Way Beyond A Lie, page 8
Ross was under no illusions. There would be no false sightings, and so it proved. Moving at window-shopper’s pace he looked in every shop, every café, every pub. Nothing.
He decided to hang around the area for a while so he stopped in at a coffee shop. He only intended to have a coffee then he realised just how hungry he was, and a chicken and bacon panini seduced him from the front row of the chilled cabinet. The young barista who served him was a bit flash, spinning the crockery and cutlery up onto the tray with a magician’s flourish, and topping off the coffee with an intricate fern pattern. But he was good fun, and so unfeasibly happy in his work that Ross couldn’t stop himself laughing at the lad’s patter. How do they keep these kids so motivated on such crap wages?
From his seat at the window he could keep watch along the pavement to left and right. Legions of shoppers, mostly well-laden at this late stage in the day, traipsed past the window but none of them were Carla. He began to feel a little cheated. Not even a vague resemblance. Not like on the telly.
Definitely the longest of long shots, he thought to himself as he freed his bike, swung his leg over the frame, and debated his next move. Amanda’s offhand comments on the phone still rankled and although the prospect made him anxious, he called her again.
‘Hi. Amanda, Tom and the boys can’t take your call just now. Leave a message, and one of us will call you back. Thanks.’
Ross had his elbow on the bridge parapet, and the palm of his hand flat against his forehead as he listened to her voice. He had no clue what to say, and he hesitated for so long the voicemail system beeped twice and cut him off.
‘Oh, shit!’ to himself, and, ‘Oh, sorry,’ to an elderly lady who was glaring daggers as she side-stepped him on the pavement, pulling her tartan shopping trolley behind her and bashing it off his bike. Ross dropped his phone into his pocket, paused, and lifted it straight back out again.
He mulled it over for a few seconds, then redialled. ‘Amanda, hi, it’s Ross. Listen, Carla still hasn’t come home and, well, obviously I’m really worried. As you can imagine. I’ve been to the police so they’re … making enquiries.’ Well what else do you say? ‘Anyway, if you know where she is, could you call me right away please?’ Now the tricky bit. ‘And Amanda … last night … on the phone … I didn’t know what you meant by … well, I just didn’t know what you meant. So can we talk please, one way or the other? Thanks.’
Ross had trouble disconnecting the call. His hand was shaking like an alcoholic coming off a three-day bender. But he’d overcome another hurdle, one he knew he’d been avoiding.
He looked down at the phone to turn the screen off. His recent calls were still showing and in the list above Amanda was House. Worth a try, I suppose. But the house phone remained unanswered. He’d probably have fallen into the Water of Leith through shock if Carla had picked up.
With nothing else to do but head for home, Ross bumped his bike onto the road and joined the rush-hour traffic, which was the main reason he didn’t hear his ringtone.
Chapter Eighteen
‘You calling him back?’ Tom had been down at the playing fields earlier to cheer on his son’s football team and hadn’t yet changed out of his t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He needed a shave too but hadn’t bothered as he and Amanda weren’t going out that night. He was leaning against the frame of the kitchen door, arms folded. He arched an eyebrow at his wife, knowing his question was as good a way as any to waste four words.
‘Am I hell.’
‘Do you know where Carla is?’
‘No idea. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell him.’
‘And the reason?’
Amanda wasn’t long back from lunch with her sister. She hadn’t changed yet either but had put on a green cotton apron to protect her dress jeans and red sleeveless top. She’d tied back her shoulder-length red hair while she prepared dinner. She swished some onions round a sizzling pan, tutting as a crescent of miniscule spots of oil sparked onto the gleaming brushed aluminium hob. She ripped a sheet of kitchen paper from the roll and smeared the oil away. ‘Do I need a reason?’
‘It would make more sense if you did.’
‘Oh. So I’m not making sense then, am I?’
Joy, thought Tom. Another enthralling evening looms. ‘Suit yourself.’ He lifted the Edinburgh Evening News from that day’s stack of pre-recycling and headed for his recliner in the den. His younger son, Richard, was in there too. Wired for sound, scribbling in a school notebook, and intermittently watching recorded highlights of Tottenham Hotspur playing some Portuguese mob.
‘What’s the score, Rickie?’
‘Two-nil, Spurs. A penalty and an own goal. Dodgy ref.’
Tom smiled and ruffled Richard’s hair. The kid can listen, write, watch and speak. All at the same time. ‘Aren’t they all?’ he said, as he settled down to read the paper.
Back in the kitchen, Amanda had watched her husband going into the den before eventually uttering: ‘Arse.’
She threw some mushrooms in the pan and reached for the kitchen roll again.
Chapter Nineteen
‘So, what’s the story with the missing Mrs McKinlay then, Dave?’ asked Divisional Sergeant Ronnie Cockburn, full concentration on his keyboard as he tapped out an operational report.
Cockburn was short for a police officer and had clearly ceased any form of aerobic exercise a long time ago. Even on a cold day he sweated buckets. Very thin on top, his hairstyle comprised half a dozen strands of slicked black hair running from back to front. He was also one of police life’s little mysteries. He hardly ever looked up from his desk, rarely ventured out from behind it unless summoned from above, yet he knew every damned thing that was happening on his patch. And well before anyone else, it seemed. His nickname was Radar, after Walter Eugene ‘Radar’ O’Reilly, the apparently psychic corporal from the legendary film and TV series M*A*S*H. Radar’s party piece was to report he’d just completed an assignment for his commanding officer, just as the CO was about to issue said assignment to his clairvoyant subordinate.
So PC Dave Devlin had no idea how Ronnie knew he was even in the Area Control Room, or that Dave would be reporting in on his and Lee’s activities that day. Dave had been trying unsuccessfully to catch Ronnie out for months, sneaking up on him from all directions in vain attempts to reach the desk unnoticed. One time, he entered and crossed the room, hidden all the way behind Mick Moffat, a six foot seven giant of a PC, who, as part of the subterfuge, was carrying a huge empty cardboard box. Just as their little caravan was on final approach, Ronnie piped up without a trace of humour, ‘Shift your arse out the way, Mick. I need Dave to update me on that assault in Admiralty Street.’
While PC Thomas had been driving them back to the station, Devlin had radioed in his report to one of the Control Room team. Normally, he would also have updated his own sergeant but the officer he spoke to explained that Devlin’s supervisor was out, investigating the death of a young woman whose body had been found in a lane behind the Leith Malmaison. The controller asked Devlin to come into the Control Room and update Sergeant Cockburn himself.
Devlin was nothing if not efficient. He described everything he and his colleague had done starting with their canvass of the residents. As he’d imagined, not many of Ross’s neighbours had been at home, only Joe from those that Ross was acquainted with. Joan was away for the weekend visiting her sister in Crieff. No one had seen Carla. Devlin planned to make another sweep in the early evening, and had typed up notes to drop through the letter boxes of anyone who still wasn’t home, asking them to contact the station if they could help.
‘The first place we checked was the gym. The guy on reception wasn’t the most helpful but he confirmed Mrs McKinlay is a member.’ Devlin checked his notes. ‘She was there for a spin class last Saturday morning, and again on Tuesday afternoon but she hasn’t been in since.’ Devlin turned a page in his notebook. ‘McKinlay mentioned a woman his wife was friendly with. He said Ellie or Ellen but they don’t have an Ellie or an Ellen on their membership. Two Helens, though. I have their numbers and I’ll follow them up this evening too.’
But Devlin’s next statement certainly captured Ronnie Cockburn’s attention. ‘Mr McKinlay’s tale has a wife-sized hole in it, Sarge.’ The sergeant stopped typing immediately and swung round in his chair as his officer continued. ‘We spoke to the store manager, who seemed really switched on. He thought McKinlay was genuine. But then we had a look through the footage from the car park cameras. McKinlay told us his wife drove to the store but it was him that got out of the driver’s side.’ He paused for an instant. ‘And no one got out the passenger’s seat, as far as we could see.’
Cockburn made a hmmm sound, patted down an errant strand of hair and waved Devlin to keep talking.
‘But, it’s fair to say the quality of the film’s not brilliant, Sarge. The lighting in the car park’s not the best, he parked about as far from a security camera as he could, and it was pissing down at the time.’
The sergeant held up a hand. ‘Are we suspicious about where he parked? I mean, how’s the coverage in the car park?’
‘I don’t know about suspicious. It was Friday evening, which can be a busy time. That could’ve been why they parked outside.’
Cockburn rocked his head from side to side, indicating he was at least considering the idea as a possibility. ‘Okay, Dave. Still doesn’t explain why he said she was driving, though.’ Cockburn pondered for a few seconds. ‘What about the in-store cameras?’
Devlin hitched his bum onto the edge of the sergeant’s desk. ‘According to McKinlay, they didn’t get very far through their shopping before she sent him to pick up these cashew nuts.’
‘And those first few aisles were busy?’
Devlin nodded. ‘But he’s quite obvious, appears a few times going up and down the aisles, but not her. As far as I can see, anyway. According to him, his wife was wearing all blacks and greys like any number of other women in those aisles. She might have had a hat on, she might not. Can’t remember, he says. But, from what we saw, he looks like he’s on his own in the store.’
‘Right. Put that to one side for the moment. Let’s imagine she has actually gone missing. What’ve we got?’
Devlin checked his notes. ‘Including when he said they first arrived at the store, McKinlay appears on video at the entrance at all the right times, both coming in and going back out. There’s a second exit that opens onto a walkway to the car park. Video quality’s not so good there, one of the lights is bust. But in the timeframe he says she went missing, no females fitting her description left through either door. There were several couples as you would expect, but they were all either pushing trolleys or lugging bags. No sign of anyone coercing a woman to leave.’ Cockburn had gone back to typing his report but Devlin knew to keep talking. It would all be sinking in.
‘Hospitals?’
‘They’ve all been checked out. No women recently admitted who fit Mrs McKinlay’s description. But they know we’re looking, and we’ll try them again tomorrow, just in case.’
Cockburn bashed the Enter key and sat back with his hands clasped behind his head, looking up at Devlin. ‘So, what are you thinking?’
Devlin rubbed his chin. ‘Apart from this discrepancy about who was driving, and the fact we can’t identify her in the store, in truth, we’ve nothing concrete to go on. There’s absolutely no evidence any crime’s been committed, so it could still be something domestic. Or he could be a nutcase who’s made the whole thing up, but I don’t think so.’
‘Could she have a bit on the side?’
‘There’s always that chance, Sarge. After all, she’s about twelve years younger than him. Italian, and a bit tasty too, from what I could see.’
‘Okay, Dave. Well done. You leave it there and let me think about it. Before you finish tonight, call McKinlay and remind him to let us know if his missus turns up. Pick it up again when you come back on shift in the morning, and if she’s still missing we’ll pass it to CID.’
‘Will do.’ Dave Devlin turned away, wondering just how the bloody hell Cockburn knew he’d swapped for a morning shift, considering he’d only arranged it with a colleague about fifteen minutes earlier.
‘I’ll just need to get up earlier,’ he sighed, as he pushed his way through the swing door to leave the Control Room.
Chapter Twenty
Ross’s route home to Newhaven from Stockbridge was fairly flat so his progress was relatively speedy. Once he crossed Ferry Road, a four mile long, poker-straight road that connected Leith with Davidson’s Mains, another of Edinburgh’s original outlying villages, he passed through the expensive suburb of Trinity, where Amanda and Tom Duncan lived. As he was cycling down Trinity Road he stopped at a junction, their detached sandstone villa was only a couple of streets to his left.
There was definitely something up with Amanda, that much was obvious, and Ross knew he needed to find out what it was. There was a good chance she and her husband would be home right now. Both were creatures of habit. For years Tom had coached the junior football teams at the local school, while Amanda ferried their children to and from their various sporting and social activities. But it was common knowledge that around five o’clock virtually every Saturday, the car keys were ditched and a minimum two bottles of red wine, and frequently more, were consumed in the Duncan household.
He steered his bike in the direction of their house but after only a few metres, he abruptly changed his mind and chickened out. He made a tight turn in front of a driveway that curved through rhododendrons to a small Victorian mansion, typical of the area. Ross was disappointed he’d bottled it, but he reasoned that whatever Amanda’s problem was, it might be resolved by tomorrow. I’ll definitely go and see her on Sunday.
He had just finished executing his U-turn when his phone rang. As far as Ross knew, it was the first time since Carla had gone missing. He nearly jumped out of his shirt. He jammed on the anchors and grabbed for his pocket, but his woolly-gloved fingers didn’t have a proper grip and the ringing phone squirmed from his grasp, collided with the bike frame and landed with a plasticky slap in the gutter. He was aghast as the phone broke into its three main components: front, back and battery. He was slow to react as the battery skittered towards a grating. At the last second, he stuck out a foot and prevented it from plopping into the mud-laced water but the scraping sound the battery made under the sole of his shoe left him wondering if it would survive his attempt to save it.
He laid his bike down, whipped off his gloves, and gathered up the three pieces, carefully wiping mud away from the battery terminals with the fleecy lining of his sleeve. Desperate to find out who had called, he snapped the phone back together. He turned it over and tapped the screen to check for the missed call. When the phone didn’t respond, he thought at first it was broken. Muppet. It’s powered off. Ross jabbed at the switch and waited for the better part of an eternity before the home screen appeared, then several seconds more before the signal bars became visible.
Two missed calls? How the hell did that happen? He navigated through the menus until he located the calls log, then selected the missed calls list. Ross didn’t do shortcuts. There was one number he didn’t recognise, while the other one read: Martin Mobile.
He tapped the first number. Please God, let this be Carla calling from another phone. And by the way, God, if this turns out to be one of those flamin’ PPI calls, I’ll go absolutely apeshit. He could feel his pulse thumping at his temple as he clamped the phone to his ear. ‘Come on, answer the bloody phone.’
‘Hello. PC Dave Devlin speaking.’
The tension in his gut dissipated like dust falling through chicken-wire. ‘Oh. Hi, Dave. It’s Ross McKinlay here. I see you’ve called my mobile. Sorry I missed your call.’ Sorry I missed your call? What a terminally stupid thing to say.
‘Aye. No worries, Ross. Just a quick update.’ Ross knew people’s ears didn’t actually prick up but if they were capable of that, his would definitely have done so. ‘Although, I’m sorry to say I’ve nothing new to report.’ Devlin carried on to relate more or less the same story he’d told Ronnie Cockburn earlier, that he’d spoken to more neighbours who hadn’t seen Carla, and that he’d tracked down two Helens who hadn’t met her at all. He could have saved his breath; Ross had hardly heard a word the policeman said after nothing new to report.
Devlin closed by promising he would call again in the morning with any further updates, and extracted a similar promise from Ross that he would contact the police if Carla came home. Ross mumbled his agreement and disconnected.
This tidal surf of emotions, hope and expectation, followed by despair and disappointment, repeat as necessary, was beginning to wear him down and his eyes brimmed up again. A black BMW X5 drove slowly by and while the driver paid him little attention, his female passenger wouldn’t need a photo to recognise him again. Ross moved over to a hedge, out of the light, not considering that this might make him look even more suspicious.
His phone beeped its voicemail tone, a reminder that Martin had called too. ‘Hi Ross. Sorry it’s taken me ages to phone back but I was out for dinner with the girls last night, then my phone was on the charger and I forgot. Anyway, humble apologies, my man. Call me back. Cheers.’
Ross hit Martin’s number, and didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Hi. It’s me. Listen, something crazy’s happened. Carla’s missing. She’s been missing since last night and I don’t know where she is. I’m scared, Martin, and I haven’t a clue what to do. I’ve been to the police and everything.’
‘Fuck! Missing? Have you two had a barney or something?’
‘No. We haven’t. Definitely not.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘On my way home. Just a few minutes away.’
‘Right. I’m coming over. Ten minutes, tops.’
