Missing Believed Dead (28 page)

Chapter Fifty-Five

Two months later

Bill placed his report on Kate’s desk.

She looked up and smiled at him. ‘It’s seven o’clock, we’re both mad to be still working,’ she said.

‘I suppose, but I knew you needed this before your meeting with the PF tomorrow.’ A wry smile twisted Bill’s lips. Not so long ago he’d have made it a point not to do the report simply because Kate had been such a bitch. But she’d mellowed over the past two months and, although they’d never be bosom buddies, their relationship had improved.

‘You should go home now.’ Kate clipped Bill’s report onto the back of her own.

Bill shrugged. ‘There’s not much waiting for me at home. An empty flat, a bit of hard cheese in the fridge . . . ’

‘No mates you can go and have a pint with?’

‘Not really. Before Andy had his heart attack we’d go for a quick one when we finished up here, but he’s still recovering so that’s gone down the tubes for now.’

‘Fancy a pint with me?’

‘Sure, why not.’

‘Only a quick one mind, because I’ll need to get home at a reasonable time.’

A blast of music hit them when they entered the pub. ‘I forgot,’ Bill said, ‘they always have a group playing on a Friday night. If it’s too noisy . . . ’

‘It’s fine, I don’t mind.’

They sat in a companionable silence, nursing their pints.

‘That Carnegie affair was a rum do,’ Kate said.

Bill nodded. ‘Pity it ended the way it did. I would have liked to see what a court made of it.’

His mind drifted to Diane, and he wondered how she was coping. He should have gone to see her after everything was wrapped up, but the problem was, that even with Emma’s death there was still so much to do to wind up the case.

‘I would have liked to charge Patricia Carnegie as an accessory to the abduction if nothing else, but the PF wouldn’t wear it. Not enough evidence she said.’

‘That’s bureaucracy for you. The old ways of policing have gone, and we’re all turning into bloody pen-pushers.’

Kate shrugged. ‘The higher you go in the profession the worse it gets. Give thanks you’re still a sergeant.’

‘I guess you’re right. I wouldn’t like your job. Too many people you have to kow-tow to.’

Kate gulped the rest of her lager. ‘Got to go. See you in the morning.’

Bill sat on, looking into the dregs of his pint. He should go home, at least he had a bed there, if nothing else. However, he didn’t want to do that, but he didn’t want to stay in the pub either.

He closed his eyes and thought about Diane. It was time he went to see her.

* * * *

Ryan stood in the doorway watching his mother. She had been badly affected by Emma’s death. It seemed to have had the effect of making her calmer, but she brooded more, although she didn’t clean obsessively the way she used to and she had given up her job as a cleaner. Ryan wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

‘I’m going out tonight,’ he said.

Diane turned to look at him. ‘About time. I thought you were going to stay cooped up in the house forever.’

Ryan didn’t answer her. He closed the door quietly, and left the house.

His mother had no idea the effort it had taken him to decide to go out.

Too much had happened over the previous few months, culminating in Emma’s death. By the end, when everything was coming to a head, it had felt as if he were sliding into a deep, black pit. And now, after forcing himself to leave the house, he wasn’t sure it was the right decision. He was tempted to run back in and up the stairs, and close the door on the world outside.

He took a deep breath and told himself not to be a coward, that was no way to live life.

The club was fairly new, it had been open a few months, but he’d heard on the grapevine it was the place to go if you wanted some action. He wasn’t sure if he wanted action, but he was sure he wanted to check it out.

What had happened with Phil and Gus, in Teasers’ toilet, had been brutal and degrading. It made him doubt himself and his urges. But he was still drawn to attractive men in the same way others were attracted to beautiful women.

Ryan stood hesitantly in the doorway listening to the music seeping out from the bar into the street. He wore tight white trousers, and a silky black shirt, open at the neck to display a thick gold chain. His face was perfectly made up, but not overstated. His skin looked flawless with a dusting of face powder, his eyebrows had been plucked and pencilled, his mascara was discreet, and his lips were coloured with the merest touch of pink lipstick. While his hair, normally tied back in a ponytail, flowed over his shoulders and down his back in silky waves. His arm still ached from brushing it.

Pushing the thought of Phil out of his head, he opened the door and walked in. The pulse of music was louder inside, and the bar resounded with voices and laughter. Male couples and female couples swayed to the music on the tiny dance floor. Others propped up the bar or sat at tables over to the side of the room.

Ryan breathed a sigh of contentment. He knew, instinctively, this was a place where he fitted in, a place where he could be himself instead of hiding away. And maybe, just maybe, he might find a kindred spirit here.

* * * *

The house felt empty after Ryan left. Diane wished she’d commented on how nice he looked, but she hadn’t wanted to embarrass him. Poor Ryan, he’d experienced so much trouble coming to terms with how he was. She knew he’d taken Emma’s death badly, just as badly as he’d taken Jade’s disappearance, and she regretted not having given him more of her time.

She still hadn’t got over Emma. When she’d told her to go, she had no idea Emma would do something so extreme. But at least she was at peace now, although Diane had no daughters left.

The doorbell startled her out of her reverie, and she was surprised to see Bill Murphy on the doorstep.

‘What is it you want?’ She debated in her mind whether to invite him in, but decided not to.

‘I wondered how you were.’ His voice was hesitant. ‘I should have come to see you before . . . ’ He shuffled his feet. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help . . . ’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But there’s nothing you can do to help me. Please don’t come back.’

She closed the door, walked down the hall, and into the living room. She meant to sit down and forget he’d been here, but something drew her to the window.

He was still standing at the door where she’d left him, but as she watched, he turned and walked down the path. The dejected droop of his shoulders increased her sadness, and she was unable to move away from the window until he drove off.

He’d been a nice man, she’d liked him and, although there had never been anything more between them, there had always been that slight frisson of electricity. The merest suggestion they could have built a relationship.

With tears in her eyes, she turned away from the window. It was time to scrub the kitchen floor.

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About the Author

Chris Longmuir was born in Wiltshire but now lives in Angus. Her family moved to Scotland when she was two. After leaving school at fifteen, Chris worked in shops, offices, mills and factories, and was a bus conductor for a spell, before working as a social worker for Angus council (latterly serving as Assistant Principal Officer for Adoption and Fostering).

Chris is an award winning novelist and has published three novels in her Dundee Crime Series. Night Watcher, the first book in the series, won the Scottish Association of Writers’ Pitlochry Award, and the sequel, Dead Wood, won the Dundee International Book Prize, as well as the Pitlochry Award. Missing Believed Dead is the third book in the series.

Chris also writes historical sagas, short stories and articles which have been published in America and Britain. She confesses to being a bit of a techno-geek, and builds computers in her spare time.

Chris is a member of the Society of Authors, the Crime Writers Association, and the Scottish Association of Writers.

Also by Chris Longmuir

Dundee Crime Series

Night Watcher

Dead Wood (paperback only)

Missing Believed Dead

Historical sagas

A Salt Splashed Cradle

Short Stories

Ghost train & Other Stories

Obsession & Other Stories