On A Dark Sea (The DCI Dani Bevan Detective Novels Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter Seven

T
he Hutchisons’ house was situated in the centre of a quiet estate in Falkirk. Joy Hutchison was already in the kitchen preparing their porridge when Bill came striding in to join her.

              ‘You’ve just missed DCI Bevan being interviewed on the radio. They’ve still not found that young girl,’ Joy immediately informed her husband.

              ‘The poor mother,’ he muttered solemnly, taking a seat at the table and pouring a cup of tea from the pot.

              ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Joy said, as she stirred the oats and water vigorously. ‘The woman looked fairly composed during the press conference. Perhaps she wasn’t getting on very well with her daughter before the girl left. You know what teenagers can be like. Most ordinary people aren’t actors. It’s very difficult to appear upset about something when you’re actually not bothered at all.’

              Bill ruffled the morning paper. ‘Some folk just don’t come across well on camera. They clam up or become positively robotic. I’m sure we shouldn’t read too much into it.’

              Joy didn’t reply. Instead, she leant down and rummaged in a cupboard, retrieving a couple of bowls and placing them on the worktop next to the stove. ‘What are you planning to do today?’ She suddenly asked, turning off the light as the mixture turned thick and creamy.

              ‘I thought I might take Rita for a run to the coast. I’ve been promising to take her out for weeks.’ Bill kept his eyes trained on the news section.

              Joy spun around, with the porridge coated spatula still held in her hand. ‘But I’ve got a hair appointment this afternoon. I won’t be able to come with you.’

              ‘That’s okay, I don’t mind going on my own. You have a day to yourself.’

              Joy paused, thinking she could take a shopping trip into Stirling. ‘Alright. But don’t wander too far afield, will you? Rita does get tired easily.’

              ‘No, of course not.’ Bill shook out the broadsheet forcefully, causing a teaspoon to tinkle against his saucer. ‘We’ll just go far enough to catch ourselves a bit of sea air.’

Rita McCulloch lived in a large house on the corner opposite the Hutchisons’ place. Bill had always found her good company. Rita gave up her little car a couple of years before, when she no longer felt confident behind the wheel. But she missed the freedom to travel that it used to provide.

              Bill told Rita to dress warmly for their trip. The pensioner had a fake fur hat and scarf with her, as well as her thick sheepskin coat when he arrived to pick her up. Bill helped the older lady climb into the passenger seat.

              As they manoeuvred slowly out of the estate, he enquired if she would mind them having a slightly longer drive today, as he had a hankering to travel up the east coast.

              ‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ Rita replied with sincerity. ‘I’d really like to visit somewhere new.’

              ‘Good,’ Bill said with satisfaction. ‘Then just sit back and enjoy the journey.’

It took them just over two hours to reach Stonehaven. Bill stopped so they could have a coffee at a service station on the A90 when they were about halfway there. Rita smiled brightly as she finally caught sight of the grey-green waters of the North Sea.

              They took a stroll around the harbour. Bill made sure that his companion was wrapped up warm. Rita was particularly impressed by the unusual rocky outcrop at the headland which supported the ruins of Dunnottar Castle. Bill asked if Rita would like to visit the Stonehaven Tollbooth, which had served as an early prison for the town and now housed a museum. The lady quickly agreed, knowing it would provide some shelter from the biting north-easterly wind.

              After purchasing Rita her entry ticket, he informed his neighbour that he would come back and meet her again in thirty minutes, as he had a brief errand to run. Rita nodded her head graciously, giving Bill a broad smile. ‘Of course,’ she said.

              Bill knew exactly what he was looking for. He strode purposefully along the seafront, pausing when he reached a small boat yard. The main entrance had been sealed off with a police cordon. A number of sailing boats were moored along the shoreline here and some of the vessels were supported on wooden struts in the yard itself. There were two worksheds, one of which was also secured firmly with blue and white tape. A uniformed policeman stood guard at the entrance.

              ‘Oh dear,’ Bill announced to the constable. ‘I was hoping to be able to retrieve something from my daughter’s boat. Are we not permitted to enter the yard at all?’

              The PC shook his head. ‘Not until all the forensic tests have been completed. Is it something urgent? I could always have a word with my boss, he’ll probably let me go in and get it for you.’ The young man reached for his walkie-talkie.

              ‘No, no, it’s nothing to bother your superior officer about,’ Bill swiftly added. ‘Do you have any idea when your inquiries may be over? My daughter and her husband were planning to take their boat on a trip in a couple of days from now.’

              The policeman made a face. ‘I’d tell them to make alternative plans if I were you. We’re a long way off solving this one.’

              ‘The man who was murdered, he was a local, is that right?’

              ‘Terence Sinclair. He lived in a cottage just a few streets back. He’d been working at the boat yard these past couple of years, doing odd jobs and maintenance. It couldn’t have made him much of a living.’

              ‘Have any witnesses come forward?’

              ‘The incident happened late in the evening, on a very inclement night. Sadly, there were very few folk out and about.’ The constable sighed deeply. ‘None of us can really understand why anyone would want to kill Terry Sinclair. The man was a loner, had very little money, no family to speak of. It’s a strange case.’

              ‘Aye, that’s certainly true,’ Bill commented amiably and took his leave. He tried to follow the direction that the policeman had indicated Sinclair’s cottage lay in. After walking up and down a few back streets, the property turned out to be easy to locate. Again, the front door was conspicuously taped. Checking there was nobody around, Bill peered through the front window. The sitting room was messy and cramped. He tried the side gate and found it open. Bill slipped inside and walked down the side of the filthy white-washed building to the rear of the property.

              The kitchen was housed in a small extension. Bill tried the door but it was locked. He squinted through the window and discovered he could get a good view inside. Dirty plates and dishes were piled up in the sink. There was a cork board fixed to the wall next to the fridge. Bill edged closer and took a pencil and notebook out of his jacket pocket. There was a calendar with pictures of fishing boats on it pinned to the board, along with some dog-eared business cards. Bill jotted down every piece of information he could see, however trivial it seemed.

              Suddenly, he heard the external door of the neighbouring cottage being opened. Bill crept back along the passageway, gently pulling the gate closed behind him, before casually setting off down the quaint little street, heading towards the harbour for his rendezvous with Rita at the museum.

Chapter Eight

T
he road where the Riddells lived had been long since gentrified. Most of the post-war housing boasted re-pointed brickwork. Every other residence possessed a loft conversion. DCs Andy Calder and Alice Mann approached the property which lay to the right of Fiona and Maisie’s mid-terrace house. The occupants of the entire street had been questioned in the hours following the girl’s disappearance but the DCI wanted them to speak again with the lad next door, whom Fiona had suggested was a friend of Maisie’s.

              A plump woman in her late forties answered. She led the two officers into the hallway and called upstairs to her son. Whilst they waited for Alex Ritchie to join them, his mother said in a lowered voice. ‘You know that Alex isn’t like other kids? I’ve never managed to get a proper diagnosis, mind you. But the school knows all about his condition. Just ask Mrs Boag.’

              ‘You are entitled to be present for the entire interview, Mrs Ritchie,’ Andy said.

              She nodded, crossing her arms defensively. ‘Don’t worry, I certainly intend to be.’

              Alex Ritchie was a big, solidly built lad. Andy estimated the boy was pushing six foot tall. He told them he was 16 years old and currently in Year 11 at Newton High School. Calder observed the young man closely. He could kind of tell what Mrs Ritchie meant. Alex was extremely fidgety. It took him a fraction of a second longer to answer a question than might normally be expected. However, both of these characteristics could also indicate a witness who was nervous; meaning he was either feeling guilty, lying, or both. Just because his mother told them Alex had special needs, it didn’t mean Calder was prepared to rule out the latter possibility.

              ‘Alex, could you please tell us again when you last saw Maisie Riddell.’

              The boy’s eyes darted back and forth. ‘It was at school on Tuesday. I passed her in the playground. We said hello.’

              ‘And you didn’t see her at all on the Wednesday she went missing - not even during break time in the morning?’ It was Alice Mann who posed this question.

              Alex shook his head vigorously. ‘No, I swear.’

              ‘How would you describe your relationship with Maisie?’

              ‘We weren’t having a relationship!’ The boy looked deeply alarmed.

              ‘I just meant how good friends were you? How often did you speak with each other, did she confide in you, that sort of thing.’

              Alex appeared to catch her drift. ‘We listened to the same type of music. There’s a band we both like called the Storm. We’d perform their stuff together sometimes.’

              Alice turned towards Mrs Ritchie for clarification.

              ‘Alex plays the acoustic guitar. It’s the one thing he’s really good at. Maisie sings. They used to perform cover versions of their favourite tracks. I wouldn’t say they’ve done it quite so much in recent months but when they were younger they’d get together at least once a week,’ the woman explained.

              Alice glanced back at Alex. ‘Why hadn’t you and Maisie met up so much recently - had you fallen out?’

              A look of pure misery passed across his face. ‘She just didn’t want to do it anymore. Maisie always claimed she was busy with homework and stuff. Mum said she’d just grown out of it.’

              ‘But you still talked to one another,’ Andy put in.

              ‘Oh yeah, we walked home from school together a lot. If I didn’t have orchestra practice that was. We never planned to meet, but we were going the same way so it was bound to happen really, wasn’t it?’

              ‘Fiona doesn’t get in until half past five most nights. Occasionally, Maisie would come in here with Alex and I’d fix them both a drink and a snack. She was always home well before her mum got back from work so I’m not sure she knew. I think Fiona would have felt awkward if she had, so I never mentioned it.’ Mrs Ritchie seemed finally to have warmed up. She offered the detectives a coffee.

              ‘No thank you,’ Andy swiftly responded. ‘Why do you think Fiona would have reacted badly to Maisie spending time at your house?’

              ‘Well, it makes her look bad, doesn’t it? I know the girl’s fourteen but she still appreciated having some company when she got home from school.’ Mrs Ritchie looked indignant.

              ‘It sounds like you knew Maisie quite well. Did she mention anything to either of you about wanting to leave home?’

              Mrs Riddell shook her head. ‘No. She and her mum had their ups and downs. The walls between these houses are pretty thin. They had their arguments, but then so do we. Our children are teenagers. That’s the way it goes. Fiona didn’t have anyone at home to back her up or take the pressure off. It must be tough for her. But Maisie never said a word about leaving.’

              Andy looked at Alex.

              ‘No, Maisie didn’t say anything to me either. I like Mrs Riddell. She’s always really nice.’

              ‘Okay, thank you both for your time. If Maisie does try to get in touch, please let us know straight away.’ Andy handed Mrs Ritchie his card.

DCI Bevan was leading a briefing from Phil Boag’s desk on the open-plan office floor of the Serious Crime Division.

              ‘It can’t be possible that Maisie Riddell simply vanished into thin air. Someone must have spotted her after she left the school gates. It is very unusual in the case of a runaway teenager to not find any footage of her getting onto a bus or a train. If she’s still in the Glasgow area, then there must be a person out there who is sheltering her.’

              ‘Or keeping her against her will,’ Phil chipped in.               ‘Or she never made it out of the city because she’s dead, Ma’am,’ Alice Mann suggested.

              Bevan nodded her head slowly. ‘We can’t rule out any of these scenarios. What about the boy next door, did he have anything new to add?’

              Calder stepped forward. ‘The boy knew Maisie a lot better than Fiona Riddell realised.’

              Dani raised her eyebrows.

              ‘I’m fairly sure it wasn’t anything sexual. The pair played music together and hung out in his house after school. Mrs Ritchie was present most of the time. She claims she always checked on them regularly so nothing untoward went on. I don’t reckon the boy would have been Maisie’s type anyway. He’s got learning difficulties and seems innocent in many ways.’

              ‘But he’s a big lad, Ma’am,’ Alice interrupted. ‘I’d say he’s sexually mature but doesn’t have the emotional maturity to go with it.’

              Dani thought carefully about this. ‘Could Alex Ritchie have physically overpowered Maisie?’

              ‘Without a doubt,’ Alice said resolutely. ‘He’s at least six foot tall.’

              ‘But the boy’s gentle with it,’ Andy added through gritted teeth, trying not to let his rising frustration show. ‘He’s a musical type, a member of the school orchestra and quite childlike. I can’t imagine him becoming violent.’

              ‘I could get Jane to give us a copy of the boy’s file. That should provide a better picture of what the lad is capable of,’ Phil suggested.

              ‘Good idea, Phil. Could you arrange that for us?’ Bevan asked.

              Andy tossed his pen down onto the desk, where it landed with a loud clatter. ‘I hope we aren’t going to waste too much time on this line of inquiry Ma’am. I thought we’d moved on a bit as a force from fitting up the big lad next door with learning difficulties.’

              Dani took a breath. She could sense the officers present waiting on tenterhooks to see what she would do next. ‘Andy, could I have a word with you in my office please,’ was all the DCI could say.