Candles and Roses (26 page)

‘If we want to catch people at home,’ McKay said, ‘then, yes, sometimes.’

‘I can see what you meant about the strain on your marriage.’ Robbins turned to lead the way into the living room.

‘It goes with the territory.’

The living room was neat and well-furnished, but had an unmistakably masculine air. The only pictures on the walls were more professional certificates and some photographs of Robbins himself with local celebrities—a former MSP, a couple of past members of the Caley team, various others whom McKay couldn’t place. There were some neatly ordered shelves of CDs and DVDs, but no sign of any books. Robbins gestured for McKay to take a seat. ‘Can I get you a coffee? You look like you could do with warming up.’

‘I won’t keep you any longer than I need to, Mr Robbins. It’s about your daughter.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve found her. I’m not sure my bank account could stand it.’ The tone suggested a joke, but Robbins’s face indicated otherwise.

‘I’m afraid not. In fact the news may not be good.’

Robbins lowered himself on to the sofa opposite McKay. ‘Go on.’

‘You’ll no doubt be aware we’re currently investigating a series of apparent murders. The bodies found on the Black Isle.’

‘You’re not saying—’

McKay held up a hand. ‘No, no, Mr Robbins. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply— We’ve identified the three bodies. Your daughter is definitely not among them.’

Robbins was staring at him, his expression impossible to interpret. ‘Well, I suppose that’s something.’ He sounded scarcely grateful.

McKay knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Helena Grant might sympathise—though McKay was conscious he’d stretched her sympathies to the limit on too many occasions—but she’d want this case done by the book. It would be her arse on the line if things went wrong.

He didn’t really even know what it was he was doing. Hoping to stir up the waters a little? Hoping to provoke Robbins into saying or doing something that might give them a lead or at least an excuse to investigate him more directly? Robbins didn’t strike him as easily provoked. In truth, McKay’s decision to visit Robbins had been simply a spur of the moment impulse, driven by the impetus of his departure after the argument with Chrissie. He didn’t want to think too deeply about his possible motives for coming here, of all places.

It was as if Robbins could read his growing discomfort. ‘So what does this have to do with my daughter?’

McKay took a breath, already feeling on the back foot. ‘In the light of the recent deaths, we’ve taken the opportunity to revisit and review some of our other outstanding cases. We have a concern that your daughter might also be a victim.’

‘Do you have any reason for that concern? Other than that she’s missing, I mean.’

None of this was sounding remotely convincing, even to McKay. ‘Only that she fits a pattern.’

‘A pattern?’ The scepticism was unconcealed.

‘All the victims to date were young women of approximately your daughter’s age. All were living alone, apparently with few if any close friends or acquaintances. All were—well, estranged from their parents or immediate families. All were local.’

There was a lengthy silence. ‘With respect,’ Robbins said, finally, ‘that doesn’t sound much. I imagine those circumstances made the victims convenient targets for the killer. It doesn’t mean that was why they were killed.’

‘But it does mean we have a reason to consider your daughter’s case again,’ McKay pointed out. ‘Along with any other relatively recent disappearances.’

‘And I wish you well with that,’ Robbins said. ‘My own view, for what it’s worth, is that she’s most likely alive and well and sponging off some other poor sod, God knows where.’

‘You sound bitter, Mr Robbins.’

‘Do I?’ Robbins’s face was as expressionless as ever. ‘You know how it is with daughters, Mr McKay. Well, yes, of course, you know better than anyone. When Elizabeth was young, I thought she was perfect.’ He stopped and, for the first time since McKay had arrived, he smiled. ‘The apple of my eye.’

McKay felt a faint chill finger run down his spine. The apple of my eye. The same phrase that Scott had used to describe his daughter.
You know what it’s like between fathers and daughters
.

He had a strong suspicion of what it had been like between Scott and his daughter. Had it been the same with Robbins?

‘We were as close as could be,’ Robbins went on, and for the first time there was a note of genuine emotion in his voice. ‘Especially in those years after her mother died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ McKay said, though unsure what he should be sorry about.

‘It was a long time ago. Cancer. Elizabeth was very small—not even at school. I did my best to make everything all right for us. To keep her close. Then she grew up.’

It happens, McKay wanted to say. It’s what supposed to happen. You have to let them go. And you can’t control what happens when they do.

‘She became a different person. Thought only of herself. Took advantage of me every way she could until I put a stop to it. Then she left and went to find someone else to take advantage of. And I imagine that’s what she’s still doing.’ His voice was flat now, toneless. ‘I wish I could bring her back. The girl she was, I mean, not the person she is now. I wish I could bring that girl back home.’ He looked up at McKay. ‘You know what I mean, I’m sure.’

McKay gazed back at him. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Partly. I’d have mine back any way I could.’ He pushed himself to his feet, conscious that, whatever his original reasons for coming here, he was getting nowhere. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr Robbins.’

Robbins rose with him. ‘To be frank, I’m still not entirely clear why you came in the first place.’ There was a different, more threatening edge to his voice now.

McKay had a sudden sense that he was being played with. That the last few minutes had been simply a charade, a pretence of emotion. ‘I just thought you should know we’ll be taking another look at your daughter’s case, Mr Robbins. In the light of our current investigation. We’ll probably need to talk to you again, perhaps a little more formally.’

‘More formally?’

‘We may need more detailed background from you. We’re trying to identify any links between the victims and—well, any other potential victims. Any information you might be able to provide could be useful.’

‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. Wherever Elizabeth might be, I’m sure she’s not one of your victims.’

McKay said nothing as he followed Robbins to the front door. Outside, the rain was still falling.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Robbins. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. We’ll be in touch in due course.’ McKay spoke the words automatically, then turned to look at Robbins, making one last effort to read his expression. ‘I think in the circumstances, it would be better if we discontinued the therapy sessions. I’m sure you agree.’

‘Your choice, Mr McKay,’ Robbins said. His smile was bland and unrevealing. ‘Have you consulted with your wife about this?’

McKay gazed back at him, matching smile for smile. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ he said.

***

‘You did what?’ Grant said.

‘Ach, it was stupid, I know. Spur of the moment. Don’t know what came over me.’ McKay was sitting behind his desk, feeling like death scarcely warmed up. He’d had an awful night. In the end, after a lengthy, rain-soaked walk by the river, he’d been able to come up with no alternative other than returning home. It seemed the right thing to do, practically and emotionally. He didn’t really feel he and Chrissie were at the end of the road. Not yet, not quite. He wanted to give it one more shot, and he’d find a way to do that. McKay was certain now that, even if his own more extreme suspicions were unfounded, Robbins was the last person they needed to help them.

In the end, wet and chilled, he’d driven home and let himself into the dark house. He’d waited as long as he could, sitting in the car for another hour or so, to ensure Chrissie would have retired to bed. For all his good intentions, he’d concluded it would be a bad idea to face her again tonight. They’d just rehearse the same old tensions, the familiar grievances, and they’d end up in the same place. Tomorrow, at some point, would be another day.

He’d found an old duvet and slept, fully clothed, on the sofa. He knew he’d managed to get some sleep because he’d woken, after what had seemed like only minutes, to see the first steely light of day around the sitting-room curtains. Feeling barely rested, he’d thrown himself into a hot shower, found a sufficient change of clothes in the clean laundry, and left the house before Chrissie had stirred. It seemed finally to have stopped raining, but the early morning skies remained leaden and louring.

Now he was sitting here being harangued by Helena Grant, the experience not improved by the clear knowledge that she was right and he was very much in the wrong.

‘You don’t know what came over you?’ she echoed. ‘The usual red fucking mist, that’s what came over you, Alec. Act first and think later, if you bother to think at all.’

‘Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. It was stupid, I know. I shouldn’t have gone.’

‘Of course you shouldn’t have gone. I don’t know what you even thought you were likely to achieve.’

‘No, well, neither do I now. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. Stir up the waters a bit.’

‘Christ, Alec. I told you yesterday. There are no substantive reasons to treat Robbins as a suspect. Just a few coincidences and your gut. It’s not enough for us to start harassing him.’

‘I didn’t harass him. I was very discreet.’

‘Aye, I can see that. Alec “soul of discretion” McKay. You should put it on your business cards.’

‘Ach, all I did was tell him we were taking another look at his daughter’s case, in the light of our current investigation. See if there was a connection.’

‘Very discreet, then. We’ve reason to think your daughter might be the victim of a serial killer. Aye, Mr Tactful.’ She paused. ‘Apart from anything else, if there is anything in your suspicions, all you’ve done is tip him off that we’re interested in him.’

McKay shrugged. ‘On the other hand, if that were to make him think twice about finding another victim, I’d call that a result. At least for the moment.’

‘Christ, McKay, you’re incorrigible. Aye, I suppose you’re right. Seriously, you still reckon he could be our man?’

‘It feels even more likely to me after yesterday,’ McKay said. ‘He’s a manipulative bastard. Whether he’s manipulative enough to do this—well, Christ knows. He was enjoying playing with my head. And there was something in the way he talked about his daughter. It was like Scott. How she’d been the apple of his fucking eye until she went off the rails.’ He paused, thinking. ‘He said he wished he could bring home his old daughter. The daughter he’d lost.’

‘That’s what our killer’s done,’ Grant pointed out. ‘Brought these girls home.’

‘And interred them in places they loved when they were small, if Ginny’s guess is right.’

‘Before they went off the rails?’

‘Before they lost their innocence.’ He stopped, again. ‘Or before they realised how much innocence they’d already lost. Jesus Christ.’

‘The question is, Alec: do you think that Robbins is worth investing our time and resource in? Seriously?’

‘I think so. You’re right—it’s no more than gut feel. But there’s something there, I’m sure of it. Aye, I think it’s worth giving him a good hard look.’

‘OK. We’ll start with the ANPR Network and whatever we can get on his phones, like we agreed. If that throws up anything that looks remotely suspicious, I’m willing to give it a more serious shot. But we carry on with everything else for the minute.’ She leaned forward and stared into McKay’s eyes, not allowing him to look away. ‘But you better be bloody certain this isn’t just about pursuing your own personal obsessions or vendettas, Alec.’

‘Trust me, Helena. It’s not that. I’m not saying I’m right. I could easily be wrong. But we need to look at him.’

‘OK. And one other condition, Alec?’

‘Aye, boss?’

‘You don’t do any fucking thing on this, and not one fucking word to Robbins, without checking with me first. Right?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Shit.

He stumbled on the small step leading down into the rear yard, and for a moment lost balance, the world swirling uncontrollably about him. He almost fell, but reached out and grasped the door-frame, clutching tight to its reassuring solidity. Jesus. He ought to be able to do this stuff in his sleep, and here he was, barely able to stand up.

He had to get a grip. Things were getting worse, in almost every imaginable way. Most of it, he knew, was due to the drinking. He’d always knocked it back. That ran in the family, and his father had been worse than he was. Much worse, or so it had felt back then. He could remember his father getting in after a heavy session in one of his blind rages, beating the living shite out of the whole family, wife and kids. Eventually, Denny Gorman had learned how to cope with that. When to make himself scarce. How to avoid provoking the old man. And, in due course, getting to the point where the old man didn’t dare to raise a finger against him. If his father had made old bones, if he’d ever reached the point where he’d been dependent on his children, Gorman would have made him suffer. He’d have made the old man’s life a fucking misery. But of course it never reached that point. The old man had just caved in one day. A massive coronary, the doctor had said. Only a matter of time till that or something else did for him, given his lifestyle. They’d found him lying stone-dead on the kitchen floor. Halle-fucking-luja. And now Denny was heading the same way. Like his da, only a matter of fucking time.

He had to knock it on the head. He knew he’d never stop drinking entirely—Christ, look at that aeronautical pig—but he ought to be able to cut back. He’d allowed it to creep up, day by day, over the past year or so. He knew fine well why, and who could fucking blame him? But he had to do something about it. Things were getting out of control.

That Armstrong lassie, for example. He’d not intended to harm her. Of course, she was an attractive wee girl, and he’d always had a weakness for a youngster like that. But he knew how to control those urges by now, or he thought he did. He’d just wanted her to know he was all right, that he wasn’t the kind of man she might think. That he’d not harmed Lizzie Hamilton either. Or, at least, not in the way the wee lass might believe.