Candles and Roses
Authors: Alex Walters
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Police Procedurals, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Kidnapping, #Serial Killers, #Thrillers
Table of Contents
Candles and Roses
Alex Walters
Copyright © 2016 Alex Walters
The right of Alex Walters to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2016 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
http://www.bloodhoundbooks.com/
To Helen – for everything.
CHAPTER ONE
It was starting to rain and she was feeling well and truly pissed off.
Where the bloody hell was the cab?
She should have waited inside. She could always have locked up the bar herself if Josh was so keen to get off. But she knew Josh wasn’t comfortable leaving her with the keys. It wasn’t that he doubted her honesty, or so he said. It was just that the owners had given him the responsibility and—well, you know. Yeah, she knew. Josh was the manager and he wanted everyone to be clear about that. Well, fair enough. If anything went wrong, it would be Josh’s arse on the line and not hers.
So she’d agreed to wait out here so Josh could bugger off home. And she hadn’t realised that her phone was out of battery. Now she was locked out on the street with a dead phone and no sign of the sodding taxi she’d ordered. A perfect end to a perfect bloody day.
She didn’t even know for sure what time it was. Long after midnight now, obviously. She’d called from the bar before leaving and been told the car was ten minutes away, max. How long ago had that been? A lot more than ten minutes, anyway.
The road was almost deserted at this time of the night and she peered hopefully at every passing car. There were several cabs, but no sign of the familiar logo of the company she always used when she was working the late shift. Christ, she ought to be a favoured customer by now, not just another punter to leave standing in the pouring rain.
She contemplated walking home, but it was nearly a mile and the rain was coming harder. In any case, the reason she always booked a taxi was because she hated walking home at this time of night. Unless she took a lengthy detour, the route took her through a largely unlit stretch of parkland. She’d heard from one of the other girls that, a year or two before, there’d been a spate of sexual assaults in the area. She didn’t know how much truth there was in that but it was enough to make her cautious. She’d decided early on that, if she was working late, she could justify the expense of a taxi home, even though it would eat into her already small earnings.
That was, of course, as long as the bloody taxi turned up.
For the moment, at least, she was dry, sheltered under the bar’s garish front awning. But it was bloody cold. This was supposed to be the start of summer but after a few misleadingly bright days in early May they’d had nothing but grey skies and rain for weeks. She’d caught the TV weather forecast that morning. Back up north, in the place that, even after everything that had happened, she still somehow thought of as home, they were having some of their best early summer weather in years. Wasn’t that just bloody typical?
She was still deciding whether to cut her losses and risk the walk when a car pulled up at the kerbside. For a moment, she thought it was the taxi but there was no logo. In any case, she realised now, it was just some superficially tarted-up junk-heap. Kids.
The driver’s window wound down and a pimply face peered out. ‘How much, love?’ She could hear raucous laughter from the rear of the car. Drunken kids.
‘Oh, just fuck off,’ she said.
‘Whatever you’re charging, love, it’s not worth it.’ The youth guffawed at his own wit and then slammed down the accelerator and pulled back out into the road, tyres spinning on the wet surface.
That was enough to decide her.
She had no umbrella but she turned up the collar of her thin coat and stepped outside into the rain. She’d be soaked by the time she got home. Even so, it felt better than being jeered at on the street by some spotty-faced idiot teenager.
She’d walked less than fifty metres when she saw another vehicle approaching. She squinted at it, the rain dripping from her hair, hoping it might finally be the cab. But it was only a small unmarked van. It passed and then, seconds later, she heard it pull into the kerb behind her. A voice called: ‘Katy?’
She turned, baffled. The van’s passenger door was half open and a figure was peering out, leaning over from the driver’s seat. ‘It is you, isn’t it? Katy? Katy Scott?’
She was even more confused now. How had the driver known her name? She took a step or two nearer to the van, trying to recognise the figure looking back at her.
‘Jesus, Katy, I thought I was seeing things. What are the odds? After all these years.’
She knew now, though it didn’t make it any easier to believe. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘What you doing in these parts?’
‘Ach, you know. Work things. Usual story. What about you?’
She gestured back towards the bar. ‘I work in there. Just heading home. Ordered a taxi but the bastard never turned up.’
‘You can’t walk home in the rain. Let me give you a lift.’
‘You’re going the other way,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t—’
‘It can’t be far if you were going to walk it. I’d never forgive myself if I left you standing in the rain at this time of night. Anyway, we can have a blether for a few minutes. Catch up. We can maybe arrange to meet up properly sometime. I’m down here plenty.’
‘Well, if you’re sure—’ She was already walking towards the van, cheered by this unexpected late-night miracle.
She pulled open the passenger door and climbed inside. Almost immediately, she felt she’d made a mistake, though she couldn’t have said why. ‘Look, I don’t know—’
It was too late. Even as she clawed frantically at the car door, a hand was clamped firmly across her mouth, the full weight of the driver’s body pressing her back into the seat. Something wet was being pressed between her lips, and the stench was unbearable, acrid and burning in her throat. Her skin felt as if it had been doused in acid.
Her first thought, even as the hand pressed tighter across her mouth, was that she was going to vomit. Her second was that she was going to die.
And then there was just darkness and nothing. And no time for any further thoughts.
CHAPTER TWO
No-one had ever called DI Alec McKay a sentimental man. But even now, a year on, he remained troubled by the case, and not only because it had never been formally closed.
Occasionally, in a rare quiet hour, he dug out the file and thumbed aimlessly through the thin sheaf of documents, as if hoping to spot some lead, some connection that had eluded them at the time. There was nothing, of course. He’d end up staring blankly at that scanned image, the gaunt face, the pale blue eyes staring smilingly into the camera, the corona of blonde hair caught by the sun, a carefree moment snatched out of time. Lizzie Hamilton.
On the face of it, just another missing person. They couldn’t even be certain that a crime had necessarily been committed. It was possible, but it was equally possible she’d just chosen to escape, to re-boot her life in another place, with new friends, new surroundings. McKay found that almost the more disturbing possibility.
She’d vanished at the end of June, midsummer. And last year for once they’d actually had something of a summer, three or four weeks of half-decent weather. Unclouded skies translucent through the long light evenings, the temperatures high by local standards, the sea a deep blue along the Moray Firth.
Nobody had missed her for a couple of days, which told its own story. She’d worked three or four evenings a week in a bar up in the Black Isle, did some cleaning and housekeeping for the holiday lets around Fortrose and Rosemarkie. She was friendly with the regulars in the bar, but no-one knew much about her. It had been Denny Gorman, the pub landlord, who’d contacted the police. He’d been the only person who expressed any interest in her private life, and McKay had assumed that was just because Gorman had secretly had the hots for her.
It was another couple of weeks before they finally registered her as a misper. McKay had insisted on being there when they gained entry to her rented bungalow, having secured a spare key from the landlord’s agent. He’d been tense beforehand, not knowing what to expect. He’d had more than one experience of walking into the stench of death in some lonely bedsit, a decomposing body in a bed or on the floor.
But the bungalow seemed in good order, as if Hamilton had tidied the place before leaving. It was sparsely furnished, with only a few signs of a personal touch, but there was no indication of any disturbance or anything missing. There was milk and food left in the fridge, clothes in the wardrobes, a half-read chick-lit novel splayed on the table in the sitting room. If Lizzie Hamilton had done a runner, she’d left most of her current life behind.
They tracked down her widowed father living in Inverness, but she had no siblings or other close relatives. McKay had driven over himself to visit the father. For no particular reason, he’d expected someone frail and elderly. But the father, one John Robbins, was a well-built man in his mid-fifties who looked as if he worked out. He was living in a decent Edwardian semi on the south side of the city and gave the impression that he’d made a bob or two, one way or another. He greeted McKay on the doorstep, showing no intention of inviting him inside. He was wearing tight black jeans and tee-shirt that no doubt had designer labels inside and which seemed intended to show off his toned physique. He was bearded, his greying hair caught back in a short ponytail. Some sort of wheeler-dealer, McKay thought dismissively, too keen to hang on to his receding youth.
‘Police?’ Robbins said, unimpressed, when McKay had brandished his warrant card. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘Your daughter, Mr Robbins. We’re trying to track her down.’ In other circumstances, McKay might have been tempted to insist on going inside, but he’d already formed the view that Robbins would have little or nothing to tell him. ‘She seems to have gone missing.’
‘That one went missing ten years back,’ Robbins said. ‘Not seen her since.’
‘You’ve no knowledge of her whereabouts?’
‘God knows. Dundee? Aberdeen? Back in Glasgow. You tell me.’ Robbins took a breath. ‘On second thoughts, don’t bother.’
‘You weren’t on good terms with your daughter, Mr Robbins?’
‘I can see why you’re a detective.’
‘Any particular reason for the bad blood?’
‘Every reason. She was trouble. Took advantage every chance she had. Walked off with half my worldly goods. What more do you want?’
‘She was your daughter, Mr Robbins.’
‘So they say.’
He got nothing more from Robbins. But it seemed Lizzie Hamilton had made a habit of disappearing. She’d walked out on her father—taking his wallet and various items with her, as he’d said—and headed down to Glasgow with her then boyfriend, Kenny Hamilton. They’d married within weeks and split up acrimoniously a couple of months later. Again, she’d walked out without a word and Kenny Hamilton reckoned he hadn’t seen her since. He’d no idea what had happened to her, and no-one seemed to know what she’d been doing or where she’d been living till she’d arrived back up in the Highlands three or four years later. If he’d put the effort in, McKay might have been able to trace her movements over that period, but resources were scarce and, whatever McKay’s own feelings, the case had never been the highest priority.