Candles and Roses (25 page)

‘His office was plastered with certificates from the University of Whatever and the National Association of Please Yourself,’ McKay said. ‘I was quite intimidated. I was peering at one or two. As far as I can recall, they were all in the name of Jack Robinson. But most of them probably weren’t worth the paper they were printed on.’

‘But we’ve still got nothing on him,’ Grant emphasised.

‘You don’t reckon we’ve enough for a warrant?’

‘Christ, Alec, what do you think? This guy’s bound to be an upstanding pillar of the community. No-one’s going to grant us a search warrant on the grounds that he sometimes visits Manchester.’

‘Aye, I know. And even if they did, he’d be too smart to leave anything incriminating about,’ McKay agreed. ‘I suppose we might find traces of DNA in whatever vehicle was used to move the bodies.’

‘Assuming we can track down the vehicle that was used. We can check what vehicles are registered to him, and we can use the ANPR network to track the movement of those vehicles around the relevant times. But at best that’ll only provide more circumstantial evidence.’ Grant shook her head. ‘I’ve every faith in your gut, Alec, but I can’t justify any more direct investigation till we’ve something more.’

‘If you say so,’ McKay gloomily. ‘All we can do is keep chipping away at the detail. Try to find out if the victims did have any contact with Robinson or Robbins or whatever the hell he calls himself. Do some more digging into Robbins himself. I suppose we can get access to his mobile phone records?’

‘As long as you follow RIPA like a good boy,’ Grant said. ‘And assuming you can get his number.’

‘Jesus,’ McKay said. ‘And in the meantime, if he is our man, he could be off and doing it again.’

‘We can try to keep an eye on him,’ Grant offered. ‘The ANPR network could help us there, particularly if he heads south. But it’s still going to be difficult to justify too much resource without stronger grounds.’

‘Catch fucking 22,’ McKay said, succinctly.

Grant pushed herself to her feet. ‘That’s the way it is, Alec. You know that as well as I do. And, Alec—’

‘Aye?’ he said, wearily.

‘Don’t get too hung up on Robbins, will you? Like I say, I’m happy to trust your instincts. Up to a point. But I know—and you know—how easy it is to fixate on a suspect because they’re the only one you’ve got in the frame. Keep an open mind, eh?’

‘Aye, and you also think I’m fixating on Robbins because of my supposed obsession with the Lizzie Hamilton case.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘It’s what you think. And you probably also think I’m fixating on Robbins because I’m uncomfortable with some semi-qualified shrink sticking his nose into my innermost thoughts.’

‘That’s not—’

‘Well, you’d be right about that one,’ McKay said. ‘I’ll tell you this much. Whatever Robbins might or might not have done, there’s no fucking way I’m letting him anywhere near my fucking head again.’

***

McKay called it a day around six, early by his standards. Normally, when he was engaged on a major investigation, he found that the adrenaline was enough to keep him going even when they seemed to be getting nowhere. Tonight, he just felt weary of the whole thing.

He’d been depressed by the meeting with Gorman, that creepy fucking slimeball. Like Horton, he didn’t have much doubt that Gorman had drugged and raped Lizzie Hamilton, but it was hard to see how they’d ever have enough evidence to mount a prosecution, even supposing Hamilton ever reappeared, alive or dead. There wasn’t really even much point in pursuing Kelly Armstrong’s complaint. They might be able to give Gorman a caution, which at least would sit on his record, but otherwise it would go nowhere. On top of that, there were all those poor lasses, who’d spent their young lives being abused, drifting from place to place, rootless and abandoned. Mourned in the end, it seemed, by no-one except their killer.

It was at times like this that McKay felt most impotent. People joined the force for numerous reasons, not all of them wholly honourable. McKay couldn’t even remember what had prompted him to apply in the first place. Probably not much more than the lack of other opportunities in the early 1990s recession. Most people he’d known at uni had ended up in boring if lucrative office jobs in insurance or banking. A few more socially committed types had ended up in local or national government, one or two even contributing to the seemingly inexhaustible supply of Scottish politicians. The odd loudmouth had ended up in the media. None of that had appealed to McKay even if that type of employer would have given him houseroom. So he’d ended up here, chasing the bad guys, though these days the chase was largely one of paperwork and bureaucracy. He’d never seen it as a moral calling, but there was some satisfaction when it went right—when you managed to do your bit to make the world a safer or cleaner place.

But all too often the whole thing felt like a waste of time. You lifted up the stone, but could do bugger all about the lowlifes squirming away beneath. What you did, too often, was walk away, shrug your shoulders, and put it behind you until the next time. You couldn’t let it get to you. That way lay madness or, worse still, noble corruption. Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.

As for the killings themselves, Christ knew what to think. McKay’s instincts told him Lizzie Hamilton had some part in the story, but there were no real grounds for believing that, except her life had echoed those of the other victims. They had nothing on Robbins except that he loosely fitted the likely profile of their killer. No doubt the same could be said of dozens of men across the city.

The only thing McKay was sure of, as he’d told Helena Grant, was that he wanted no more dealings with Robbins as a therapist. A more cynical part of his mind had suggested he should continue with the sessions, observe Robbins at close quarters, gain some insights into the way the man thought or behaved. But that idea left McKay feeling queasy for countless reasons. Apart from anything else, it would be unfair on Chrissie. If he was going to do this counselling thing, he needed to do it properly. Not play a game because of half-baked suspicions he harboured against Robbins.

It didn’t really matter, in this respect, whether he was right or wrong about Robbins. If he was right—well, Christ, that didn’t bear thinking about. But even if he was wrong, he’d never be able to look at Robbins dispassionately. He’d wonder about Robbins’s relationship with his daughter. He’d wonder to what extent Lizzie Hamilton really did fit the pattern of the other victims.

And, of course, he’d wonder about his own motives. He knew his colleagues—some of them at any rate—thought he’d allowed himself to become too obsessed by the Hamilton case. Maybe they were right. He’d never denied that he’d been affected by the physical and other similarities between Hamilton and his own daughter. McKay was smart enough to recognise that he might be wanting to accuse Robbins of his daughter’s death as an alternative to blaming himself for allowing his own Lizzie to die. It was cheap psychology—probably exactly the kind of psychology that Robbins traded in—but that didn’t necessarily make it wrong.

The hallway felt colder than usual when he entered the house, and for a moment he wondered whether Chrissie might not be there. But she was in her usual place in the sitting room, slumped in front of the TV, a half-empty glass of wine on the floor. The TV was showing some afternoon game show, but the sound was off, brightly coloured figures swirling across the screen like virtual goldfish.

‘You’re early,’ she observed.

‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘A bit.’

‘But then you went out early.’

‘Aye. We’ve a lot on. You know—’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I know.’

He sat himself down opposite her. ‘We should have a talk about last night. The session.’

‘Is there any point?’

‘I thought—’

‘What did you think? You were barely there. Wandering round the room. Looking at anything but me. Never answering a straight question.’

Was that how it had been? It wasn’t the way McKay had remembered it. He remembered being painfully honest. Much more honest than he’d wanted to be. But maybe, it seemed, not honest enough. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Isn’t it? That’s the way it felt to me. That it was all just a fucking game to you. Something to placate the little woman. I could see that was what Dr Robinson thought.’

‘He’s not a fucking doctor,’ McKay snapped. ‘He’s a fucking quack, playing with our heads.’ He’d spoken without thinking, but as he said it the words felt more accurate than he’d realised. He’d felt bamboozled by the session with Robbins, as if the man had been systematically unpicking what he thought and knew. At the end of the session he’d felt momentarily exhilarated, as if he’d been granted a new freedom. But within minutes he’d felt—what? As if whatever had sustained him and Chrissie all these years had been stripped away, leaving nothing for them to cling on to.

‘That’s just bloody typical of you,’ Chrissie said now. ‘As soon as someone gets too close, as soon as they delve too deeply into that thick head of yours, you want nothing to do with them. He’s a professional, for Christ’s sake. This is what he does.’

‘What he does is destroy people,’ McKay said. ‘Creates a dependency. He’s like a bloody dealer.’ Was this right, he wondered. Was that what Robbins had done with those young women? Played on their vulnerability. Taken advantage of them. Taken young people who were already at the bottom and dragged them lower still.

‘God, you’re always a fucking cop, aren’t you?’ Chrissie said. ‘Always assuming the worst. You can’t believe that anyone just wants to help, can you?’

Of course I can, he wanted to say. Lots of people want to help. Lots of people are good, decent, kind. But not Robbins. Robbins is a manipulative evil bastard. Robbins may even be a killer.

He didn’t even know whether any of that was true. Maybe Chrissie was right. Perhaps this was just about his own insecurities, his own anxieties. Perhaps this was just him transferring his own fucked-up reality on to an innocent man. Who knew? Who the fuck knew anything?

‘Look, I want to do this,’ he said, finally. ‘I want to make this work. I’ll do whatever it takes. But not with Robinson.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s how it always is with you, isn’t it? You’ll do whatever it takes, except the thing in front of you. There’s always some excuse. Some reason to put it off until the next time.’

‘That’s not how it is.’ He was conscious of how feeble he sounded.

‘Then how is it?’

‘It’s—’ He stopped, feeling there was nothing useful he could say. ‘I’ve got concerns about Robinson,’ he said, finally. ‘Professional concerns.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Chrissie said. ‘It always comes back down to that. You’re a cop. Different rules apply. There are things you couldn’t possibly share with me.’

‘That’s not how it is,’ he repeated, knowing that the argument—and perhaps much more than the argument—was already lost.

‘Oh just fuck off, Alec. Just fuck right out of my life.’

He stared at her for a moment, and then turned and left the room, making a point of not slamming the door behind him. After another second’s hesitation, he opened the front door and stepped back out into the chilly damp evening.

He hadn’t really intended to leave. Not then, at any rate, and not like that. He’d needed a breath of air, a chance to settle his thoughts. They’d reached this point before, or something close to this point. He didn’t know whether this time was different. And he didn’t know, if so, whether any of this really was Robbins’s fault.

Now he was out here, though, he realised he didn’t want to go back. There was no point. There was nothing else for them to say. Maybe that would change. But at the moment it didn’t feel likely.

He had nowhere else to go, so he climbed into the car and sat there, watching the drops of rain drifting slowly down the windscreen. Still feeling at a loss, he turned on the ignition and backed the car slowly out into the road.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Robbins’s house looked no different from the last time McKay had been here, a year before. It was a solid respectable semi, probably built around the turn of the last century when the city had still been a thriving port. Not an inexpensive property, McKay guessed, by local standards.

The rain was still falling, not heavy but persistent, though McKay felt oblivious to the damp on his hands and face. He pressed the bell.

A moment passed before the door was opened. It occurred to McKay now that he had no idea of Robbins’s domestic circumstances, whether there was likely to be anyone else in the house. It didn’t matter, he reminded himself. He was here on official business.

In the event, it was Robbins himself who answered the door. McKay caught the momentary look of surprise in the man’s eyes before his face rearranged itself into the familiar professional mask. ‘Mr McKay? I’m sorry, but I don’t do consultations without an appointment. And when I’m dealing with couples, I make a point of not seeing either partner alone except at my instigation.’ Taking control of the situation, McKay thought. They must teach you that at therapy school.

McKay held out his warrant card. ‘Actually, I’m here on official business, Mr Robinson.’

Robbins looked at the card then back up at McKay’s face. ‘Ah. I was right then.’

‘Were you?’

‘Yesterday, when you said you thought we’d met before. I thought so too, but I couldn’t place you. Then it came to me. You were here last year. About Elizabeth.’

‘Well remembered.’ McKay wondered when it was that Robbins had made the connection. Had it been during the session itself? Had he been aware of McKay’s identity and occupation while leading the two of them through that process of self-questioning? ‘Are you able to spare me a few minutes, Mr—?’ He stopped. ‘Should I call you Robbins or Robinson?’

Robbins laughed, seemingly untroubled by the question. ‘You can call me Jack, if that doesn’t feel too informal. The Robinson stuff is just a professional thing. More of a brand than a surname.’ He gestured for McKay to enter the hallway. ‘You’d better come in. Miserable night. Do you always conduct your business at this time of day?’