Candles and Roses (9 page)

‘I’ve lost touch with most of them, but I can remember some names. I might have some old contact details. I’ll see what I can dig out.’

McKay slid a business card across the coffee table between them. ‘Whatever you’ve got, call me or e-mail. Like I say, with this one, we need all the help we can get.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘
How
old?’ Denny Gorman asked again, his voice still sceptical.

‘Eighteen,’ Kelly repeated. ‘Only just, but definitely eighteen. I wouldn’t forget my own birthday. Even if everyone else does.’ She knew she was talking too much, but she couldn’t do much about that.

‘Aye.’ He ran his eyes appraisingly from her face down the length of her body. She knew she wasn’t unattractive, but she’d never thought of her looks as anything special. She was just your typical Scottish girl, she thought—short dark hair, green eyes, Celtic features, a slim build. Today she’d made a point of dressing in a neat white blouse and a mid-length black skirt. Not exactly provocative to the majority of the male sex. Even so, she was beginning to wish she’d picked a boiler-suit instead.

‘You don’t look eighteen,’ he said, finally. ‘Got ID?’

She fumbled in her handbag, conscious that Gorman would be taking the opportunity to give her body another perusal, then slid her passport across the sticky top of the table. ‘There you go.’

After a few moments, he looked up at her, apparently satisfied. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You’re eighteen. That’s a good start.’ He smiled, giving her the full benefit of his yellowing, tobacco-stained teeth. ‘So what are you looking for?’ He paused, his expression suggesting he might have intended some double entendre in his question. ‘Hours, I mean.’

‘Your ad in the window said you were looking for someone to do lunchtimes. I’m available to do that for the next couple of months. As much as you like.’

‘Student, are you?’

‘Finished at the Academy. Going to uni in the autumn, so I’m free over the rest of the summer.’

He nodded, slowly, still watching her intently with his bloodshot eyes. He really was an unprepossessing creature, she thought, with his thinning comb-over and unkempt stubble. He was wearing a stained black tee-shirt with the logo of a heavy metal band, which struggled to contain his sagging beer-belly. His faded jeans looked like he might have been wearing them for a couple of weeks. Why the hell had she come in here?

She knew fine well why, of course. Curiosity. The previous day, she’d stopped off in Fortrose to pick up some meat for her mother from Munro’s. Walking past the Caley Bar, she’d noticed a hand-scrawled note in the window advertising for lunchtime bar-staff. On a whim, she’d called the number given and spoken to Denny Gorman. He’d asked her to pop in after the lunchtime session the next day.

It was mid-afternoon and the place was deserted, except for Gorman himself. Even the hardened drinkers who prop up the bar for most of the day had temporarily absented themselves, maybe to catch a few rays of the unaccustomed sunshine or an afternoon nap before resuming their dogged glass-emptying. Gorman had been behind the bar, totting up the lunchtime takings.

The bar wasn’t much more attractive than Gorman himself. The two other pubs in town, the Union and the Anderson, had character in their different ways. The Caley just had gloom and a pervading smell of damp. It attracted a particular type of clientele, mainly barely-functioning alcoholics. Or so Greg had told her. Not that he had ever frequented the place.

‘References?’ Gorman asked.

‘I’ve been working in the stores in Cromarty. They’ll give me a reference if I ask.’

‘Ever worked in a bar before?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve done shop work. And some waitressing last summer holidays.’

‘You’ll soon pick it up. Know how to pull a pint?’

‘I’m not sure.’

He pushed himself up from the table. ‘I’ll show you. We’ve only got one beer on cask. The rest are all keg, so it’s straightforward enough.’

She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about but followed him through the narrow opening behind the bar. Gorman picked up a pint glass and held it out to her, gesturing towards the hand-pump. ‘Have a go.’

Greg had told her how to pour beer. Tilt the glass, he’d said, and pour down the side so that you don’t end up with too much of a head. She held the glass carefully and began to pull down on the hand-pump. It was harder than she expected and she had to step back slightly to gain more leverage. As she did so, she realised how close Gorman was standing.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘A nice long slow steady movement. Keep pulling.’ She continued filling the glass and finally placed the pint on the bar, conscious all the time of Gorman’s proximity. She could almost feel his breath on her neck and was sure that, at any moment, he would reach round her to demonstrate how the task should be carried out. ‘Not bad for a first effort,’ he said. ‘You’ve definitely got the knack, lass.’ Without hesitation, he picked up the glass and swallowed a good third of the beer. ‘Aye. Decent pint, that.’ He’d moved away and took the opportunity to peruse her body again. ‘I think you’ll do, if you want the job.’

Her good sense was telling her to get out and never come back. But her curiosity was more piqued than ever. Gorman was every bit the creep and lech she’d expected. She could easily imagine him trying it on with Lizzie Hamilton. And she could imagine how, a few pints to the worse, he might have behaved if Hamilton had rebuffed him.

She’d said nothing more to Greg because she’d seen how their conversation had disturbed him. But she’d searched for Hamilton’s name on the internet and dug out various local news stories from the time of her disappearance. There’d been a small flurry of reports before the media had lost interest. Kelly didn’t really even know why she was interested. She’d met Hamilton briefly just a few times up at Greg’s dad’s place and had found her pleasant and lively. After what they’d found in the woods, she felt disturbed that someone like that could simply disappear.

‘Well?’ Gorman said.

‘I think so,’ she said, finally. ‘What would you be paying?’

He quoted a rate slightly lower than she was earning in the shop, saying he could probably do with a couple of hours each weekday lunchtime.

‘OK,’ she said, finally. ‘I can fit that round the shop work. When do you want me to start?’

‘Tomorrow, if you can,’ he said.

‘Why not? Twelve?’

‘Aye. That’ll be grand.’ He gave her one final examination, his eyes moving slowly downwards from her face. ‘I’ll look forward to working with you, lass. We’re not a bad crowd in here.’

It was only when she emerged into the bright sunlight of the High Street that she realised how claustrophobic she’d been feeling. What the hell had she just done? Christ knew what Greg would say when she broke the news.

She was on the bus, heading back along the coast to Cromarty, before she had chance to check her texts. There were a couple from Greg, inevitably. The first was just confirming the time for them to meet that evening. They were going to see some film Greg was keen on at Eden Court in Inverness.

The second text was longer. It said: ‘Have u heard the news? Another body. Caird’s Cave in Rosemarkie.’

She sat staring at the text, as the bus trundled through Rosemarkie, turning the corner past The Plough Inn, up past the woodland entrance to Fairy Glen, then over the bridge towards Cromarty. Caird’s Cave was just a short distance away, further up the coast.

Jesus, Kelly thought, what the hell is this?

She thought of Denny Gorman standing centimetres behind her, his breath almost on the back of her neck, his eyes no doubt still mentally undressing her.

What was she letting herself in for?

CHAPTER TWELVE

DC Josh Carlisle was hovering by the door, hopping gently from foot to foot. He looked, even more than usual, liked a nervous schoolboy who’d been summoned to see the head.

‘Got something to tell us, Josh?’ McKay asked. ‘Or just desperate for a piss?’

Carlisle took cautious step into the room. ‘I just thought better let you know. We’ve been checking on Katy Scott as a potential misper and we’ve hit the jackpot. Greater Manchester. Looks like she’s only been reported formally in the last couple of days.’

‘Have we got details?’

‘We’ve got an address.’ Carlisle glanced at the print-out in his hand. ‘Chorlton, apparently. Unmarried. Seems to have been living alone. Reported missing by a neighbour—looks like she lives in a flat—and then by the landlord.’

‘No relatives?’

‘None mentioned. Imagine that’s why it took so long to be reported.’

‘What about work? Anything on what she did for a living?’

‘Nothing on the file.’

‘Have we got a contact in GMP?’

‘Couple of names given. A DS Mortimer and a DI Warren.’ Carlisle looked pleased with himself.

‘OK. Leave me the details and I’ll give Warren a call. It might perk him up a bit to find it’s a murder enquiry.’

‘They might want to take it over if she was killed on their patch,’ Horton pointed out.

‘Not a million years. Buggers down there are even more stretched than we are. Last thing they’ll want is a high profile murder enquiry on their hands. Anyway, I’ll have him wrapped round my little finger. You know what I’m like when I turn on the charm.’

‘I’ve read historical accounts of the phenomenon,’ she said. ‘Well done, though, Josh. That’s a real breakthrough.’

Carlisle looked, as he generally did in McKay’s company, as if all he wanted was to be somewhere else as quickly as decency might allow. ‘I just did what you asked,’ he said.

‘Well done, lad,’ McKay said. ‘You have my permission to have a celebratory cigarette in the outside lavvy.’ This was McKay’s term for the smoking shelter at the rear of the building. Since he’d given up himself, McKay made a point of highlighting those of his colleagues who were, in his words, ‘still unfortunate slaves to the demon weed.’

Josh gratefully made his escape, no doubt to do just as McKay had enjoined. McKay turned to Horton, rubbing his hands. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Easier than we’d feared.’

Horton looked up at the clock. ‘Speaking of Katy Scott, we’re due to meet the parents in half an hour.’

‘What are the arrangements?’

‘I’ve sent Mary Graham to collect them. Thought it was only right if they’re coming to do the ID. Arranged to meet them at the Raigmore, so we can get that out of the way. Then we’ll bring them here to get statements.’

‘You reckon they’ll both want to be involved in the ID?’

‘Who knows? The father will want to show he’s boss, and the mother will want to see her daughter for the last time, I’m guessing.’

‘Then we interview them separately.’

‘You think they’ll agree?’

‘I’m not planning on giving them a choice. I don’t want to make this any harder for the mother than we have to.’ He paused. ‘But if he doesn’t agree, I’ll rip his fucking balls off.’

***

The Scotts were already waiting inside the main entrance of the Raigmore Hospital, Mary Graham valiantly trying to make small talk. They were blank-faced and pale. Mrs Scott looked as if she might not have slept. Her husband was dressed more smartly than he had been the previous day. McKay guessed that he’d dug out an old work suit for the occasion.

‘I’m sorry to put you through this,’ McKay said. ‘But better to get a personal identification if we can. Then everything is put beyond any doubt.’

Scott nodded sceptically. ‘Let’s just get it over with.’

McKay looked at Mrs Scott. ‘We only need one of you for identification purposes. If you’d prefer to wait here, my colleagues can take you for a coffee.’ He gestured towards the cafe area.

‘If it is Katy,’ Mrs Scott said firmly, ‘I want to see her.’

Leaving Horton and Graham in the cafe, he led the way to the mortuary at the rear of the hospital. They were greeted at the entrance by a taciturn young man in a white coat who led them silently into the bleak, chilly room. He produced a bunch of keys and, carefully checking the reference, took them to one end of the row of cabinets.

‘You’re sure you both want to go through with this?’

‘I’m sure,’ Mrs Scott said. Her husband grunted his assent. The assistant swung open the drawer in a practised movement. McKay gestured for the Scotts to take a look.

Scott nodded. ‘That’s her. She’d lost weight.’ He sounded as if she’d returned from a long holiday or university.

Mrs Scott leaned forward to gain a closer look. ‘Katy,’ she said, softly. ‘Katy.’ After a moment she turned away, her shoulders hunched, sobbing. Her husband made no move to comfort her.

McKay gestured to the assistant to close the drawer. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming you’ll want to make arrangements for the funeral. If you let us know what would suit you, we can organise the release. We’ve completed all the examinations we need.’

Scott nodded, though McKay suspected that he was thinking about nothing beyond the unexpected expense. Well, tough luck, buddy, McKay thought.

‘Are you ready to go back out now?’ he asked Mrs Scott.

She raised her face to his, her eyes red-stained. ‘Thank you, yes. I’ll be all right in a moment.’

‘We’ll get you a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s been an ordeal.’

‘I wanted to see her,’ she said. ‘I needed to be sure.’

‘I understand,’ McKay said.

Perhaps more than anyone, he added to himself.

***

McKay had offered the Scotts the opportunity to delay giving their statements, recognising the vulnerability of Mrs Scott’s condition. Scott had responded, very firmly, that they just wanted to get it over with. And be back in time for
Countdown
, McKay glossed to himself.

‘If you’re sure,’ McKay said. ‘If you come with me, Mr Scott, and your wife goes with DS Horton, we’ll get it sorted as quickly as we can.’

Mr Scott eyed him suspiciously. ‘I’d assumed we’d do this together.’

‘We need a statement from each of you,’ McKay said, blandly. ‘That’s how it has to be done. It won’t take long.’