Cold Grave (26 page)

With a pang of guilt, Narey realised she hadn’t spoken to Corrieri since she’d charged her with working her way through the potential paddy38s she’d identified from the Jordanhill records. It was only seeing her approach with what would inevitably be a comprehensive history of everyone on the list, probably down to what they had for breakfast, that Narey realised she had neglected to tell Corrieri it had been none of them. Now she would have to burst the poor girl’s balloon.

‘Julia… ’

‘I’m sorry this has taken so long, Sarge. There was just so much to cover but I wanted…’

‘That’s okay, Julia, but…’

‘It’s been worth it, Sarge. I have quite a bit on everyone on your list and…’

‘Julia, will you just stop and listen for a minute,’ Narey interrupted her, sharper than she meant to. ‘Please.’

‘Sorry, Sarge. Sorry.’

Narey felt like she’d told a puppy off for bringing a stick back when she was the one who had told it to go and get it in the first place. The look of hurt in the puppy’s eyes pained her.

‘That’s okay. Look, I’m sorry but I’m not sure the guy we’re looking for is on the list you have.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah. I’ve got some new information and a new name. It looks like we’ll have to start all over again. Well, you’ll have to start all over again. Sorry.’

‘Oh, that’s okay. I’ll start on it straight away. But there’s nothing in here you’ll need?’

‘Sorry, no. It’s another student at Jordanhill altogether. A guy called Bradley. He’s…’

‘Peter Bradley?’

Narey stared at her DC in surprise.

‘Um, yes, how did you know?’

Corrieri visibly brightened and delved into one of the folders clutched under her arm. As she did so, she dropped the bottom folder, blushing in embarrassment as it plopped onto Narey’s desk. She tried to pick it up at the same time as looking inside the other folder and had to wedge the lot against her for support. At last, she triumphantly produced a couple of sheets of paper that were stapled together.

‘Peter Bradley. Born 22 September 1970 in East Kilbride. Attended Halfmerke Primary School from 1975 to 1982 and Hunter High School from 1982 to 1988. He then went to…’

‘Why have you got all this information on Bradley? Have you got me details on
every
student that ever went to Jordanhill?’

Corrieri smiled shyly.

‘No, Sarge. I looked at the list of names you gave me as being potentially the paddy38 you were looking for. I did all of those but it occurred to me that list wasn’t… no offence, Sarge, but it wasn’t necessarily as comprehensive as it might have been.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Er… well, um. Anyway, I also looked at two Smiths, a Connor, a Grady, one with the first name Ryan, one called Maureen… and Peter Bradley. I hope that’s okay.’

Narey laughed.

‘Yes, Julia. It’s definitely okay. What have you got?’

Corrieri lit up.

‘Well…’

Narey patiently sat through Corrieri listing Bradley’s CV in minute detail, thinking the least she deserved was the right to share her findings. Narey knew the schools he’d worked in and positions he had held there were unlikely to be of much use to them but they would be itemised nonetheless.

‘He moved to Hillpark Secondary in 1988 but only stayed there for one year, which is fairly unusual, though there was nothing on his record to suggest there was any problem. He then taught at King’s Park Secondary from 1989, becoming Deputy Head of History in 1995. He held that position until 1998.’

‘And then?’

‘Then nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ Her interest was piqued.

‘Nothing at all, Sarge. He resigned from the deputy head’s position and then we don’t know where he went next. His national insurance contributions stopped, income tax stopped, no record of social security benefits, no telephone line or bills. Nothing.’

‘Did he die?’ Her mind was turning over the possibilities.

‘No registry of death, Sarge.’

‘So where the hell did he go?’

Corrieri shrugged apologetically. ‘I don’t know, Sarge. Sorry. If I’d known it was him specifically that you were looking for, then I’d have delved deeper. I can…’

‘Christ, there’s no need to apologise, Julia. You’ve done well, although we can’t leave it there. Go and see what else you can turn up. If he isn’t dead, then there must be some bloody trace of him.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Corrieri hesitated and Narey realised there was more she wanted to say.

‘What is it, Julia?’

‘Well… there was something that I thought maybe you should know.’

‘What’s that?’

Corrieri looked more awkward than ever and Narey had a bad feeling.

‘This may not be right, Sarge, but I heard the information you wanted on the students might be related to an old case — the Lady in the Lake killing.’

Narey levelled her with a hard stare, all considerations of not upsetting the puppy vanishing completely from her head. Corrieri shifted uncomfortably from side to side under the searching gaze of her boss.

‘And where exactly did you hear that, DC Corrieri?’

‘Um, canteen gossip, Sarge,’ Corrieri admitted with more than a hint of a blush. Narey knew Julia was struggling a bit to cope with the macho nonsense that passed for banter round the station. She wouldn’t be the type for gossiping but was trying to fit in and would probably get involved in conversations she shouldn’t.

‘Who’s talking about this and what are they saying?’

‘Well, I… A few people in CID. I’d rather not name names, Sarge. The word is you’re looking into the Lake killing and you’re putting yourself out on a limb. That you’re… well, maybe getting involved in something you shouldn’t.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘Um. I think you’ll be doing what you think is the right thing, Sarge. I told the rest of them that too.’

‘Yeah, and I’m sure they laughed in your face.’ She looked at Julia and knew she was right. ‘So why are you telling me this?’

‘I thought you should know that people know. And if you want any help, then I’m here. In fact, um, I’ve actually already started.’

‘You’ve done
what
?’

Corrieri fidgeted with embarrassment again.

‘Well, I was going through all the databases for the names you gave me so I thought I’d maybe just take a little look back at the Lake of Menteith case and see if I could find anything that might help. I searched for a record of every missing girl to see if anyone fitted but didn’t come up with much initially. I’ve sent out requests to every force in the UK to ask them to search their case files for anything still open, even if it was a year or two before the body was found. I’m also in touch with the National Policing Improvement Agency’s Missing Persons Bureau, the Samaritans, the Salvation Army and Reunite. I, um, hope that was okay.’

Narey shook her head despairingly at Corrieri but a reluctant smile etched itself on her face. She marvelled that the girl could be apologetic about what were clearly natural investigative skills.

‘Yes, it’s more than okay. What have you got?’

‘More questions than answers,’ Julia admitted. ‘I’ve already had a lot of cases sent through to me and I’m just trying to wade my way through them, ruling out those that don’t fit because of time, height, weight, etc. I got a lot of information, too, from the NPIA and it makes depressing reading. According to them, there’s around 350,000 people reported missing every year. Of those, nearly two thousand are still missing a year later. Around twenty people are found dead every week after being reported missing.’

‘You aren’t cheering me up here, Julia.’

‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘Don’t be. You’ve done well and I’m grateful for the help. Keep at it. But don’t let on to the sweetie wifies in the canteen you’re doing so. They’re right — I am out on a limb and I don’t want you falling off the branch with me.’

The morning drive into Stewart Street station from Highburgh Road was even more of a nightmare than usual because of the weather and Narey was already fed up with the day. She inched along Byres Road, then did the same on Great Western Road, cursing the snow, the ice, the lack of gritters and the twat in the silver Ford Fiesta who insisted on being inches from her rear bumper. All that stopped her from getting out of the car and telling the driver to back off was that she couldn’t trust herself to keep her temper if the eejit argued back.

To make matters worse, some other clown sitting at the front of the traffic lights at Park Road decided to treat other road users to his right-turn indicator only after the lights went to green. Narey was stuck behind him, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to turn until the filter and she wouldn’t get through the lights at all. She thumped her horn and the car behind her did the same, as if it were her fault rather than the twonk in front.

Eventually, her temper fraying further by the minute, she was able to get off Great Western Road and the rest of the journey only took another few minutes. As she turned onto Maitland Street and slowed on the approach to the station, a silver Fiesta loomed in her rear view and passed her. Narey was about to turn into the station car park when she saw the Fiesta pause further along Maitland Street and, on instinct, she drove a couple of hundred yards past the entrance, parked and began to walk back.

She heard a car park not far behind her but she didn’t turn round, not even when the footsteps began to close on her. She heard the click-clack of quick steps, realising the person was now only just a few feet behind. Suddenly, she stopped completely and whirled, forcing her pursuer on her sooner than expected and unsettling whomever it was. With the navy blue of the station wall on her right, she spun on her left foot and caught the would-be attacker’s collar with her left hand, shoving the person into the wall with her right.

The sound of heels had registered but the fact that her hunter was a woman didn’t stop Narey from disabling her. She twisted the woman’s left arm tightly behind her back and grabbed her hair, using the leverage to force her face hard against the wall. As the woman squealed in pain, Narey was amused to see a face peek through the window above her head — the duty sergeant, obviously wondering what the hell was going on.

‘You all right there, Sergeant Narey?’ he enquired in bemusement.

‘I’m just fine, Bill,’ she told him. ‘Just fine. Can’t say the same for this one though. Who are you?’

The woman only just managed to squeeze the words out of the corner of her mouth as it was wedged against the wall.

‘My name is Irene Paton.’

They sat opposite each other in Café Hula at the top of Hope Street, just a few minutes’ walk from the station. A black coffee sat undisturbed in front of Irene Paton while Narey sipped slowly on a latte, simmering under Paton’s angry glare. The woman seemed content to smoulder rather than speak and that suited Narey fine, as it gave her time to wonder what the hell Laurence Paton’s wife wanted with her. For all that, though, she was also impatient to find out what the new widow had to say for herself.

The café bustled around them but neither woman had eyes nor ears for the chatter or the clink of cups. They were both far too engrossed in their own play to be aware of anyone else’s. Paton was nervous, that much was obvious, but she also seethed with a resentment that overrode her anxiety. Narey was unusually edgy too; she didn’t like being ambushed, particularly on her own doorstep, and she didn’t have a handle on the older woman’s motives.

Paton’s eyes were puffy and reddened. Hardly surprising, Narey supposed, for someone whose husband had died so recently but it had clearly taken its toll on her. Her dark shoulder-length hair had barely had a brush pulled through it and her face, although made-up, was lined and tired. Irene Paton had been through the mill.

‘Why were you outside my house?’

The question came abruptly out of the tense silence and caught Narey off guard even though she knew it had to be coming.

‘It was part of an ongoing investigation’ was the best that she could come up with.

‘Not according to Central Scotland Police, it wasn’t. And according to my neighbour, you were rude and aggressive.’

Narey said nothing and Irene contemplated her coffee again.

‘Were you having an affair with my husband?’

Whatever it was Narey had been expecting, this wasn’t it. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed so she settled for surprised. Was this ridiculous assertion really what had driven the grieving widow to stalk a police officer? The weary fire that blazed in Irene’s eyes suggested she wasn’t joking.

‘No, Mrs Paton. I wasn’t.’

The widow held Narey’s gaze, seemingly desperate to find something behind the bold denial. Narey let her stare, all the time wondering what might have made the woman think such a thing.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Paton continued, although her voice had already lost the little confidence it had previously held.

‘I can assure you, I wasn’t. What makes you think he was having an affair?’

‘Laurence had been hiding something from me for years.’

‘Why do you say that?’

Mrs Paton glared at her. ‘A wife just knows these things. Are you married?’

Narey shook her head.

‘Then you wouldn’t understand. You live with someone as long as I did with Laurence, then you know things they barely know about themselves. You know when they’re up and when they’re down. You know when they’re lying to you even when you don’t know what about. You know when they’re giving you everything and when they’re not. There was something Laurence wasn’t telling me and he hadn’t been telling me for a very long time. I’ll ask you again: was it you he wasn’t telling me about?’

Tears welled up behind Irene Paton’s dark-rimmed spectacles as Narey slowly shook her head.