The Lost Sister Read online

  What had I expected from her, of course?

  I said, “Maybe you didn’t know her. But you knew Deborah Brown.”

  And she did. Didn’t have to say a word to tell me that.

  Chapter 23

  “She was extremely open in interview,” Ms Foster told me. “More than anyone I’d ever met. Normally, I’d find it unsettling, but she was one of those people who made you feel like they were your best friend.” She smiled, a reflex reaction that she quickly retracted. “I don’t know how to explain it. She had the same effect on everyone. Including Mary.”

  I said, “Tell me about her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Family. Friends. Lovers. What she liked to do in the evening.”

  “She…I mean…I know she got her degree at Glasgow College of Art. I know…I know…”

  I sat back.

  Figured as much. Some personality types are social magicians. They distract you with empathy, give you nothing in return and you don’t even realise. Most of these people are simply private. But some of them…

  “When did you start to get suspicious?” I asked.

  “I never said –”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Ms Foster shifted again. Ran a hand through her hair in a gesture without confidence that made me think of a nervous teenage girl trying to hide what she felt. In this room she would normally have the balance of power on her side. Dealing with pupils. Other members of staff. People she could control. No wonder she’d been hesitant to speak to me. I was an unknown quantity.

  She said, “It’s that obvious?”

  I nodded.

  Her head bowed a little so that her long hair fell across her face. She pushed against the desk and stood up. Walked to the large windows and looked outside.

  “Did she have any friends?” I asked.

  “People tried. Like I said, she was open and honest. But…”

  “She didn’t socialise.”

  “No.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “None that I knew of. Once, we had dinner together. My attempt to get to know her better. I took her…we went to that place on Brook Street…named after the jazz player.”

  I knew the place. “Beiderbeckes.”

  Ms Foster nodded. “She seemed to open up a little, and I thought maybe everything would be okay, that she was just thrown by being thrust into this new environment.” Ms Foster kept her back to me as she talked. Seemed to be focussing on something in the distance, out on the horizon. “She told me about a boyfriend she had in Glasgow. How she had come here to escape him.”

  “Escape?”

  She spun on her heels to face me. “That’s the word she used.”

  “She say why?”

  “Not really. The minute she told me, she seemed to realise what she’d said and tried to switch the subject. I let her. I was her boss, you know? We weren’t that close. I guess I realised it after that lunch.”

  I nodded.

  Something wasn’t sitting right.

  “What about her family? I mean, did she ever talk about having –”

  “She said she had a sister.”

  “A daughter?”

  Ms Roger’s brow furrowed. She took a step towards me. “She didn’t have any children. None that she mentioned.”

  “You look concerned,” I said.

  “Just something someone said.” She let her face relax, and leaned back against the sill of the large window. Looking almost at ease. Her defences down, as though she’d forgotten all her initial antagonism towards me.

  A good sign from my point of view.

  Her head had tilted back. She wasn’t looking at me any more. “They said, seeing her and Mary together, sometimes they looked more like mother and daughter than teacher and pupil.” She smiled. “Silly, really. Or it was at the time.”

  She stood up again. Looked at me strangely, her head tilted to one side. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “I’m an ex-copper. Used to work alongside Detective Bright.”

  She kept her back to me. “The man in charge?”

  Stretching the truth? Just a little. I played it cool, said, “That’s the one.”

  “And you’re working with him now? In some kind of advisory capacity?”

  I nodded. Kept up the eye contact. Kept her in tune with me. No hesitation. No uncertainty. She had to believe I was telling her the truth.

  One of the most powerful weapons in your arsenal – as an investigator, working for the police or for a private client – is the way you use words. Most of the time you can deal with anyone if you know the words or the tones that will persuade them to cooperate with you.

  You need to be as sneaky as a con artist.

  Finally, she said, “It’s not unusual for a teacher to take interest in a particularly bright or talented pupil. You think someone can do well, you want to encourage that. Rewards of the profession, you know? Christ knows there are few enough of those these days.”

  I nodded. Said nothing. Silence can be as big a motivator during interview as anything else.

  “It was only later…people began to talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “They were seen together outside school a lot. Not unusual, I guess, when the kids get older. They start to show more interest, sometimes the teacher takes on more of a mentor role.”

  “But other times –”

  “Other times there’s talk.”

  “Not just about them looking like mother and daughter.”

  Ms Foster sighed, deeply. “The tabloid press like their scandals. I’ll tell you straight up, Mr McNee, that the actual number of affairs between teachers and pupils is very small.” Was she quick on the defensive? Maybe, but I got the feeling she’d heard the insinuation more than enough times over the past couple of days. Probably the past couple of months from the way she was speaking. “Normally, as well, it happens between members of the opposite sex. Statistically, I mean.”

  I didn’t bother to tell her that I wasn’t thinking that way. That I knew the truth. That it was maybe even stranger than she suspected.

  She kept talking. She’d started this thing, was going to finish it. “I didn’t think the talk, the rumour mill, was founded on anything.” Another pause. Another reluctant admission: “She used to invite Mary over to her place. Never any of the other pupils. It was…unusual.”

  “More than favouritism?”

  That put her back on edge. “I don’t want to draw conclusions.” Aye, she could talk the talk, but she’d had doubts of her own.

  “Why didn’t you tell the police about this?”

  “I did…but they didn’t seem…they didn’t ask any further.”

  They didn’t? Surprised me. But not if they were holding back information. Susan had been cagey when I mentioned Deborah’s name earlier.

  Aye, according to our arrangement. I was an observer. But they were hiding things from me. Putting the blinkers on.

  Maybe more so since my little encounter with Ernie.

  “What did they ask about?”

  “You’re working with them, right?”

  One wrong question. I lost her.

  Easy to do. Takes one wrong turn and you pull someone straight out of what they’re saying, remind them they need to keep their guard up.

  I’d slipped up, indulging my personal curiosity. Trying to find out what facts had been hidden from me and why, when I should have been continuing to show concern for the girl.

  Mary Furst should have been all that should have mattered.

  Ms Foster said, “Maybe I should call the DCI?” Her tone was clipped. Authoritarian. She had her power back.

  I nodded, said, “I’m not sure there’s anything else you can tell me for now.”

  “All the same –”

  “All the same, I should be going. Case like this, it’s time sensitive.”

  “McNee,” she said. “That was your name, right?”

  I stood up. Feel
ing my face burn. My heart hammer.

  Fuck.

  I’d told Susan I wouldn’t get too deep into this case. That I was observation only. She’d known from the start I was talking shite.

  Knew me better than I knew myself, the way that old cliché goes.

  I started to back away.

  Ms Foster kept her gaze fixed on me.

  I left the room, made a quick walk down the corridor.

  Feeling like the worst kind of eejit.

  Chapter 24

  Back in the car, I called Wickes on the mobile number he’d given me.

  He answered in three rings.

  “My partner in crime,” he said. Laughed. The same animal sound I’d heard from him earlier. It made me uneasy for some reason. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  Not in the mood for jokes, I said, “Where are you?”

  He gave me an address. His tone suddenly formal. I’d upset him with my own straight-to-business routine. He’d get over it.

  I said, “Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Grumpy bastard this afternoon, aren’t you? I tracked Deborah down. A flat registered in her sister’s name. I checked it out as far as I could. The sister doesn’t live there. She’s keeping an empty home. Strike you as suspicious? Right now I’m supposed to be meeting with the landlord.”

  “No one’s home?”

  “You think she would be?”

  “Have you talked to the sister?”

  “You seriously think she’d talk to me? I told you what happened when we met before. As far as she’s concerned I’m the bloody devil. Price you pay for trying to do the right thing, aye?” Painting himself as the martyr. And maybe he was.

  But for all I wanted to like him, the more I listened to him talk, the more I felt that he was lying to me. Hiding the truth.

  From himself as much as me.

  I said, “If you have a line on the sist –”

  “You think she’ll tell us anything?” Mocking me. The kind of verbal whip that gives you pause for thought.

  “I want you to be sure,” I said. “I want you to be sure that Deborah’s in that flat. Then we call the cops, and they deal with –”

  “No. No fucking way, McNee. You can’t do that to me.” A rush to his words. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or just plain angry.

  I was thinking about my meeting with Ms Foster at Bellview. Her mentioning the other investigator. She hadn’t described him to me, but I knew it had been Wickes.

  He told me he’d been there. But he hadn’t made a grand impression. They’d chucked him out on his arse. The question was why?

  Stopping to think about it, what did I know about this man?

  He was a fellow investigator.

  With no references. No affiliations. Nothing to back up his story except old war stories about his career and the kind of earnest grin that made you want to believe him.

  Where had he heard of me? He never really said. Talked about my reputation, but never gave any specifics.

  Who the fuck was this guy?

  “We need to talk to the police,” I said. “I know the investigating officers. They’re good people…” Well, one of them at least. The one who wasn’t jumping into bed with known figures in organised crime.

  “You mean DCI Ernie Bright?” Wickes said, and I could hear a chuckle rumbling beneath the question.

  “Aye.”

  “You know his history? He was one of the officers offered David Burns a deal in the nineties. Worked with that bawbag to cut some kind of immunity in exchange for bringing down other gangs and known dealers. Christ, I wouldn’t trust that crooked bastard as far as I could throw him.”

  I tried to muster some belief into my voice. “That was a long time ago. That program was sanctioned by the police, ended when they realised that it was doing more harm than good.”

  “So he was following orders? He told you all about it?”

  I swallowed. “Yes.” I could pass this one on a polygraph, right?

  Wickes was silent.

  I could figure his reluctance. This investigation wasn’t about finding Mary for him. This was about Deborah. This was about confronting her. Asking her why, after all he had done for her, she still betrayed him.

  Did I understand his obsession?

  His self-delusion?

  Maybe.

  You love someone, you wind up doing stupid things. Losing your sense of perspective. Your world revolves around the object of your love.

  You end up sacrificing yourself for them.

  I figured this was why he and Deborah had found themselves together; some recognition of one for the other.

  Each was obsessed.

  Wickes with Deborah.

  Deborah with the daughter she never knew.

  I said, into the phone, “There are other leads on what might have happened to Mary.” Meaning the ex-boyfriend. Meaning she could have simply run off. I wanted Wickes to start thinking rationally about all of this: “You want to check out this place? When you don’t know for sure –”

  “Aye, and what have you been doing, pal? The way you were talking earlier, sounded like personal business.”

  “I was at the school,” I said. Held a second to listen for some kind of reaction. Maybe a giveaway about what he’d been doing there before me. But all I got was the steady sound of his breathing. “And I was going to go have a wee chat with Mary’s boyfriend. Have to admit, I was running the investigation, he’d probably be my first choice of suspect.”

  “You wouldn’t be holding anything out on me, pal?” Wickes asked it blunt. No slyness involved. Nothing that sounded like suspicion.

  “No,” I said. Unsure whether it really was a lie. “I just want to make sure we’re not overlooking any possibilities.”

  I arranged to meet him later, we’d see where his lead with the flat went.

  After I hung up, I put the phone down on the passenger seat. Feeling lightheaded.

  This was a bad idea. I knew it. Understood it. And still…

  I should have called Susan. Ended the whole sorry affair right then.

  But I had to know about Wickes. His stakes in all of this. He was hiding something; I knew it then: was absolutely convinced of it. He had lied to me. That was what stung the most.

  Injured pride?

  Aye, that and I was curious. Needed to know. To understand. Once I had some answers, could make sense of this man and his obsession with finding the missing girl and the woman he claimed was her mother, then I could go to Susan. Tell her everything.

  If I went any earlier, I’d lose my chance. Maybe never be able to make sense of anything that had happened.

  Talk about that itch you can’t scratch.

  Mary Furst Missing

  48 Hours

  Chapter 25

  Dundee was Scotland’s fourth city in terms of size, constantly jockeying with Aberdeen for the coveted position of third. But its reputation as the city with the small town feel was what gave it the edge. Stay there long enough, you felt like you knew the streets and the people intimately.

  One of the strange contrasts of the city came in the way that neighbourhoods were spread out. Poverty sat on the doorstep of middle class comfort without anyone batting an eyelid. There were no ghettos, just a few wrong turns.

  Which is why Richie Harisson’s parent’s comfortable, mid-sized bungalow sat in the shadow of old council tower blocks that cast a jealous shadow across their neighbours.

  I pulled up and idled for a few minutes on the main road outside. It was just past four, and most of my afternoon had been wasted at Burns’ house and the school. Before driving over, I’d called Susan to ask if there had been a break in the case. Anything I needed to know.

  She hadn’t answered.

  I hadn’t left a voicemail.

  Walking up the path to the front door, I felt a chill in the air and couldn’t figure whether the temperature was dropping or I was suffering some kind of psychosomatic reaction.
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  Did it matter?

  I chapped the front door three times. Rapid. Hard.

  Waited.

  The woman who answered was small, with blonde hair cropped short, and blue eyes enveloped by bags that had clearly come with the years. She was dressed in a cheap looking blouse and dark trousers, wore chunky heels to give her that extra little bit of height. Even then, she barely passed five feet. I figured her age for early fifties at a kindly estimate.

  “Aye?”

  “Mrs Harrison?”

  She nodded, wary.

  “My name’s McNee.” I presented my card. She turned it over a few times as though looking for a hidden message. “I need to talk to your son.”

  “The police have been here.”

  “DCI Bright, right?”

  She hesitated. “Said she was a DC.”

  At least I got the name right. But I figured I could stretch the truth a little. Mrs Harrison didn’t strike me so sharp as Ms Foster had at the school. “I’m consulting with the official investigation.”

  “No one mentioned you.”

  “You can phone the detective in charge if you like.” She looked as though she barely had the energy to pick up the receiver, never mind dial the digits.

  “Aye, well,” she said. “The lad’s not here, anyway. Fed up with all these eejits coming round, asking him about Mary. Hard enough on him and all that. If you do see him, Mr McNee, though, you can tell him he’s getting a skelp behind the ear for cutting out. He should be at home with me. Where I can protect him.”

  I pulled out a card. Said, “Give Richie this. He wants to talk, he can.”

  She looked at the card. Said, “Who’re you trying to fool? Nobody’s a private investigator. Not in Dundee of all places.”

  I shrugged and stepped back. No point in forcing this one. She didn’t want to talk. She wouldn’t talk.

  She wouldn’t give me her son. Perhaps afraid of the questions I wanted to ask. The truths I might uncover.

  Richie’s mother closed the door in my face. Hard. I stood there for a moment, feeling somehow stunned. Then shook my head and turned to walk back out to the road.