Everything She Forgot (6 page)

“Would you calm down?” he shouted, and she quietened, looking up at him, still crying, her bottom lip curling.

“There's no need to make such a fuss.” It was as if she wasn't listening to him. “What was I supposed to do?” he said, almost to himself. “Jesus Christ.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead and ran a hand through his hair.

He had to think what to do, but could think of nothing with the noise she was making.

CHAPTER 6

A
NGUS WAS SITTING IN HIS OFFICE TYPING UP A
STORY ABOUT
a sponsored sing-along by the Caithness choir, which had raised five hundred pounds for the Thurso care home. He had a police scanner on his desk that he had bought a month ago in the hope of discovering a scoop. He had already lost interest. Highlands police only talked about food and TV, except on the odd occasion when someone shoplifted in Inverness or someone else was glassed in Fort William.

At work, Angus was focused and professional. He was not merely punching the clock or passing the time. Angus was improving himself and educating the readership of the
John O'Groat Journal.
He wasn't just collecting a pay check, he was a journalist: it was a calling of messianic proportions.

He was five feet three but he had always wanted other men to look up to him. There were some in the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland who considered that Angus's profession was worldly, if not blasphemous. Angus was frustrated at the
John O'Groat Journal
, but he felt that the true journalism to which he aspired was fully aligned with his beliefs. Journalism
was
evangelism. He only needed the right story. The right story could bring Angus Campbell's vision to the world.

He pulled the pages from his typewriter and read them with his corrector ready. Suddenly, over the airwaves, Angus heard the sentence that he had been waiting his whole life to hear: it was a soul-completing sentence. Hearing it was like being born: being born again.

            
Attention all units: Suspected abduction of a female child from Ravenshill Primary School in Thurso. The suspect is a tall man with dark hair and blue eyes, wearing a dark suit and a light shirt. Car make and number plates are unknown, but it is a dark-colored hatchback, possibly red, brown, or black. The child's name is Molly Henderson, and she is seven years old, with long dark hair, an eye patch, and was last seen wearing her school uniform.

A
ngus submitted his article on the sing-along and then jumped into his car. It whined when he turned the ignition but started on a second try. It was a thirty-minute drive from Wick to Thurso. He drove straight to Ravenshill Primary School, fixed his tie and inspected his teeth in the rearview mirror, dusted his jacket, slipped it on, and then walked into the school, notebook in hand.

Angus knew Betsy Clarke in the school office from church. Her husband, Thomas, often led the hymns. Angus asked for Betsy as soon as he arrived, but she was on her tea break and so he waited, on a chair made for a child, his knees to his chest, considering the questions that he would ask her. He wrote down several points on his notepad and underlined each one heavily in ink.

Betsy came for him the minute her tea break ended. She
was wearing a tweed skirt with a Fair Isle sweater. At church, unfailingly, Betsy wore a navy suit with white collar and cuffs and a felt navy hat with net detail.

Betsy took him into the office, made him a cup of tea, and offered him a digestive biscuit, which he accepted. He flicked over the pages of his notebook.

“It's a terrible business,” Betsy began, brushing a crumb from her ample bosom. “You never think it'll happen here. I mean, that wee lassie, just the other day I was talking to her . . .”

“You know her and the family?”

“The Hendersons.” Betsy nodded with her mouth closed, dimpling her chin. “He's the big boss at Dounreay. They don't want, that's for sure . . . They live in the big detached house on Rose Street.”

Angus's eyebrows shot up. “Rose Street.”

Betsy nodded.

Angus made a note that Molly's father, Mr. Henderson, was the managing director at Dounreay nuclear plant, just five miles west of Thurso. Looking back at the notes he had made so far, he said, “The police have a rough description of the kidnapper . . . so there were witnesses?”

“Three girls in Molly's class say they saw Molly go off with him. I think the girls were all walking to school together. The police are questioning each of them and their parents.”

“Do you know who the girls are?”

“I do,” said Betsy, her eyes widening, “Sandra Tait, Pamela McGowan, and Sheila Tanner.”

“And do we know the reason he took her and not the other girls?”

“I don't know, maybe the other girls were warier—I heard the girls said that Molly went with him . . . arm in arm.”

“And what's Molly like? Is she wild?”

“Oh no, the opposite. She does well at school but she's quiet as a mouse. I'm always telling her to speak up. I think she's shy and she gets picked on a little because of her lazy eye.

“It's a terrible business. I don't know for sure, but there's a rumor a police car was in the area following up a different disturbance. It's like she was snatched right under our noses, but under the police's nose too.”

“And this description of the attacker . . .”

“It's from the girls. Silly wee girls, I don't think they were very exact.”

Angus nodded, lips closed.

“What about the Hendersons?” he said. “Are the family believers?”

“The mother's a lapsed Catholic but I'm not sure about him.”

“And Molly's their only daughter?”

“Their only child.”

B
y the time Angus pulled up on Rose Street two police cars and three news vans were sitting outside a stone villa set back from the road. A hack with an STV badge was chain-smoking beside the Hendersons' hedge. There was a nip in the autumn air and Angus shivered, zipping up his anorak as he approached the man.

“Are the police still inside?” he asked, straining to read the man's badge.

“Aye. Are you a neighbor?”

“Angus Campbell,
John O'Groat Journal
,” he said, offering a hand, which waited between them until the man took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled, “John Burns.”

Angus pursed his lips and put his hand back in his pocket.

“Has anyone spoken to the parents?”

Burns narrowed his eyes and took a drag of his cigarette, as if considering what to tell Angus. “The police have been in there for hours interviewing the family, but a neighborhood search has been organized and there's a police plan in place with lookouts on the main junctions leaving town. The word is that there'll be a press conference in an hour or so. A sorry business.”

“Is there any suggestion of a motive?”

“What do you think? Here we go again. I've spent most of my career on these cases. It's only a couple of years since Tracey Begg went missing, and that murder has been linked to Charlotte Martin previous. He takes his time and has a break between killings. It's the Moors murderers all over again. Sick bastard.”

Angus didn't approve of the man's language, but he sympathized with the message. “I have a daughter myself.”

“Well, keep an eye on her. It doesn't bear thinking about. Molly's father's out there with the search party right now, combing Lady Janet's Wood. Useless, if you ask me. If that sick bastard's got her, he'll be long gone. Down south, I expect. The police aren't going to say anything at the press conference, but I have it on the QT that they're already comparing this abduction with the other murdered girls'.”

Standing on the pavement with the damp sea air seeping into his bones, Angus watched the shadow of Molly's mother at the window, pulling her cardigan around her. He went back to the car and drafted details of his story until the police came out and informed the waiting journalists that a press conference would be held in the Royal Hotel.

A
t the press conference, Angus was three rows from the front but could still feel the heat of the lamps that the television crews had installed. It felt like his time.

He saw it clearly now: like the crusaders, Angus had been called upon to protect the sacred. A Thurso child had been snatched, and his role was to find the person responsible, even if the child was gone. He would not give up; he would be relentless in his quest.

He took a few moments to bask in a fantasy where he was recognized by the Queen for his services to journalism and the public. He imagined himself being knighted, feeling the gentle tap of the sword on each shoulder and a room full of people applauding.

Several people took their seats behind a table covered in a starched white tablecloth. Three microphones had been strategically placed and there were jugs of water and glasses. Detective Inspector Black tapped the microphone three times and noisily cleared his throat and began.

“At approximately 08:45 hours this morning young Molly Henderson, of 56 Rose Street, Thurso, went missing on her way to school. It's our belief that Molly has been abducted . . .”

Angus focused his attention on Molly's mother. She was unmistakable, a blur of misery and torment. Her agonized face reminded Angus of a painting by Masaccio, of Eve being cast from the Garden of Eden.

A
s soon as the press conference ended, Angus put his foot down as he sped home along the Highland roads, headlights on full beam in case a stray deer crossed his path.

He felt different now that the child had been taken. He felt inspired. He had a calling, after all. “Thank you, dear Lord,”
he said, out loud, gripping the steering wheel and allowing a small whoop of joy.

When he reached the farmhouse, it was after eight. Hazel had his dinner in the oven and put his plate under the grill to warm as soon as he entered.

Angus had met Hazel through the church on Barra, at the Bible study group organized for the “young folk.” Angus had liked her timidity and her piousness. She was just over five feet and Angus felt tall beside her. She had been raised in the church and had always known her place. His mother had passed already when he met Hazel, but his father had approved of the match. Hazel was an only child and her father was an elder at the church. She had been a plain, nervous girl with full hips.

“I didn't think you'd be so late,” Hazel muttered, chin to her chest. “If the potatoes are too dry I can make some fresh.”

“Fine,” said Angus, brushing past her. He went to the porch and changed out of his work shoes into his Wellington boots.

“What do you mean?” said Hazel, suddenly appearing in front of him, her hands clasped before her.

“What are you talking about, woman?” Angus spat at her.

“Do you mean you'll wait and see what the potatoes are like, or I should boil some fresh ones now?”

“Is that all you care about? Are you gormless?” Angus took a single step toward her and she shrank from him, defensive but accepting, like a dog. “Boil some fresh potatoes if it pleases you. Day after day the same tripe you serve up; I'm sure I will notice no difference.”

Hazel and Angus's courtship had been pleasant enough, but it was after they were married and the children came that Angus became disheartened by her company. He had enjoyed both of her pregnancies, and liked to put his hands on her
stomach to feel the child move. He had urged her to rest and eat well and had been delighted that his second-born was a son. Yet Hazel lacked strength as a mother, and it had fallen upon him to enforce discipline. She was a poor cook, yet had a tendency to put on weight. She failed to learn from the lessons he tried to teach her.

Angus marched out to the barn, striding, his boots leaving large indentations in the mud.

In the barn, Maisie seemed uncomfortable, off her food and letting out low pitiful moans as soon as Angus entered.

“It can't be long now, my girl,” he said, a hand smoothing her swollen flank. “Only a few days at most and I'll help you. I'll be with you all the way, and you'll be chasing that calf right across the paddock before you know it.”

Maisie turned to him dolefully, black eyes so large that they could reflect Angus's whole face. He scratched the space between her ears and watched her tail whip in appreciation.

“You're my beautiful girl,” he said, running his hand from her head to her rear.

He put extra feed and fresh water into Maisie's trough, then returned to the house. It was freezing although it was only autumn, and Angus remembered the small Henderson child out alone at the mercy of the demon. It didn't bear thinking about.

Inside, he pulled off his Wellingtons and went into the kitchen in his socks, to find Hazel spooning potatoes onto his plate. The sight of her sickened him. She was so proud of herself for those fresh, boiled potatoes, he could tell, and he wanted to let her know that these paltry offerings of hers were nothing to be proud of. He sat, prayed, and then raised his cutlery, ready to pass judgment on her culinary efforts when he heard
something . . . forbidden. It was so faint that Angus could not be sure, but it sounded distinctly like music. He threw down his knife and fork and headed for the stairs, but by the time he had reached the banister all he could hear was the somber tick of the grandmother clock that hung in the hall.

Convinced that he had not misheard, Angus bounded upstairs, his short legs taking the steps two at a time. Rachael was the most obvious culprit. Angus threw open the door of her bedroom to find her standing strangely by her bed, her chin down and a flush on her cheek.

Angus folded his arms as he walked into the room, checking for signs of disarray.

“What are you doing in here, young lady?”

“I was about to do some homework,” she said, avoiding his eyes, and her voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.

“Speak up and look at me when I'm talking to you.”

His daughter's eyes flickered up toward him. She was as sly and weak-willed as her mother. Suddenly he noticed that the frill of the valance around the bed was protruding strangely. He got down on his knees and peered under the bed.