Natural Causes (27 page)

49

She huddled against the door to his flat, curled up with her knees to her chest, her thin coat pulled around her to ward off the night-time chill. He thought she must have been sleeping, but as he approached she looked up and he recognised her face.

'Jenny? What are you doing here?'

Jenny Spiers stared through puffy eyes, red with crying. Her face was pale, her hair hanging down limply on either side, framing her misery. The tip of her nose shone bright as if she had been suffering with a cold for days.

'It's Chloe,' she said. 'She's gone.' And burst into tears.

McLean took the last couple of steps in one bound. He crouched down and took Jenny's hands.

'Hey, it's all right. We'll find her.' Then he realised he didn't know who was missing. 'Who's Chloe?'

It was probably the wrong thing to say. Jenny burst into even greater floods of tears.

'Look, come on Jen. Get up.' He pulled her to her feet, then unlocked the door and pushed it open, guiding her through into the kitchen and sinking her into a chair. All thoughts of bed and sleep gone, he filled the kettle and set it to boil, fetching out a couple of mugs and a jar of instant coffee.

'Tell me what's happened. Why did you come here?' He handed Jenny a roll of kitchen paper to replace the sodden handkerchief she had scrunched up into her fist.

'Chloe's gone. She should've been home by eleven. She's never late. Even if she's going to be on time she phones.'

'Back a bit, Jen. You'll have to remind me. Who's Chloe?'

Jenny looked up at him with incredulous eyes. 'My daughter. You know. You met her at the shop.'

McLean did a mental somersault. He remembered her, dressed as a nineteen-twenties flapper girl, complete with bob-cut hairstyle. Working the till whilst Jenny was out the back.

'I'm sorry, I didn't realise. We weren't introduced. To be honest, I didn't even know you were married.'

'I'm not. Chloe was... well, let's just say her father was a bit of a mistake. He had his way and that's the last we ever saw of him. But Chloe's a good girl, Tony. She wouldn't stay out late and if she was stuck somewhere she'd phone.'

McLean tried to take the new information in his stride. Concentrate on the problem. 'What time did she go out?'

'About half eight. She had tickets to see Bill Bailey at the Assembly Rooms. They're like gold dust you know. She was so excited.'

'And you say she should've been back at eleven.'

'That's right. I gave her taxi money. Didn't want her walking the streets at that time of night.'

'Did she go to the show alone?'

'No, she went with a couple of school friends. But they live on the other side of town.'

'And they're home, I take it.'

'I phoned and checked. They both got in at quarter to midnight.'

'How old is Chloe?' McLean tried to imagine the girl in the shop, but her exotic costume made it hard to put an age on her.

'Almost sixteen.' Old enough to be out on her own. Old enough to be pushing the barriers of what she could and couldn't do.

'You've contacted the police?'

Jenny nodded. 'They came round the house, filled in forms. I gave them a photo. They even searched the shop in case she was in there hiding.'

'That's good. It means they're following procedure.' McLean poured boiling water into the mugs, added milk. 'But you have to understand that this could be no more than teenage rebellion. She might just be staying out late for the hell of it.'

'But she never does.' Jenny's face flushed. She clenched her fists. 'She'd never do anything like that.'

'I believe you. I'll give the station a phone and see if anything's come up. You should be at home, Jen. Not here. What if she's come back and you're not there?'

A momentary flicker of doubt passed across Jenny's eyes, a haunted look. 'I left a note. On the kitchen table. But she hadn't come home by one. I had to do something.'

McLean realised that he didn't even know where Jenny Spiers lived. He hadn't known about her daughter; only really knew that she had a sister who was engaged to his best friend. If he was being honest, he didn't know all that much about Rachel either. He'd long since given up trying to remember all of his ex-flatmate's students. Only that she was the one who'd finally got the prize so many before her had failed to win. Quite why Jenny had chosen to come to him he had no idea.

'Do you live above the shop?'

Jenny nodded again, then sniffed and wiped her nose. McLean went through to the hall and dialled the station. It rang for a long time before the duty sergeant finally picked up.

'DI McLean here. You've had a report of a missing girl. Chloe Spiers?'

'Aye. I reckon so. Hang on a minute.' McLean could hear the rustling of paper in the background as the duty sergeant shuffled through the night logs. 'What's it to you?'

'Her mother's in my kitchen drinking coffee.'

'Lucky you, inspector. She's quite a looker if I remember right. Ah, here we are. reported at eleven fifty-eight. Nearest patrol attended the scene at twelve oh nine. Description's been sent out to all stations, details are on the computer. We'll be checking with the hospitals if she's not turned up by morning.'

'Well do me a favour will you, Tom? Put the call out again. And if you've got time to, call the hospitals now.'

'OK, sir. It's a quiet night at the moment. I'll see what I can do.'

'Thanks Tom. I owe you one.'

'Dinner, is it sir?'

McLean froze. 'You what?'

'I believe that's the going rate for a favour, isn't it? Or was Miss Baird a special case?'

'I... Who told you...?' McLean spluttered down the phone as the duty sergeant burst out laughing. 'How many people in the station know?'

'I'd say about all of them, sir. You did meet her at the front door, after all. And taking her to the Red Dragon? Bound to be one or two off-duty coppers in there most evenings, even if they're only picking up a carry-oot.'

McLean fumed as he hung up. Bloody policemen, they could give fishwives a run for their money when it came to gossip. Still, probably wouldn't do his reputation any harm.

'Have they found her?' Jenny's concerned voice brought his mind back to more pressing problems.

'No. I'm sorry. But the full procedure is underway.' McLean told her what the duty sergeant had promised to do. At the mention of hospitals she went very white.

'Could she really be?'

'I don't think so, Jen. They'd have contacted you by now if she was in any trouble. It's far more likely she hooked up with some other friends and went out on a bender. She'll be home in the morning feeling like shit and you can tear a strip off her then.'

But in his mind he knew he was only saying that to comfort her.

~~~~

50

He doesn't know how long he's been standing in this garden, staring up at the silent house. It was dark for a while, and now it is getting light maybe. How many days has he been like this? His mind stopped working properly a long time ago, and now all he can do is obey. The voices don't so much speak to him as direct his actions. He has no more control over his body than a puppet. But he can feel the pain all the more for being helpless to do anything about it.

The prey is in there, he knows. He can smell it, even if he's not sure what it is he can smell. There's leaf mould and warm dry earth; distant fumes of cars and the sweeter malty odour of the brewery. His stomach is a vat of acid, leaching through into his guts in waves of agony, but he stands and waits and watches.

Something rustles in the bushes, pushing through with growling malevolence. He looks down to see a dog, a Doberman with its ears cut into sharp points. It bares its teeth at him and utters a menacing snarl. The voices pull his lips apart and issue a hiss from the back of his throat. Startled, the dog yelps, its stubby tail tucked between its back legs. A splatter on the ground beneath it and the warm tang of piss fills the air.

One more sharp hiss and the dog breaks, crashing back into the bushes from where it has come, not even yelping anymore as it struggles to get away. He was always terrified of dogs, but the voices are made of sterner stuff.

His head pounds as if all the migraines in the world have come to live in it. His whole body feels swollen and distended, like those starved African children he used to see on the telly. Every joint in his body is red hot; cartilage ripped out and replaced with sandpaper. Still he stands, and watches.

More noise now. A bigger bulk pushing its way into the gloom of his hiding place. He turns slowly to greet the man; screaming inside at the pain of every small movement. The voices keep him silent.

'What're you doing here?' the man asks, but his words are a million miles away. The voices are shouting attack, and he must obey them.

He springs up, but his body is weak with starvation and a thousand terrible ailments. There is a knife in his hand; he cannot remember how he got it, neither a time when it wasn't clasped in his grip. It doesn't matter. Only attacking matters. And pain.

Something snaps, and he realises it is his arm. The man is big, far bigger than him, and built like those men he used to try not to stare at when he went to the gym. But the voices say he must attack him, and so that is what he does, reaching for eyes, clawing at skin.

'You wee shite. I'll fucking kill you.' The man is angry now, and the voices scream their joy. He strikes again, landing a blow that spurts blood from the man's nose. He feels a small moment of triumph through the agony of his wasted body.

And then it is his face being pounded. A hand like a giant claw has him round the throat, squeezing the life out of him. He is lifted off his feet, thrown. He hits the ground with a wet slap and everything goes black. The pain is everywhere, rushing in to claim him. Warm wet, with a taste of bubbling iron that fills his throat and mouth. He can't breathe anymore, can't see, can't feel. He can only hear the triumphant cackle of the voices as they leave him to die.

~~~~

51

Mandy Cowie looked like the sort of girl who didn't agree with mornings. McLean had little experience of teenagers, at least not the kind who didn't hang out in bus shelters drinking Buckfast and hurling abuse at anyone who came near. Mandy was cleaner than the foul-mouthed queenies who bred in the tower blocks in Trinity and Craigmillar, but she was just as sullen as she sat across the kitchen table from him, staring at a bowl of soggy corn flakes.

'You're not in any trouble, Mandy. Quite the opposite.' He guessed she was working on some genetically programmed inability to be helpful to the police. 'I'm not even here as a policeman. I'm here as a friend of Chloe's mum. She's worried sick that Chloe didn't come home last night. Have you any idea where she might have gone?'

Mandy shifted nervously in her seat. Had she been in an interview room, McLean would have read that as meaning she knew something but didn't want to say. Here, he could only guess.

'Did she have a boyfriend? Maybe they'd arranged to meet up.' He left the suggestion hanging in the silent air. Much to his irritation, Mandy's mum jumped into the gap.

'It's OK, hen. You can talk to the inspector. He's no goin' tae lock youse up.'

'Mrs Cowie, would it be possible to speak to your daughter alone for a minute?'

She looked at him as if he were daft. Then grabbed her mug of coffee, slopping brown liquid onto the kitchen table.

'Only a minute, mind. She's got work tae do.' And she shuffled out in her pink bunny slippers. McLean waited for a few moments after the door had closed, hearing a creak on the stairs. Mandy's eyes darted up to the ceiling, then back down to her uneaten cereal.

'Look, Mandy. I'll be straight with you. If there's anything you know that might help us find Chloe you can tell me. I won't say a word of it to your parents, I promise. This isn't about you, it's about Chloe. We need to find her. And the longer she stays missing, the less chance we have.'

The silence hung heavy in the air, spoiled only by the clumping noise upstairs as Mrs Cowie thumped around the bathroom. McLean tried to catch Mandy's eye, but she was fascinated by her cereal bowl. He was about to give up altogether when she finally spoke.

'You'll no' tell mam?'

'No, Mandy. You have my word. And I won't tell Chloe's mum either.'

'There was this guy, right. She met him on the internet.'

Oh Christ, here we go.

'He seemed... I dunno. OK. He was into the whole comedy thing, dead excited when Chloe told him about the tickets to see Bill Bailey. Said he was going to be at the show too. Only he never turned up, did he.'

'How were they supposed to meet?' McLean dredged his memory for the other girl's name. He'd be interviewing her next. 'Did he know you and Karen would be there too?'

'I don't know what Chloe told him. I don't think she gave him her phone number; she's no' that stupid you know. But she gets them wild outfits from her mam's shop an' she was wearing one last night. Maybe she told him tae look out for the nineteen-twenties chick. She'd no've bin hard tae spot.'

And easy to pick out on the street after the show. Walking home because it's not far, really, and the taxi money could go on something much more interesting.

'Did this boy have a name?'

'Yeah, he called himself Fergie. Don't know if that was his real name, though.'

'How long had he been... how long had Chloe been talking to him?' McLean didn't understand the way internet chat rooms worked.

'No' long. Couple days, maybe a week.'

Such a short time to trust a stranger. Had he been so foolish when he was that age? McLean had to admit that he probably had been. But before the internet, when it was all about screwing up your courage to go and talk to a girl you fancied, things had been a lot more innocent. Kids today were more sophisticated, it was true, but they were just as naive as they had ever been. And Fergie. The name instantly brought to mind McReadie, though there must have been thousands of Ferguses and Fergusons across the city. He needed to think straight, not jump to conclusions based on wild speculation.

'I need to know exactly what time you and Chloe split up last night, Mandy.' Only now did McLean pull out his notebook. 'Retrace your steps from the moment the show ended.'

*

Karen Beckwith told the same story, only it didn't take so much effort to get it out of her. McLean compared the two statements as he stood outside the Assembly Rooms on George Street, looking around at the daytime traffic and trying to imagine what it would have been like at eleven the night before. Around about then he and Emma had been sitting in the Guildford Arms, not five minutes walk away. Karen and Mandy had taken a cab home, walking with Chloe to the taxi rank in Castle Street. He followed their short route, looking up at the sides of the buildings and noting the positions of the security cameras. You couldn't do anything in the city centre without it being filmed by someone.

From the taxi rank, there was only one sensible way to walk back to the shop: along Princes Street, over North and South Bridges and on up Clerk Street. It shouldn't have taken more than half an hour, and there were cameras for a good deal of the way. He knew what time Chloe had last been seen. He knew what she had been wearing. Now it was just a matter of reviewing the CCTV footage, and judging by the number of cameras, that was going to take while.

*

'Something here sir. Want to have a look?'

McLean turned away from the flickering screens filled with blurred people jumping erratically along orange-tinted streets. DC MacBride sat at a nearby console, embarrassingly confident with the technology.

'What've you got?' He rolled his chair across the carpet tiles until he could see the other screen. MacBride twisted the control knob counter-clockwise, speeding the recording back to eleven fifteen.

'This is the taxi rank in Castle Street, sir.' He put the machine into normal speed play and pointed at the screen. Summertime and the Festival in full swing meant that the city centre streets were if anything busier than during the day. 'I think that's our three girls there.' He hit pause and pointed at three figures walking arm in arm. The one in the middle wore a straight-cut plaited skirt, sleeveless top and cloche hat. A familiar feather boa draped around her neck. Beside her, Karen and Mandy looked rather trashy in their tight jeans and T-shirts.

'That's her,' McLean said. 'Can we see where she goes?'

MacBride flicked the tape forward and they watched as the girls joined the queue at the taxi rank. Chloe waited until the other two had left, then set off down the hill towards Princes Street.

'We have to switch cameras here.' MacBride did something with the confusing array of buttons on the console and the picture changed to a different angle. Chloe walked along the street, alone and confident in her stride. They followed her through two more cameras, and then she stopped as a black car slid along the street beside her.

If he hadn't known better, he would have said it was a classic case of kerb crawling. Chloe bent down to the car window, obviously talking to whoever was driving. Her body language showed no sign of alarm, and after a couple of moments, she opened the door and got in. The car drove off in the direction of the North British Hotel.

'Can we enhance that picture? Get a number for that car?' McLean asked.

'Only in the movies. These aren't high resolution cameras and the lighting's atrocious. There should be a better angle from another camera, but it fused last night, apparently.'

'We might be able to track it. Black or dark blue BMW 3 Series. Does it turn up on any of the other cameras?'

MacBride clicked buttons, watching the car turn off Princes Street onto The Mound. It appeared briefly in one more camera shot, then nothing. 'Coverage isn't so good away from the main city hotspots. We can try a sweep of the other cameras, extrapolating the time. See if it shows up.'

'How long will that take?'

'I don't know sir. We could get lucky, or it could take all day.'

'OK. Make a start. See if you can't get a number from that image. Even a partial would help. Send it to Emma, she's good with photos.'

McLean froze as he spoke the words. She was good with photos. She'd sorted out the crime scene images from the house in Sighthill, revealing the strange patterns he'd seen on the floor. And before that, there'd been something else on her computer monitor. Thumbnails of photos. Had she just been processing them for archiving, or was there something more sinister going on? MB. Em B. Emma Baird.

'You all right sir? You look like someone's walked on your grave.' DC MacBride's pale, round face looked up at him in the semi-darkness of the video viewing room.

'I think I know who might have been posting those crime scene images to the net.'

But he hoped to Christ he was wrong.

~~~~