Candles and Roses (5 page)

She didn’t know what made her think about that now. She’d run along this coast, night after night, autumn, winter and spring, never once recalling that case. Now, suddenly, the sight of Rosemarkie and Fortrose across the water had brought it back to her, and it was somehow linked in her mind with the body at the Clootie Well.

The individuals concerned were women of roughly the same age, she supposed, although that was where any physical similarity ended. There was a small possibility that last summer’s misper might have ended up in the same condition, lying, so far undiscovered, in some shallow grave in a Highland woodland. But, as far as she could see, that was where any similarities ended.

Mostly the insights that bubbled up into her conscious mind as she ran were worthless. Even so, she’d learned not to disregard them because from time to time they resulted in something that blossomed into a genuine lead, a new avenue for investigation, some possibility that would never otherwise have occurred to her.

She made a mental note to bear it in mind, maybe even risk raising it with McKay in the morning. McKay respected her enough to listen to what she had to say, however off-the-wall.

After a moment, she set off again, initially jogging along the waterfront, then picking up speed as she thought about getting back to supper, to a glass of wine and to Isla.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Bingo,’ McKay said.

‘Bingo?’ Horton was sitting at her desk, ploughing assiduously through mind-numbing paperwork.

‘Bingo. We’ve got an ID.’

She sat up. ‘For the Clootie Well? Who?’

‘Katherine Scott,’ McKay said. ‘Known as Katy. Last known residence an address in Manchester. On the file for a couple of minor drugs offences and one count of shoplifting, both in her late teens. She’d have been twenty-eight—no, twenty-nine now.’

‘Bit older than we thought then?’

‘Doc reckoned mid-twenties. But hard to be sure. She’d not looked after herself. Heavy drinker. Smoker.’ McKay ostentatiously pulled out another strip of gum and began to chew.

‘Manchester?’ Horton said. ‘So does that mean we can hand it over to GMP?’

‘Last known address was in Manchester, but that was four years ago. There’s no information on where she’s been living since.’ He paused. ‘She’s a local lass. Born in Inverness, brought up in Culbokie. Hung around in Inverness till her early twenties then buggered off south to convert the heathens.’

‘And ended up in a shallow grave back in the same neck of the woods,’ Horton said. ‘Interesting.’

‘Wherever and whyever she was killed,’ McKay said, ‘we have to assume she was buried up here for a reason. Either she was killed locally and it was just a conveniently remote spot to dispose of the body. Or she was killed somewhere else, and the killer made the effort to bring the body back to bury it within a few miles of her home town. Either way, it means that the case is still ours.’

‘You’re preparing your arguments for Helena, aren’t you?’ Horton said. ‘You know she’ll be only too keen for someone else to take responsibility, given the pressures on resources.’

‘Not my problem,’ McKay said. ‘Well, only partially my problem. I’m just interested in truth and justice.’

‘And not being bored.’

‘That too.’

‘Anything else on Scott?’

‘They’ve just sent the basics. I’ll see what I can get off the PNC though our last contact with her was more than ten years ago, so I’m not hopeful there’ll be much. Probably worth doing some digging. Birth certificate and any other documentation we can find. Any relatives locally. Anything we might have on file. Assume she probably went to the Academy. We can see if they’ve got any details on her family and so on.’

Horton smiled. ‘This is what you live for, isn’t it, Alec? The chance to get your teeth into a proper case.’

‘Too right, lass, too right. Better than some wee scrote stealing knickers off the line in the backstreets of Inverness.’ He leaned forward in his chair, chewing enthusiastically on his gum. ‘My advice is to make the most of it.’

***

‘So what about that woman last year?’

‘What woman?’

They were in the small garden at the side of the Plough Inn in Rosemarkie, trying gamely to make two Cokes last the afternoon. Greg was eighteen now and so in theory could have had a beer, but he was driving, and these days there was no point in risking even the smallest amount of alcohol. She’d be eighteen in just a few more days, and generally got away with ordering alcohol when she was with Greg. But the truth was that both of them actually still preferred Coke though Greg would never have admitted this to any of his male friends.

‘You know the one. The one who went missing. She did some cleaning for your dad.’ Greg’s dad was a farmer and owned a stretch of land between here and Cromarty. He still did some dairy farming but there was no money in that anymore, so he’d gradually diversified. He’d built a cluster of upmarket holiday chalets on the hillside with views over the Firth and then more recently had opened a farm shop selling produce from other local farmers. One way or another, he managed to make a decent living for himself. ‘We chatted to her a few times.’

‘What about her?’

‘Well, she went missing. Maybe it was her.’

‘Maybe what was her?’

‘Christ, Greg, you can be thick sometimes. I mean, maybe it was her up at the Clootie Well.’

‘It wasn’t. I saw her face, remember?’ Greg blinked and took a sip of his Coke, his expression suggesting that, for his own part, he’d rather forget.

‘I know. But dead people look different, don’t they?’ She thought she’d read that somewhere. It sounded the kind of thing that could be true.

‘Do they? I don’t know. But I’m sure it wasn’t her. Anyway, the police are bound to have followed that up, aren’t they? They were all over it at the time.’

‘They don’t know what they’re doing,’ Kelly said. ‘Probably wouldn’t even have occurred to them to link the two.’

Greg batted away a huge seagull intent on stealing any scraps of discarded food that might be lying around. The cawing of the gulls was an unremitting backdrop to their conversation. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t her.’

‘Well, maybe she’s another one then. Maybe we’ve a serial killer on our hands.’

‘What was her name, anyway?’ Greg asked, partly to change the subject. He still hadn’t quite recovered from the shock of stumbling across the body. The word had got out among their mates over the last couple of days as the story hit the media. Both he and Kelly had been interviewed, briefly and over the phone, by some local journalist. Neither had had much to say but that hadn’t stopped the journalist making up some suitably juicy quotes. The two had become minor celebrities among their circle of friends, but Greg was hoping the glamour would soon fade.

‘Lizzie something, wasn’t it?’ She paused, thinking. ‘Hamilton? I liked her. She was a good laugh.’

‘My dad thought she did a runner because she owed people money.’

‘Did she?’

‘I don’t know. It was just a theory. But the police didn’t seem all that interested. They must have thought she’d just buggered off as well.’

‘Yes, but they—’

‘I know. They know nothing. But it is their job.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the afternoon sunshine, the breeze blowing in from the sea, the relentless chorus of the gulls. They were both conscious that this was a golden time—the brief few months with Highers out of the way and university still to come. They wanted to make the most of it, even if that involved little more than drinking Coke in the garden of an old pub. Greg was working part-time for his dad over the summer, and Kelly was helping out in the store in Cromarty, so they had a few quid to spend. Finally Kelly said: ‘But adults don’t do that. They don’t just run away.’

‘Yes, they do. I’ve got a cousin, or a second-cousin or something. His wife just pushed off one day, left him with a baby. I’ve heard my dad talk about it.’

‘I suppose.’ She watched a cluster of gulls squabbling over some titbit. The garden was tucked away at the side of the old pub building and provided a comfortable sun-trap at the right time of day. There’d been another couple enjoying lunch out here earlier, but now Kelly and Greg were alone. ‘But adults get murdered sometimes too.’

‘Give it a rest, eh, Kelly? She wasn’t murdered.’

‘How do you know?’ She paused, thinking. ‘What about Denny Gorman?’

‘Who’s Denny Gorman? Another “murder victim”?’ The quote-marks were clearly audible.

‘No, you numpty. The landlord at the Caledonian. He’s a creep.’

‘Is he? I don’t know him.’

‘Well, he looks like one. You know the guy. Greasy hair. Comb-over. Stubble. Always looks like he’s slept in his clothes.’

‘I’ve never been in the Caley. If we go up that way, we go to the Anderson or the Union.’

‘You’ll have seen him around, though. Shambling through the town. He’s an old lech.’

‘Is he?’

‘I reckon so. I’ve seen him eyeing up the girls in the Co-op.’

‘That proves it then. He must be a murderer.’ Greg finally finished off his Coke. ‘Another? I’ve just about got enough on me.’

‘Let’s go for a walk instead. Makes you think, though, doesn’t it?’

‘What does?’

‘Well, finding that body. If we hadn’t stumbled along there, it might have stayed hidden.’

‘The roses were pretty conspicuous.’

‘For a while. But I don’t imagine many people go wandering into those woods. If we hadn’t found it when we did, that body might never have been discovered.’

‘Well done us, then.’ Greg was zipping up his rucksack. They’d brought down a couple of books to read on the beach and a towel in case they decided to go into the water. ‘Shall we head down to the sea?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ She rose to follow him. ‘But that’s not what I meant. I meant that there might be others. Other bodies buried that have never been discovered. Lizzie Hamilton might be one of them.’

‘Kelly—’

‘I’m just saying. She could still be out there somewhere. Undiscovered. Up in Fairy Glen. Or by the burn up there behind us—’

‘Kelly, just give it a rest. OK.’

The sharpness of his tone took her by surprise. It suddenly struck her how much this had affected them both. Much more, she thought, than either had been able, or had wanted, to articulate. She was coping by blethering on about murders and missing persons and shallow graves. Greg was coping by trying to forget it all.

‘Sorry, Greg,’ she said, after a pause. ‘Just ignore me. You know what I’m like.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You’re grand. I’m just a bit distracted, that’s all.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Come on. Let’s go for a paddle.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

McKay took a breath and glanced at Horton. ‘Here we go then.’ He leaned forward and pressed the bell.

For a few minutes there was no sign of life from within the bungalow. He was about to press the bell a second time when he caught a glimpse of movement through the frosted glass in the front-door. There was a rattling of locks before the door finally opened a few centimetres, held by a chain.

‘Yes?’ A woman peered back at them through the door. She was perhaps in her early sixties, but looked older, her hair white, her face lined and worried-looking. She was dressed smartly, in a tweed skirt and white blouse.

‘Mrs Scott?’

‘Who’s asking?’ she said, suspiciously. ‘Didn’t you see the notice?’

McKay glanced at the sticker in the upper frame in the door. ‘No hawkers, cold callers or circulars.’ When was the last time anyone was bothered by a hawker?

He held out his warrant card. ‘Police. DI McKay. DS Horton.’

‘Is this about the break-ins? We’ve had no problems, but next door’s said that their shed—’

‘No, Mrs Scott. It’s not about the burglaries. May we come in? I’m afraid we have some bad news.’

‘Bad news? Well, you’d better—’ The door closed, and they heard the sound of the chain being removed. Then Mrs Scott opened it fully and led them into the narrow hallway.

The inside of the small bungalow was as McKay had envisaged it. There was a sitting room off to the right, a kitchen straight ahead of them and a row of closed doors on the left. The interior was scrupulously tidy, the decor fussy and old-fashioned. There were shelves lined with porcelain figurines and similar knick-knacks.

‘Is your husband at home, Mrs Scott?’

‘He’s in the sitting room. We were just sitting down to watch
Countdown
. Ronnie’s retired now, you know?’ She spoke as if McKay was an old acquaintance who might have failed to keep up with the latest news. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘I think you’d better come and sit down, Mrs Scott.’ Before Mrs Scott could object further, McKay led the way into the sitting room, Horton following behind. Mr Scott, who had obviously been semi-dozing in front of the television, started up in surprise.

‘I’m very sorry to disturb you, Mr Scott—’ McKay began.

From behind him, Mrs Scott said: ‘It’s the police, Ronnie. They say they’ve got some bad news.’

Scott pushed himself slowly to his feet, looking startled and slightly bewildered. He looked older than his wife, probably late sixties, with slightly unkempt grey hair and eyes that blinked at the world through thick glasses. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and slacks, but looked as if he’d have been more at home in a suit. McKay suspected that retirement wasn’t suiting the man. He could empathise with that.

‘Police?’ Scott repeated, as if he hadn’t quite understood. He was staring at McKay as if expecting to be arrested himself. ‘You’d better sit down.’

McKay sat himself in one of the two armchairs, while Mrs Scott perched beside her husband on the sofa, reaching for the remote to mute the sound of the television.

‘As I told your wife, Mr Scott, I’m afraid I’ve come bearing some bad news. It’s about your daughter.’ Ever since they’d confirmed that Katy Scott’s parents were still alive and resident in Culbokie, McKay had been mentally preparing this conversation. He’d been in this position numerous times, and it never became any easier.