The Lost Sister (24 page)

The first time she ever connected with anyone.

We get older, we forget how it was being a teenager. Lost in our own heads, figuring out the world; we're the only ones going through these experiences.

You're always looking for that connection. It's why teenagers fall in love so easy. Why your parents always tell you to wait until you're older before you decide you really love someone.

Jesus, the first time she ever connected with anyone…

The tragedy of it all was that everyone who knew Mary seemed to think they connected with her. Or they knew her. Or they understood her.

But she felt disconnected from them. For all her popularity, all her intelligence, she just wanted to know who she was.

I supposed Deborah had offered her a chance to discover that.

I remember reading about how twins, separated at birth, can grow up apart and when they finally meet there's this intense spark. Like falling in love.

Is it the same with parents and their children? Just this sense of connection; an intense familiarity that breaks apart the whole world?

I skimmed through the transcript.

 

M
ARY
: She was honest with me. Told me who she was. Said it had to be our secret.

DCI B
RIGHT
: You were coerced into –

M
ARY
: I mean, no. I mean…She never made me do anything I didn't want to do. Never forced me to feel anything for her. She wanted to protect me. You have to understand that.

 

I had to sit down. The transcript fell to the floor.

All Deborah Brown had ever wanted was to see her daughter. I got the feeling she had never asked the girl to accept her.

This woman who I had believed to be a psychopath. Unstable. Unhinged.

The number one rule of police work, the unwritten one. Not just on the Job but for life:

No one knows anything.

Everything is deceit and turnaround. Expectations count for shite.

I closed my eyes. Couldn't face reading any further.

Another envelope came three days later.

Unmarked.

I opened the door, looked out into the close. Saw no one. Listened for the steps of someone further down.

Nothing.

I stepped back inside, opened the envelope.

A cheque.

From David Burns.

The amount would have set me up. Meant I could skip a few cases. Bought a holiday.

I held it up in front of the window, let the early morning sun that was threatening to melt the frost create a halo around the edges of the paper.

Then I tore it in two.

Kept going.

Let the shreds fall to the floor.

I opened the door, let Susan inside.

We kept our distance. Both afraid of something.

In the kitchen, the kettle boiling, she leaned on the worktop and looked me in the eye. Unwavering. “I'm on suspension.”

“What?”

“A man died, McNee. All they have is our word that it was in self defence.”

“Christ.”

“They'll be asking you questions.”

“Mary?”

“She's not saying anything about what happened in the cottage. All she'll say is that that bastard killed her mother. She claims the whole evening's a blur. The doctors say she has a concussion which could account for the memory loss. And maybe…maybe there are some things she'd simply rather try and forget.”

I nodded. That made two of us.

The kettle boiled.

I almost thanked God. Gave me a chance to turn away from Susan. So she couldn't see. I blinked as I poured the water.

When I turned back round, she said, “This is a mess, right, Steed?”

I hesitated. Like I didn't know what she meant,

The here and now?

Or everything about us?

She reached out to me, placed her hand on top of mine.

I almost pulled away.

Almost.

Yes, there is no such paper as
The Dundee Herald
. And there's no such school as Bellview. Sometimes fiction writers have to invent stuff.

As ever, any errors in geography, continuity or any deviation from the real world are mine alone and made either through dramatic necessity or sheer stupidity on my part.

Anything that's right in the book, you can thank the following:

The guys behind the guy

Al “Sunshine” Guthrie: World's deadliest agent.

Ross Bradshaw: Scotman in exile, with some very sharp editorial suggestions.

John Schoenfelder: Taking McNee across the ocean in style.

The pushers

The cool kids at Waterstone's, Dundee; the old Blue Shirts (and Church) from the Flatman days; the rapscallions at Waterstone's, St Andrews; the crew at Murder By the Book and, indeed, booksellers everywhere who deserve far more credit for the job they do.

The enablers

Jen Jordan; Jon Jordan; Ruth Jordan; Linda Landrigan; Sandra Ruttan; Tony Black; Steven Torres; Donna Moore; Charlie and Anne Marie Stella; Robert Simon MacDuff-Duncan; Jim Smith; Dave White; Kerry Shearer; Bob Mike and Christine from Beiderbeckes.

The back up

Rebecca Simpson; Gary Smith; Tim Stephen; Jennifer McDowall; Steven Wicks; Karen “Civilian Ambulance” Whyte; Renate Hutton; Lesley Nimmo.

The family

Dot and Martin McLean, my mum and dad, as ever.

 

And of course, readers everywhere. Even the ones who don't like bad language…