Final Cut (18 page)

Claire wished she could save this moment for ever, bring it back in all its intensity when she needed it most. She closed her eyes and focused on remembering all aspects of it; moonlight on snow, the inky blue of the sky, the soft delicate light in the room, the sound of Emma’s quiet, untroubled breath and the scent of warm-washed child, hair still damp from the bath.

She shut the door quietly behind her and went downstairs, taking the album with her. In the sitting room the fire had settled to a steady glow. This was the time Claire liked best, when the day had drawn to a close and she could sit alone, knowing Emma was safely asleep upstairs. Knowing she would not spend the evening listening for a car, for the sound of Nick’s key turning in the lock. She no longer had to dread that look on his face.

She sat beside the fire and opened the album. The inscription on the front page read,
To Emma, darling grandchild, from Granny
.
Here is your story.

The album was divided into three parts. Three generations of women told in pictures and words. Claire leafed through the section devoted to Emma first. It was a strange thing to experience your daughter’s life through your own mother’s eyes. Claire was both moved and surprised, as she discovered little references and comments her mother and Emma had obviously shared which she hadn’t been party to. Claire thought back to that night in the car when Emma had asked whether Granny would die and she, caught up in her own worries, had answered sharply. Tears pricked at her eyes.

Claire flipped forward a few pages to find a photograph of herself held in her mother’s arms. Beneath was the inscription
Claire 6 months
. She registered the strong resemblance between the baby she had been and her own daughter at the same age. A later photo showed her sitting on a bed, totally absorbed in a book, a pile of others beside her, much like Emma. It was the words written below which startled Claire.
Your mum would hum to herself, especially if she was concentrating hard or worrying about something
.

Claire had no recollection of doing that, yet there it was in black and white. It comforted her somehow. How she’d hated hearing that sound coming from Emma’s room, seeing her blank-eyed absorption. Yet apparently she had done the same herself.

Claire skimmed through a few more pages, seeing herself grow taller, more gangly, awkward and shy. Then a photograph with Dougie when her pregnancy was just showing. If Dougie had lived, how different things would have been.
If
. How often had she played that game, imagining scenes from their life together, playing them endlessly in her head. The
what if
scenario had ceased when she’d met Nick, for a short while at least.

Claire went through the remaining pages dedicated to her. There was nothing there about Nick. No photographs, no comments. Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? She’d kept the relationship from her mother, using a babysitter rather than ask her to look after Emma. It had started so well. Nick had been attentive and kind, had not seemed remotely put off by the existence of a young daughter. When they did meet, Emma had taken to him right away, and there had even been times when Claire resented the camaraderie between her daughter and her lover. That was what had made it so difficult when Claire began to realise who and what Nick really was.

As her mind moved among those painful memories, Claire registered the familiar trembling of her left hand. She released the pressure of her thumb against the paper. When that didn’t help, she laid down the album and clasped her hands together to steady them.

She was seated like this when she first heard it. The muffled crunch of a footfall on freshly fallen snow. She sat perfectly still, her ears straining to listen, hoping it had only been her imagination. The fire shifted, breaking the silence as a half-consumed log dropped into its bed of ash. On the mantelpiece the clock ticked on, its steady sound suddenly deafening in her self-imposed quiet.

Then she heard it again.

Claire rose with a strangled cry, her hand moving quickly to cover her mouth. She must not scream and wake Emma. It would be a roe deer foraging in the garden. She had spotted one only days before watching the house from a nearby cluster of trees. The farmer had warned her that the garden and its plants were regarded as free grazing for deer and rabbits alike. It must be a deer.

Claire knew she had to look out, if only to set her mind at ease. She made her way to the window and abruptly pulled back one curtain. She could see nothing at first, fear blinding her, then the smooth whiteness of the snowy garden came into focus, the distant shadow of the familiar grove of trees, the dark ribbon of the drive weaving away from the house. There were no lights, near by or distant. There was no one there.

She took a deep breath and allowed the curtain to fall back into place. This is what happened when you were used to the constant noise of a city. Every small sound set your nerves on edge. She returned to her seat by the fire. She would turn on the television to fill the emptiness and prevent her from listening too hard.

As she reached for the remote, her mobile rang, playing some bright musical tone that Emma had downloaded for her. When Claire glanced at the screen, the number and identity had been withheld. She hesitated then answered.

‘Hello?’

The connection crackled, distorting the voice. ‘Claire?’

‘Who is this?’ The irritating sound shut off abruptly as the line went dead. She closed the phone and set it down on a nearby table. She sat for a moment trying to marshal her thoughts. She didn’t recognise the voice, but whoever it was knew her name. Could it have been Nick? But how could he have found out her new number?

For a moment Claire was gripped by terror. Nick had tracked her down. His voice was so loud in her head that she turned, expecting to see him already in the room. She was paralysed with fear, just as she had been many times before. Then, his violent words had grown honeyed and persuasive, the strength in his arms manipulating her into whatever position he desired.

She bent her head to her knees, covering it with her arms, and blanked her mind. Eventually the sounds in the room reasserted themselves; the comforting murmur of the fire, the ticking clock. When the mobile rang again she checked the screen and recognised DS McNab’s number. She answered immediately.

‘Claire?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Detective Sergeant McNab. Are you OK?’

Claire attempted to lift her tone. ‘I’m fine.’ Her pleasure at hearing his voice was now tempered with worry about what the call might mean. ‘What’s wrong?’

He took a moment to answer. ‘I wondered if it would be OK to come down and visit you and Emma tomorrow.’

‘If it’s about the loch . . .’

‘It isn’t. I just wanted to drop off a small Christmas present for Emma.’

Claire found herself at a loss for words.

‘If it’s not convenient I understand.’

She felt ashamed of her reaction. DS McNab had been kind to them, especially to Emma. It wasn’t his fault that her daughter made up stories to get attention.

‘I’m sorry. Of course you can come.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘But I don’t want you to ask Emma any more questions.’

‘I won’t. What time would suit you best?’

‘About two?’ she suggested.

‘Two o’clock it is.’

Claire stopped him before he rang off. ‘What’s going to happen about the loch?’

‘We’re going to send a couple of divers to take a look.’

‘Are you going to tell Emma that?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

‘I don’t, but, knowing Emma, she’ll ask. Only tell her if you have to.’

‘That’s probably the best way.’

He sounded relieved.

Claire got the impression he didn’t want to lie to the girl and she respected him for that. She went through to the kitchen. Her adrenalin rush had dissipated, leaving her weak and tired. She began making tea, resisting the desire to have a glass of wine instead. Alcohol only made sleep more difficult and the thoughts she could bear in the waking day she couldn’t survive in the long dark hours of the night.

The snow was now on in earnest, big flakes fluttering past the window to settle on the earlier fall. Emma would love this when she woke up in the morning. They had discovered a sledge in the shed, left behind by a previous occupant. It might be deep enough for sledging tomorrow.

Through the open door to the sitting room Claire caught sight of the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. At the top was an angel Emma had made from cardboard and a paper doily she’d found in a kitchen drawer. The wings were painted gold, a piece of golden tinsel round its head as a halo. Emma had drawn a big smile on the angel’s face with a red crayon. Claire smiled back at her daughter’s handiwork. Suddenly DS McNab’s visit didn’t seem so worrying. Maybe they could spend the time together outside in the snow.

She took her tea to bed with her, checking front and back doors were locked before she climbed the stairs.

30

‘Mollie Curtis, a ten-year-old from Manchester, came to stay with her gran in Glasgow in the summer of 2000,’ Rhona told McNab. ‘She disappeared on fifth August from outside the woman’s front door. The next-door neighbour was called Colin McCarthy, and a search of his home discovered Mollie’s signet ring. His jeans, stuffed in the washing machine but not yet washed, had traces of Mollie’s blood and his semen. Under questioning he admitted to killing the girl but couldn’t – or wouldn’t – say where he’d concealed the body. McCarthy’s IQ is very low; he had behavioural difficulties as a child and the psychologist reported him as “easily led”. He began denying the murder by the time it reached court, but the circumstantial evidence plus the original confession stood and he was convicted of manslaughter. There was some talk of mental illness but in the end he was sent to prison and not a psychiatric hospital.’

‘And you think the remains in the wood might be Mollie’s?’ he replied.

‘I do.’

She showed him the facial reconstruction on the computer screen next to a photograph of the missing girl. There was a strong similarity.

‘According to the database entry Mollie’s hair was short like this when she disappeared.’

‘She looks a bit boyish,’ observed McNab.

‘At that age the skeleton’s pretty much the same.’

‘What about the teeth?’

‘That’s where it gets really interesting.’

Rhona produced a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a thin, curved metal wire. ‘Worm action had filtered this deeper into the soil. Mollie wore a brace on her teeth, just like this one.’

‘So it could be her, but you’re not sure?’

‘Mitochondrial DNA testing won’t tell us it’s definitely Mollie, but it would establish matrilineage.’

‘So we need to locate the DNA of the mother or grandmother of Mollie Curtis?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll take a look at the case file and set up a visit with McCarthy. See what he has to say,’ said McNab.

‘Find out if he’s had any connection with stained glass.’

Now that the immediate shop talk was over they lapsed into silence. Rhona filled it with an enquiry about Bill. ‘I tried calling the house but there’s no answer.’

‘He took Margaret and the kids away for Christmas. Orkney, Janice said.’ At the mention of his boss’s name, McNab looked gloomy again.

Bill had spoken about his holidays in Stromness when they’d first met Magnus. ‘It’ll be good for him to get away,’ Rhona said.

McNab scowled. Rhona wished she hadn’t brought up the subject, but he had seemed the obvious one to ask where Bill was.

‘What about the loch?’

‘Slater’s not interested. Orders were to find out who the victim was first.’

She had already heard the story of McNab’s ‘psychic’ performance in front of Slater. News like that travelled fast, especially with Chrissy as resident bush telegraph.

‘I heard you were planning to send in an underwater team anyway?’

He shot her a look.

‘Janice told Chrissy.’

He shrugged.

‘I’m headed there now. I’m planning to call on Emma once the team’s in place.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘I’ve got her a Christmas present.’

‘Really?’

‘If we find something, we’ll need to go back to the kid. Better to keep the mother sweet.’

‘A talent of yours, keeping women sweet.’ The retort was delivered with more sarcasm than Rhona intended.

McNab turned abruptly away.

‘Sorry, that was unnecessary,’ she said.

‘Forget it.’

Rhona quickly changed tack.

‘Any luck with identifying the skip victim?’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘Have you spoken to Misha?’

‘I was sidetracked by a visit to the Poker Club.’

Rhona realised he was being particularly obtuse to get back at her, which she probably deserved.

‘Are you going to tell me why?’

‘No, Chrissy’s dealing with it.’

‘She’s not here.’

‘Then I’ll come back tomorrow.’

There was a moment’s stand-off, then Rhona said, ‘We can’t do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘Act this way.’

‘You started it.’

It was true, she had. ‘I said I was sorry.’

‘And I said forget it.’

Rhona caught the scent of whisky on his breath. This thing with Bill was really eating at him. He didn’t need her on his back as well. McNab had responded when she needed him and she owed him.

‘Last night – it helped.’

The cloud lifted from McNab’s face.

‘That’s good to know.’

31

He visited McCarthy as normal on Saturday morning. The weather was sharp and cold, the northern sky threatening more snow. The prison, although fairly new, looked as bleak and forbidding as its Victorian predecessor – a construction of small windows, small cells and suffocated lives.