“Who was first on the scene, do you remember?”
“Aye, Hamish. Hamish McKee. He was just a constable back then.”
“OK. Thanks, Brian, that’s been a help. Always good to hear first hand.”
“Glad I’ve been of assistance. Anything else I can help with just call, you know where I live.”
Corstorphine finished his tea and rose out of the chair. As he made his way to the front door he turned back to ask a final question. “The daughter, what happened to her?”
The old DI shook his head. “She was taken into care. No other family members came forward.”
“Where was that, Brian? Where did she go?”
The old DI hesitated as if he was searching his memory. “The old orphanage on City Road, the one run by the Sisters of Holy Mercy. Closed now, has been for many years.”
“Where did she go after that?”
Brian looked uncomfortable. “That’s something that has been worrying me all these years, James. She ran away after a few months, just vanished into thin air. We put out a nationwide alert for her, but she never showed up. I think her body must be out on the hills somewhere, poor lost lamb.”
“Thanks, Brian. I’ll let you know how we get on.” He raised his voice, calling out to Molly who was still clattering around in the back kitchen. “Bye, Molly, thanks for the tea.”
“Are you no’ staying, James?” A remote voice called back, “We’ll be having dinner soon, I can easily set another place.” She came into view, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“That’s very kind of you, Molly, but I really have to be going. It’s all a bit mad at the moment.”
As Corstorphine drove away from the house, he caught a glimpse in his rear-view mirror of the old DI and his wife standing motionless on the bungalow porch, watching him until they were lost from view. He had a strong suspicion that the old detective was hiding something. His body language had betrayed him when he had asked about the missing daughter, the false searching for lost memories as if he was creating a story that Corstorphine would swallow. As quickly as the thought came to him, he dismissed it. He’d known Brian ever since he’d transferred here, a young detective learning the ropes as the old DI worked the last three years towards retirement. There wasn’t even a whisper that he was ever anything other than a straight cop, certainly nothing that Corstorphine had heard. Why then that nagging doubt that he was concealing something?
He checked the dashboard clock, 17:44. Nothing he could do without the latest forensics. Corstorphine started to phone Frankie to check up on progress but hung up before completing the call and drove home instead. The day was almost done, and he needed to have a quiet place to think.
Corstorphine lived in a semi-detached Victorian villa in one of the more salubrious parts of town, a house that had been chosen as a good place to bring up a family, three bedrooms for the children that never were. He dreaded coming home each day, the house silent and devoid of company. Corstorphine tweaked the thermostat up a notch to dispel the chill he’d felt on entering the house, the old gas heating creaking into life as radiators filled with hot water, companionable noises that helped maintain the fiction that he wasn’t alone. Out of habit, he checked the silent carriage clock on the mantlepiece, the hands frozen at the moment he’d dashed it to the ground after his wife had died – an outlet for the rage that burned his heart. On autopilot, he turned on the TV, tuning into the 24-hour news channel. He found voices filled the empty house more effectively than music.