritus which was piled up to form a soft, brown, glistening border to the road.
She saw a lodge hidden by the trees, a single stream of woodsmoke curling from its chimney, as if drawn by the hand of a Disney artist. Looking around her, breathing in the damp, scented air, she tried to imagine herself running through here. Running away from something, escaping. She’d take the road. The victims had not done so. None of them had.
After standing and thinking for five minutes, ignoring the chill rising from the tarmac through her boots, she got back in the Duster.
Lady Brooke-Williams didn’t ask why Caplan had asked for a meeting, so she presumed that they knew, or that they suspected something, even if they weren’t going to volunteer it.
It was a delicate matter. The three of them in the room, the two parents and the older brother, a man in his mid to late twenties, although he could have been anything up to forty with early hair loss and a shiny face.
Caplan didn’t need to ask. She saw the faces in front of her echoed in the paintings hanging above the fireplace and she knew. Even though the victim had had his face smashed in, she imagined she could see a resemblance in the build, the colouring. He bore some semblance to the sitter of one of the portraits, going back through the relative ages. It could have been his grandfather, maybe.
‘You’ve found Xander, haven’t you?’ Delores Brooke-Williams offered her a seat.
Caplan braced herself. Sebastian, the elder son, rising through the layers of the banking world in London, had flown home. ‘Please be frank,’ he said, taking control, leaving Caplan to wonder what the script with the wiry, silent dad was. ‘Have you found a body?’
‘We have indeed. There was no DNA on record. We used a familial tracing method and that gave us the family name. We wouldn’t say that the identification is firm. We need you to do that.’ Caplan let the silence lie. Nobody was going to volunteer the family’s dirty linen. ‘As we’re following a familial DNA as a line of investigation into the identity of the deceased, we need to know if you have anybody missing in your family, immediate or extended? Anybody estranged? Aged between twenty and thirty. About five feet nine.’ She paused for a moment before she added, ‘Diabetic? Would that be Xander?’
The answer was instant. ‘Yes, my younger brother, Alexander. He was twenty-three.’
The silent father muttered something too quiet for her to hear, but his wife leaned forward to place an arm round him.
‘When did you last see him?’
The son moved slightly. They had been asked an uncomfortable question and they were not sure how to answer it. The mother put a second arm round her husband, moving along on the sofa. A time for some hard truths.
‘I got a few text messages from him in the summer of 2022 – 21st June in fact, the longest day,’ the son said.
‘And then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing at all. Any of you?’
‘Are you judging us?’ Delores asked.
‘Not at all,’ said Caplan, ‘I’m establishing the facts. Children will live their own lives, they are free to roam, and boys in particular can be very bad about keeping in touch.’
‘But not without money, DCI Caplan. No phone, no nothing. He had nothing. We tried to find out where he’d gone.’
‘Did you report him missing?’ asked Caplan, knowing that they had not.
Sebastian sat down and crossed one expensively trousered leg over the other. ‘There was a young lady found last night.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was Xander found like that, in a forest somewhere?’
‘Out in the wilds? Yes.’
‘The police seem to think that her death was accidental, death by misadventure. The inquiry will probably say that Xander’s was too.’
Caplan didn’t want to correct him.
‘You don’t believe that though, do you?’ asked Delores, peering at the police officer. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on and get you a cup of tea, dear. Come into the kitchen.’ She walked away so that Caplan wouldn’t see the tears. They went down a short flight of stairs, bright brass runner rods holding the carpet in place. ‘God, this is bad. My husband will find this very difficult to cope with. Thank you for not saying too much in front of him. What happened to Xander? Don’t sugar-coat it, please.’ She pulled her cardigan round her as they stepped into the barn of a kitchen. An old pulley hung overhead. The large oak table was spotless but the room was chilled. She placed an old kettle on the stove and lit the burner.
Caplan sat down, suddenly tired, too tired to lie to this woman. ‘It could be,’ she wiped non-existent dust from the table with her sleeve, ‘that he was abducted, then killed later.’
‘How much later?’
‘Weeks, I think.’
‘Weeks!’
‘I think so. To be honest, I’m having trouble convincing people. Any toxicology test on their hair is clear for the weeks of most recent growth. This suggests to me they had no access to their … usual lifestyle.’ She shook her head. ‘But the police, like any organisation has its priorities.’ She lifted her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’
‘If we, as parents, don’t know our children are missing, then how can we expect others to prioritise them? Thank you for your honesty.’ Delores placed the palm of her hand on the kettle, seeming to get some comfort in the warmth. ‘He would do anything for heroin. He sold his grandmother’s engagement ring. Yes, I think I knew from the minute he went missing that something like this had happened to him. I waited for him to come back, or turn up. Time passed. I waited too long this time.’ She turned and looked out the window; the strain, the relief, showed on her face. ‘We asked around of course but Xander never had “our” friends, he never fitted this life. He was too good for us, too good for us all.’ She looked back out the window, it was starting to rain in earnest. ‘One young woman is still missing?’
‘Yes. Her dad is beside himself. We think she’s still alive, well … we hope.’
‘I’d like to still have hope, but at least now we know.’ She closed her eyes and Caplan thought there might be more tears. ‘You were a dancer, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sometimes we are what we are, sometimes we just cannot change.’
Back in the car, Caplan was refreshed by hot green tea and emboldened by a mother’s determination to find out what had happened to her son. Only two, out of all the victims, had somebody concerned for them. She picked up her phone. Craigo and Linden had left voice mails. Caplan listened to Craigo’s message. Linden could wait.
‘Ma’am. The council didn’t have any vehicles out in the park on that day, never mind at that time. It was a Saturday afternoon. We got Govan to clean up the logo on the green van. The logo is Heatherbank Raptor Rescue right enough. That fits with the feathers they found in the bushes and it fits in with the knot. But that van does not belong to Heatherbank. I checked all four wild bird rescue centres round here and nobody has a green van. Nobody had a call out. Like you said at the start, ma’am, there’s something very organised behind all this. This isn’t a him or a her, but a them, like your friend said. Oh, and there’s reports that Ghillies has been burning stuff in his back garden. They don’t like that up in the Glen. It’s paperwork, apparently.’
Caplan stood once more at the red front door and wondered what secrets it kept. She knew her weapon – Ghillies wanted his OBE for services to policing, public order and for his charity work. And bad publicity about this could hurt him where it counted. She didn’t consider herself vindictive, but Rachel had made connections between these deaths, young men and women had died of exposure or been battered to death in the middle of nowhere, and Caplan would use any leverage she could.
There was a smart Mercedes in the driveway. The plate read VAN 1275. It didn’t take a lot of her detective skills to figure out who his guests might be.
Ghillies opened the door, looking stressed and upset, but his arms opened in a gesture of magnanimous welcome. Then he stood back, his hand out.
‘Christine? I’m sorry, do come in. I’m just back from seeing Rachel. It was a terrible visit. Felix and Wilma are here.’ He walked down the short hall, leaving Caplan to wonder what had been said.
Caplan said, her voice dry and reedy, ‘I tried to see her yesterday. Wasn’t allowed in.’
‘Medical advice, something about infection.’
‘Hello again, Christine,’ Vance said, hand out. ‘You have another body, not Bethany though. Wouldn’t have your job for anything. Wilma’s putting the kettle on.’ He smiled at her, a slightly deflated smile.
Caplan could see how he and Rory would be friends. How he, Ghillies and Robertson would be friends. And that Aklen would not. They were professionals whose paths had crossed. Aklen didn’t play golf and wasn’t comfortable at the Rotary. Not part of the old boys’ network.
‘You know Bill well?’
‘Oh yes, known him for years. I’ve known Bethany since before she was born. I was saying that Wilma and I bought her her first doll’s house. Any news on her? That you can tell us, I mean. Bill told us that the body wasn’t …’ He regarded her almost imploringly.
‘Felix, she can’t say,’ Ghillies protested. ‘It’s all to be confirmed.’
‘But she told Bill that it wasn’t Beth.’
Wilma came in, looking very stylish in a vintage light-yellow dress, sixties bouffant and slingback shoes, manoeuvring the tray through the narrow doorway. She turned round, seeing the new guest, her mouth wide as she smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll get another cup.’
They waited until she had left the room.
‘If you want a word, we could use the dining room. I’m sure it won’t take long,’ said Ghillies, getting a nod of understanding from Vance.
Caplan got the feeling he was keeping Vance from her. Which was all right by her.
‘Please go ahead,’ Vance said.
‘Yes, Mr Ghillies, let’s have a chat,’ said Caplan, going through the door and turning right into the dining room that she knew looked out onto the garden, complete with a patch of scorched grass and a wire-framed basket. The evidence of a bonfire.
‘What are you burning, Rory?’ she asked, as Ghillies closed the door behind them.
‘Oh, that? A whole load of crap, to be perfectly honest.’ He sat down on a dining room chair.
‘Can you be more specific?’ she asked, both of them comfortable on opposite sides of the table.
Rory Ghillies looked something like embarrassed, or guilty. He was a difficult man to read beyond the practised bonhomie. ‘What has that got to do with anything? Your efforts should be focussed on Beth. What does Andrew think you are working on?’
Was the dropping of McEwan’s name supposed to unnerve her?
‘Well, I’ll update him when I see him. What were you burning?’
He patted his hands on his thighs in irritation. ‘Rubbish. Just rubbish.’ Then he smiled slightly as if light had dawned on him. ‘Nothing of importance. Rachel kept a whole load of nonsense round the house. She has two rooms upstairs full of junk. I’ve been going through lots of old paperwork, pension stuff, bank statements, insurance, going back years. She has cheque stubs from twenty years ago. I’m shredding and burning. Can’t be too careful. I’m keeping myself busy. Wilma’s going to go through the wardrobes, Rachel’s summer stuff. Let’s face it, she isn’t going to be here next summer. Now, do you want to tell me what the hell that has to do with Beth?’
‘Your wife was concerned about the disappearance of Nikolas Ardman, Lisa Stratton and a few others.’
‘Oh, so it wasn’t really a meeting of old friends?’ Ghillies went pale. He looked upset for the first time. And something else that Caplan couldn’t read. ‘Like I’ve said, Rachel was obsessed over that Ardman thing.’
‘I think they are all ingredients in the same soup, as my old DCI used to say. Give it a stir and see what floats to the surface.’ Caplan sighed. ‘That’s what we intend to do. Rachel saw connections and she was right.’ Caplan emphasised the last word. ‘Sarah Linden has been very supportive.’
‘Well, I’d listen to her. A bright woman, Sarah.’
‘I’ve been trying to work out why your wife wanted us to know about Ardman. Why that case? Why him?’
Ghillies looked away.
‘As I said at the time, if something was so important to me that I was thinking about it on my deathbed, I’d like to think that my husband would take it seriously,’ said Caplan, studying the picture over the mantelpiece of Ghillies looking handsome in his kilt. What had the age gap been when he’d met Rachel? Time telescopes such disparity.
Was history repeating itself with Bethany?
‘She was obsessing with that case. It got embarrassing. If she told you that she had a file, and that all the secrets she had discovered were in it, she was lying. She thought she’d uncovered intelligence that the entire might of Police Scotland had missed. Are you only here for her notebooks?’
Caplan gave a noise that was neither assent nor refusal.
‘Well, they’re not here. A bloody huge box it was. Gone. Remember she knew that this day was coming. All that took so much out of her. It was my wish that she might live a little longer, maybe give herself some peace. Instead, I think she tortured herself with it. Whatever it was.’
Caplan glanced out the window. ‘Was there a purple Moleskin notebook?’
‘Loads of them. The ones on the bonfire contained poetry and musings. Nothing. If I’d found any documentation that she shouldn’t have been in possession of, I would have returned it. Embarrassing though that would be. Much of what she claims was going on, was only going on in her head. Why do you think she never got promotion? She got personally fixated on an idea and wouldn’t let go. She’d talk about nothing else.’ He patted his thighs with his hands again, emphasising each word. ‘I do know my way around an investigation. Rachel was more of a conspiracy theorist. It didn’t matter to her that an experienced team of investigators had ruled it as accidental death; she knew better. She was an embarrassment. And it’s embarrassing that you’re here going over all this when you should be out looking for these bastards who have Beth. They killed Shiv – that’s the body you found?’
‘Not yet confirmed … officially,’ said Caplan, but nodded ruefully.
He sank his head into his hands. ‘And Beth’ll be next, so why the hell are you talking to me?’
‘I’m talking to you because I want to see what cars you have in the double garage. A Lexus and an Octavia are both registered to this address.’ She gave him her calm stare. ‘Anything you want to say?’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘I believe it’s exactly what I think.’
Suddenly his voice was chilling. ‘And what do you think, DCI Caplan?’
‘I think you’ve been having sex with your goddaughter. That’s what I think.’
For a moment Ghillies’s face froze. Caplan knew he was considering how to play this.
‘What can I say? She found me attractive? I’m not proud of it but it happened. It’s so trendy today to be offended when really all women want is a guy to show them a bit of attention. Bethany and I are very fond of each other.’ He lifted his finger, warning her. ‘And I was not in a position of trust.’
‘I think her dad might see that differently. And you couldn’t resist her charms?’
Ghillies shook his head. ‘She started it. She was always keen.’
Caplan’s stomach nearly emptied itself. ‘If you had said she’d lost her mum, you were having a difficult time with Rachel, you grew close and that closeness grew into something else that you now regret, then I would have accepted that.’ Her voice was razor sharp. ‘Where were you when she disappeared?’
‘Driving home from the golf club. Or at the hospice.’ He smiled. ‘Beth’s disappearance makes it very awkward for me. It could make things awkward for you. You are not popular, DCI Caplan.’
‘And you are a very nasty piece of work. I will send you to the worms where you belong.’ She got up, walked to the door and then he was in the hall in front of her, his arm on the wall, blocking her exit.
‘You have five seconds to move that or I will put you on the floor.’
The arm stayed in place.
There was stalemate for a slow count of five.
Then he hit the carpet.
Caplan was furious by the time she entered the interview room. The hospice had confirmed Ghillies had been there the afternoon Bethany had gone missing, and Robertson had called him. Ghillies had phoned back. But Caplan knew he was too clever to get his own hands dirty. He was a cop. He’d know not to leave a trail back to him.
DC Mackie, as if sensing her boss was not in good humour, pulled back the chair for Caplan. Colin Jacobs, the park-keeper, gave her a curt nod.
Caplan had flicked through the ever-growing file of witness statements from those who had been in the park between three and four on the Saturday afternoon, well, those that had come forward at least. But in her fury, she’d forgotten most of what she’d read.
Jacobs continued the chat that the DCI had interrupted. ‘I don’t know why you want to talk to me. I handed in the feathers I found in the bushes. It said on the radio, you know, if you saw anything, so I went back and looked. I thought a cat had got a bird. They were brown and white big feathers. I really don’t know why you asked me in.’
Mackie was polite. ‘Colin, tell us what you saw on that day.’
‘It was a normal day, the park was busy.’
‘Did you see this girl?’ She held out the photo that Robertson had taken.
‘Well, that’s all over the papers that, isn’t it? But no, I’m not saying she wasn’t there. But I didn’t clock her. I must’ve seen her before.’
‘You must’ve been busy?’
‘Sunny days, especially on the holidays, we’ve to keep on top of the dirty nappies, dog crap, half-eaten burgers, all the shit of the day. Literally.’
‘And what day did you see the green van? You mentioned it to the desk sergeant when you handed in the feathers.’
‘Saturday. I keep a note, time and date. These incidents can often turn abusive. I was there from half two to half three. I had my own lunch sitting on a bench, then I went up to the top end of the park. This green van had reversed into the bushes. Wildlife rescue. They were picking up a bird that had been hurt; somebody had phoned in. Nobody tells me anything. I thought they had the radio on too loud. I told them to turn it off. I didn’t get close. Let me think; two blokes or two lassies in the bushes, wearing those baseball hats they wear at the birdy place. Later, when I heard what had happened, I got to thinking and I went back. Bloody feathers everywhere. I picked them up. I put them in a bag like they do on the telly and dropped them in here. That would be on the Sunday.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But that lassie’s young and fit, she’d have screamed blue bloody murder, so no, I think you’re wrong. I’d have heard her if she was there. It was Adele that was playing. From where I was, I could see they had a cat basket, and big gloves. They said sorry. The wee one turned the music off.’
‘Was the van marked?’
He shook his head. ‘Only the wee logo sticker on the door.’
‘Two women you said? Can you describe them?’
He nodded. ‘Aye, I’d say two women. A large one and a wee one. Baseball hats and sweatshirts. Green.’
‘Hair colour? Skin colour?’
‘Both white, Scottish accents. I think one had brown hair, the large one.’ He looked at Mackie. ‘I think. But maybe not.’
Caplan thanked him and told him they would be in touch.
Up in the incident room she grabbed Craigo. ‘Get Jacobs traced through the park. Timewise they were very close. Get a good description of the two people. Anything of them on CCTV? Ask him for an E-fit. Any good visuals of them while driving? And have a good look at him. He was right there and …’
‘Yes, ma’am, and there’s somebody to see you outside. A Mrs Elliot? Come over from Fort William.’ Craigo nodded like this was important.
‘Who the hell is she? Does that Stewart not know what a desk sergeant is supposed to do?’
‘It’s about Pottie, I think. This old dear is his Granny, believe it or not.’
Caplan made to stand up. ‘He had a Granny?’
‘Well, she’s very keen to talk to you.’
‘Tell Mackie to put her in the nice interview room. I’ll be there in five. Meanwhile, get hold of the security footage at the Lorn Hospice car park. Make sure Ghillies’s Lexus didn’t leave between two and five on Saturday.’
Craigo raised an eyebrow.
‘I know he wasn’t in the bushes in the park but I’d love something on the bastard. Where is the Granny?’
The old lady entered the interview room, grey hair spiked up with gel, several gold chains hanging round her neck and wrists, holding the arm of a younger woman. With the easy grace of a professional carer the younger woman helped Mrs Elliot to her seat. She smiled and they sat down. Mrs Elliot handed over a plastic bag with a jar of strawberry jam and a small Tupperware container.
‘Thank you for finding Andrew.’
‘You’re his grandmother?’
‘Yes, I am that.’ The wizened hand came out and shook hers, holding on for a long time, looking deep into Caplan’s eyes. ‘I don’t know much but I do know how to make a good scone. He was a good boy, our Andrew, when he wasn’t being a wee shit. He always kept in touch. And now look where we are. But at least I know.’
‘I’m sorry that it didn’t turn out better for you.’ She gave a grim smile.
‘I had always believed that wherever he was, he was in pain. We know that he is at peace now.’
The eyes crinkled then with a bright intelligence. ‘He would still be alive though if it wasn’t for them. It might not have been much of a life, but it didn’t allow them to take it from him.’
Caplan tried to stay calm. She smiled encouragingly.
‘It was that bloody woman, you know. It was when she met him it all went tits up. Then he went away.’ Her bony shoulders gave a shrug. ‘He was a wee survivor. He’d not have come to any harm if he’d never met her.’ The old lady nodded. Her hand reached out and patted the back of Caplan’s. ‘Enjoy the scones, pet.’
‘Thank you. You’ve come a long way. Why don’t you stay and have a cup of tea? I’ll get Mackie to put the kettle on and you can tell her about your grandson and this lady he met.’
The old lady’s hand gripped Caplan’s wrist. ‘She’d something to do with his disappearance, didn’t she? I’m not thick. He was a right wee tosser. Why bother with him? But she did. He didn’t have anything to offer, not even the brains he was born with, but she got him involved in something. It got him killed.’
‘You seem very sure of that.’
‘He was so … captivated. Would that be the right word? What she said, where she went, this woman.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘She was a volunteer. She did adult reading and stuff.’
‘Her name? Did he mention that?’
She shook her head and her gold earrings jangled against each other. ‘It was Maureen or Moira, he always just called her Mo. She talked a lot. Mo the Blow.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
Another shake of the head, another jingle of earrings.
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Better than that. I think I might have a picture on my phone.’
‘Right, what do we have?’ Caplan arrived in the incident room, her energy up. ‘I’ve had to leave Mackie getting the life story of young Mr Pottie. Bloody tragic right enough but he was okay until he met That Woman, Mo The Blow. Who is That Woman? Mackie has a picture on her phone and that’s being printed out right now. Mo is a big woman, she volunteered at the Loch Lomond Drop-in Centre from September to December 2019 then left, never came back. Pottie’s last seen was what? The 29th December? Was she one of the ladies in the bushes when Bethany was abducted? We’ll put the picture in front of Jacobs.’ Caplan sighed. ‘Then there was Mo at the Revolve, the ex-psych nurse, the one with the colourful dungarees. Mackie checked where she was on Saturday afternoon and guess what? She’s AWOL as well now. This feeds into the level of organisation I suspect. God knows how many Moes we might find if we had the money to look properly.’ She looked at the board. ‘And I need to say something about Rory Ghillies. He’s been in a relationship with Bethany Robertson for more than a year.’
She waited until that settled on the room.
‘He knows as well as we do that it propels him to the top of the list. He’s being watched. And he’s banned everybody from seeing Rachel, except him and the Vances. Anything from the bird sanctuary place?’
Craigo flicked through some papers, talking before he found the right one. ‘No call out for a raptor in trouble in any of the centres within a thirty-mile radius on Saturday.’ He picked up his pencil. ‘But the Heatherbank Raptor Rescue has a veterinary unit and reported that they’ve been having incidents of their drug supply, quote, “being manipulated”.’
‘Manipulated? What does that mean?’ Caplan turned to the board. ‘See if they recognise Pottie’s Mo. If she’s Raptor Mo in the bushes then we have a chain there. As the guy from the council said, a young fit woman doesn’t get abducted in broad daylight without making a racket, even if they were playing Adele to cover the sound. But she would be quiet if she had a bumful of what? Diazepam? Any benzodiazepine?’
‘Bupivacaine, benzocaine, midazolam and ketamine were the drugs Heatherbank mentioned. And, on the off chance, I asked who put the logos on their vans. They are just stickers, ma’am, they keep them in the office. Also, we’ve traced and got statements off the people who were out in the park when Bethany was. Some recall seeing her, one recalls the green van but thought it was the parkie’s, nobody recalls a struggle, a cry, a shout. Nobody saw anything basically.’
‘I think we might have discovered how the abductions can be so quiet. We have drugs, a falconer’s knot, falcon feathers. Our abductor must have some commonality between Heatherbank and Revolve. Or Heatherbank and the Ashdown Community Unit where Nik was. Same with the Lomond Drop-in Centre. Maybe fling the net more historically and add Hand to Hand, Blueberry Centre and the Gretal Rooms …’ Caplan stopped, looking at the board. ‘The PUPSs? The pickup points. The place where they, let’s call them the Moes, come into contact with their victims.’ She sighed. ‘But then what?’