Karen knew the answer to that question, even though she couldn’t voice it. Not out loud anyway.

It was because she’d hoped eventually to figure out what had really happened to Mary.

And maybe the part I played in it?

The diary open now, Karen registered that after the entry on the third of May there was a blank page. Why had she not written down what had happened on that day? The emptiness stared back at her like an accusation. Something had to have happened.

Was that the first day the detective had spoken to her? If so, why hadn’t she written what he’d asked her?

Karen turned the page to find the visit of the detective had happened on the fifth of May, not the fourth. So what had happened on the fourth, and why hadn’t she written it down? She flipped through more pages, only to find other blank spots. Why had she chosen to leave days empty? Was it because nothing had happened? Or – and a swift and suffocating feeling swept over her – was it because she wanted to forget what had happened on those particular days?

She returned to the fifth of May to read what she’d written there.

The policeman came today, just like Dad said he would. He asked me about Mary. Was she happy? Was she frightened of anyone? When did I last see her? I told him Mary was happy about her dress. She wasn’t afraid of anyone, except her dad a little bit if she didn’t come when he whistled for her. I told him I had seen her the afternoon before her confirmation when she showed me her dress. I didn’t tell him I was jealous.

Karen realized she’d written something after that, but then erased it. She held the diary up to the light, but all she could see were the indentations.

What did I rub out?

She fetched a pencil and began to lightly shade that area of the page to see if the words might be revealed. Then she realized she hadn’t written words, rather she had drawn something.

It looked like two stick figures with racquets, a ball high in the air between them. On the hill behind sat a figure watching them.

Karen stared at the drawing, a sick feeling churning her stomach, remembering.

Whenever we played tennis he was there, watching us. Shouting stuff. Stuff I didn’t understand . . . but Mary did. Mary understood everything.

19

McNab had initially requested that Robbie McIntyre come to the station to speak to him. Robbie said he’d been in already to give a DNA sample and would rather they met in a nearby cafe.

McNab conceded that it wasn’t an interview as such, so okayed Robbie’s request. If, or when, the body was ID’d as Mary, everyone who’d been connected to her would become a suspect, just as they had been the first time round. And that would include her brother.

Ollie’s research on Robbie had revealed his early convictions after his wee sister had gone missing. Stealing cars being one of them, that and running with a gang. However, by the age of twenty he appeared to have cleaned up his act. McNab only had a photograph of Robbie McIntyre from back then, so was unsure of what he might look like now.