A Taste for Malice (41 page)

The Vauxhall beyond the wall is hers and I tell her to get the boy home and dried and to buy him the biggest bar of chocolate she can find.

‘Aye, right,’ she says. ‘Sugar. For the shock.’

‘Naw,’ I say, looking at the boy. Now that he is safe, Lewis is wearing a huge smile as if he can’t wait to tell someone that he nearly drowned and had to be saved by a big policeman. ‘Sugar. For a bribe.’

Once they are safely on their way I turn to Dave who has just stripped off his soaking wet shirt.

‘You don’t happen to have a towel in your car?’ asks Alessandra while scanning the lean and muscular torso in front of her. I smile. Dave’s top half is coloured in what is known locally as an Ayrshire tan. Most summers the occasion for a man to take his shirt off in these parts is rare. The sun may be shining and strong enough to burn, but it can often be accompanied by a wind that feels as if it has come directly from the Arctic wastes. Therefore if you are out of doors often, you can get a tan on your face, neck and on your arms up to the halfway point of your bicep where a T-shirt sleeve would stop. It is a bizarre look and Dave is displaying a textbook example.

Alessandra is not so bothered about the piebald tan effect and is looking at Dave as if to say: fuck me, a policeman with a six-pack. ‘Where do you live?’ I ask him.

‘Ayr.’

I throw Alessandra my car keys. ‘Drive Dave home for a change of clothes and then come straight back.’

Alessandra is trying not to smile as she walks away.

‘Remember, you’re a married woman,’ I shout after her.

Behind her back, she holds up a finger.

I walk back up the stretch of road that leads to the reservoir wall and take the path that leads off to the left. A small pine post with an inset green circle and white arrow points me in the right direction. The path is crisp underfoot with crushed stones and twigs. I loosen my collar in a vain attempt to lessen the heat. I am out of the breeze here and the wall to my left is acting like a radiator.

Nettles line the path and stretch up almost as far as my shoulders. I try to imagine a small boy walking up here. He’d be excited walking in the steps of smugglers and pirates. But he’d hate the nettles. They are part of every small boy’s nightmare. Bad enough when they are up to your knees, but these would be swooping over his head.

If this is indeed where Shearer came. I’m starting to have my doubts. Ahead of me I see a tall post with arrows that show there is a distance of 1.7 miles to Dundonald and 1.3 miles back to Troon.

I follow the arrow to Dundonald and enjoy the shade from a stretch of trees on my right. The trees are tall and their slim trunks and branches shelter me like half of a corridor. To my left I can see down into the reservoir. The teenager who came charging down the hill looking for some help is sitting on the wall, his fishing rod and line stretching into the water.

This part of the path leads to the far end of the reservoir and just before the path takes a turn to the left, I turn and look back over where I’ve come. From this elevation I can see over the Firth of Clyde to the hills of Arran. It’s such a clear day, I can see beyond that to the low and long stretch of land that is Kintyre.

The sun is the colour of red gold and it looks as if this colouring has seeped into the sea and stained the water burnt amber from one side of the wide bay to the other.

This is all very nice, but I have a child to find. I turn and follow the path with purpose.

My heart is given a charge when a blackbird bursts from a bramble thicket. The bird would think this lumbering beast on the path is a danger and she’s leading me away from her nest.

The path is dry and well-maintained. Trees lean over offering shade. This must have been an ideal way for the smugglers of old. They’d have been safe from the prying eyes of the exciseman up here.

The path takes a fork, and a familiar post points to the left. Some witty vandal with a black marker has written Smuggler’s Path on one side, and Fanny Path on the other.

How weak is that? Pussy path would have been much better. Alliteration is everything in the best graffiti circles.

Trees, trees and more trees. So much for the view from this part. I could be in the middle of a maze for all I know. For a stretch the shade becomes stifling rather than welcome, so little of the sun does it let through. Apart from the crunch of my feet on the ground there is no other sound. All is quiet.

I reach another stretch of sunlight and take a deep breath. It’s only with that action that I realise I have been holding my breath in. Tall grass flanks the path, dragonflies zip across the air about knee height. I’ve never seen so many of them in the one place. The birds must love coming up here for a dragonfly feast.

Then I’m back in the shade amidst some tall trees. What are they, I wonder. Elm? Silver Birch? Larch? Over to my right a giant fungus grows out of the trunk of one. It’s pale and makes the shape of a hugely inflated pair of lips, as if Mick Jagger not only talks to the trees, he copulates with them as well. Then I spot a tree with a denuded ivy stem growing up it. Criss-crosses here and there along its length give it the appearance of a wood spirit’s ladder up to the sky.

Give it a rest, McBain. All this atmosphere and nature and you’re coming over all fanciful. I shake my head as if freeing it from such frippery and increase my pace. A long dark stretch downhill opens up and to the right I can see the grey stone tower of what must be Dundonald Castle.

The woods come to an end at some houses. And this must be the village of Dundonald.

I pick my mobile from my pocket. Check the signal. It’s weak but I should be able to get through. I call Alessandra.

‘Alessandra, can you ask your man there to contact the uniforms and ask them to check the houses at the Dundonald end of the path?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’s your E.T.A?’

‘Not sure, boss, there’s been a snag …’

‘You got your tongue stuck in his braces?’

‘That’s an inappropriate way to speak to a
married
colleague.’ Then, ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

‘Maybe he’s shy, Alessandra. Maybe you need to do the running.’

‘Anyway, boss, as I was about to say, there’s been an accident on the A77. We’ve got the lights on and we’re trying to nudge our way through, but it’s a bit of a nightmare.’

‘I’ve started without you. See you when you get here.’ I hang up.

Looking back the way I came, I review the path. There was nothing to suggest any human habitation apart from the houses at either end. Where might she be? I retrace my steps. There’s a couple of spots where the path detours. I follow each of them and they both lead to an open field.

Soon I’m back at the reservoir.

The boy with the Rangers top has been joined by a pal in a Celtic top. Who says never the twain shall meet? Not if these boys have anything to do with it. They’re showing a maturity that is lacking in many adults in this part of the world. I’m liking them already.

In concert, the boys flick their arms and their rods out over the water with practised ease. They’ve done this before, I think. How often? I wonder.

A thought begins and forms as I run along the path in their direction. I clamber over a fence and climb through some fierce undergrowth before I reach the shore path and then, picking up speed, I run towards the lads.

One of them spots me and I can see his head turn to the side as he tells his pal. They both freeze. Then burst into action. They reel in their lines, pick up their bags and leg it.

‘Awfurfucksake,’ I shout after them. ‘I’m not checking on your permits.’ I run over the hill and down to the gate in the wall, where one is through and the Rangers fan is momentarily tangled in the gate. His rod stuck through some wire. He wrestles with it, trying to free it. It gives me enough time to catch him.

‘What are you running for?’ I ask breathing hard.

‘You started it,’ the boy’s face is coloured with acne and embarrassment at being caught. ‘If anybody runs after you up here, they’re after your permit.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about your permit. I’m the police.’

‘Even worse,’ says the boy. He looks at me, forms a grimace and then a tentative grin. ‘Where’s your pal?’ I ask.

‘He’ll be hiding at the end of the road. If I don’t show up in five minutes he’ll come back here and kick your arse.’

He’s giving me the meanest, scariest look he can come up with. ‘He’s a black belt.’

I laugh. ‘Give Black Belt a shout. I need to pick your brains.’

I’m sitting on a black wrought iron bench on the shore of the reservoir. The Celtic fan is called Liam and the Rangers fan is called Billy. For real. The irony is they both have roots in the same name: William.

My guess is that they are aged about twelve. Which is ideal. They’ll be old enough to talk freely, but young enough not to know any better. If I were speaking to them a couple of years in the future they’d be sullen and uncooperative.

Liam is sitting on the bench beside me, arms crossed, body turned towards me. He has blond gelled hair probably cut to mimic one of his footballing heroes. Billy has dark hair in a shorn, military-style cut and he’s sitting cross-legged on the ground between us.

‘Come up here a lot, do you?’ I ask.

‘Just during the holidays,’ says Liam.

‘There’s nothing else to do, mate,’ says Billy.

‘Catch much?’

‘Na,’ says Liam.

‘Don’t know what we’d do with it if we did,’ grins Billy.

‘Eat it,’ I suggest.

‘You must be joking, mate.’ Liam makes a gagging sound.

‘My mum says if it doesn’t come in wee rectangular shapes and covered in breadcrumbs then I’m no interested,’ says Billy.

Both boys look at each other and giggle. I smile despite myself.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ I say. The seriousness of my tone is enough to dampen the giggles. ‘Have you seen many people out walking on the path?’

‘Not really,’ says Billy.

‘Don’t pay much attention to grown-ups,’ says Liam as he makes a face.

‘This is important, guys.’ I lean forward and look at them both. ‘A wee boy called Ben has gone missing. He’s four. We think his …’ I search for a term that might mean something to these boys, ‘baby-sitter is hiding him from his parents. We’re worried she’s going to hurt him.’

‘That’s rank, man,’ says Liam.

‘What a bitch,’ says Billy. ‘There was that wummin, earlier with the wee boy that fell in?’

‘He’s not the boy we’re looking for.’

‘Who would do …’ Billy sits bolt upright, his eyes large with excitement. ‘Liam, ’member yesterday? ’member? I pointed at that lassie with the wee boy.’

‘Nut,’ says Liam as he works at his memory of the last few days. I’m anxious to press, but I don’t want him to say something, anything just to please me.

‘’member?’ says Billy. ‘I laughed at her, saying it looked like she was taking her messages for a walk.’

‘Oh, aye,’ says Liam, but he’s still wearing an expression showing his uncertainty.

‘She had a back-pack on, like something I would use for school,’ says Billy. ‘And she was carrying like a Tesco plastic bag in each hand.’ He turns to face me, his expression clouded with the effort to recall. ‘Thing is, I turned away to tell Liam about them.’ As he speaks he swivels in his seat as if going through the motions of yesterday. ‘And when I turned back to look at them they’d gone.’

‘So they’d reached the end of the path and gone on towards Dundonald?’ I ask.

‘They couldn’t have,’ he replies. ‘No way were they moving that fast. It was like, just seconds. Last time I saw them they were …’ He thinks. ‘See that bench on the shore, right in the middle?’ I look over and follow his line of sight.

‘Right.’

‘See if you draw a line up to the trees from there …that’s where I saw them last.’

I look up to a point just over half way up that stretch of path.

‘I looked away for a couple of seconds and when I looked back they were gone. Pure vanished.’

Liam makes a whooshing, disappearing noise, as if keen to have some sort of involvement.

‘Did you see anything, Liam?’ I ask.

‘Nope,’ he answers.

‘’Cos by the time you looked up, loser, they’d gone.’ Billy reaches out and kicks Liam’s foot. Liam kicks him back. Up till now the conversation has been pretty mature, but this serves as a reminder that this pair are just boys.

‘Guys, I need you to do me a favour. I’m going up there for a look, but I’m expecting some colleagues to arrive soon. A man and a woman,’ I say.

‘Izzat the man that dived in and saved the wee boy?’ asked Billy.

I nod.

‘Should have seen it, man,’ Billy said to Liam. ‘It was well cool.’

‘Watch where I go, will you? And when they arrive, can you direct them?’

They both nod and almost at the same time ask, ‘Will we be on the telly?’

I shrug. ‘Who knows.’ Then I stand and look down at them both looking up at me, with their Celtic and Rangers shirts on.

‘Want to earn a tenner?’ I ask.

‘Aye,’ they both answer instantly.

‘Swap over your tops. Billy put on the Celtic one. Liam put Billy’s on.’

They each pull their shirt out from their chests and look at the other.

‘No fucking way, man.’

‘Not a chance.’

I walk away smiling. It seems some things are just unthinkable.

I walk back up along the path. When I get to the middle I turn and check with Billy down by the reservoir. He sees me standing and waves me on. I walk a couple more steps. Again no. I take half a dozen more steps forward and check again.

Billy rewards me with a huge smile and a double thumbs up.

I turn and face the woods. The trees are thinner here at the front, but a few yards in they thicken. The ground is covered in patches of grass, earth and weeds. Here and there a small bush survives on the meagre sunshine that reaches through the foliage. The land rises in a slope at this point, still covered with the same amount of foliage.

There’s nothing here to suggest where they might have gone. Whoever
they
are. I should be doubting myself around now. I should be on the verge of going back to the car, finding a nice wee café in Troon and treating myself to an Americano.