‘Oh, come off it, she dotes on him. You have no idea how depressed she was when you said she couldn’t see him any more, have you? No sodding clue at all.’
‘He was a bad influence on—’
‘You’re the bad bloody influence! She didn’t slit her wrists for fun, did she? ’
Silence.
‘She tried to kill herself? ’ Logan closed his eyes. Gritted his teeth. Counted to five. ‘Did you not think it would be important to actually tell us that when you reported her missing? ’
‘It was. . . We didn’t want it spread all over the papers. What would she think if she saw it? That we betrayed her? ’ He looked away. ‘She’s been doing so much better.’
‘When did it happen? ’
‘Just after Christmas. I found her in the back garden with a bottle of tequila and a packet of razor blades. . .’ A little shudder twitched at his shoulders.
Doreen took another mug from the dishwasher and put it on the working surface. The porcelain rattled against the terracotta tiles, shaking in time with her hand. But her voice was perfectly level as she plucked a teabag from the box. ‘That’s why we read her diary every week. We have to be sure she’s not . . . having those kinds of thoughts. We have to be ready to help.’
The kettle growled and rumbled back to the boil.
Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Does Agnes have a car? ’
Her mother shook her head. ‘We don’t allow her to drive. Not on her medication – it wouldn’t be safe.’
Agnes’s dad bent and picked up the bits of broken mug from the floor. ‘What if she’s hurt herself? ’
Logan slipped the evidence bag into his pocket. ‘The fact that Anthony Chung is missing too means they’ve probably run away together. Let’s not get all worked up over nothing.’ He turned towards the door. Then stopped. ‘Now before we go, is there anything else you’re not telling us? ’
11
Chalmers pulled away from the kerb as Logan fastened his seatbelt. Her mouth was one thin line, tiny wrinkles standing out at the side of her eye. Face fixed dead front.
Logan turned his phone on. ‘I take it there’s a reason you’re sulking? ’
‘I’m not sulking, sir.’
‘Come on then, out with it.’
Her jaw twitched a couple of times, as if she was biting down on something bitter. ‘With all due respect: you sent me off to make tea while you were searching the cupboard under the stairs. The little woman makes the tea while the big strong man does the actual police work.’ She wrenched the steering wheel left, taking them out the end of the road. ‘Let me guess: you didn’t think my pretty little head was up to it. Making the bloody tea’s all we’re good for.’
‘I see.’ He scrolled through his list of contacts until the number for Control appeared. ‘Feel better now? ’
‘It’s sexist.’
‘Seriously? ’ A smile broke across his face, then bloomed into a grin. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to go make tea with the grieving relatives while Steel’s off rummaging through their stuff. That’s what happens when you’re a DS: you’re the distraction.’ He hit the button, listening to it click, then ring on the other end. ‘And when you make DI, you can get your own back on whatever poor sod gets lumbered with you. . .’
A woman’s voice boomed in his ear. ‘Control room.’
‘Yeah, it’s DI McRae, have you picked up—’
‘Hold on. . .’ A pause. Some rustling. Then a muffled conversation. ‘Yeah, it’s him again. Wants to know if we’ve got the big ugly bloke that works for Wee Hamish yet.’
‘Hasn’t he got nothing better to do? ’
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you? ’
‘I can hear you, you know!’
And she was back, full volume. ‘Just checking now, sir.’
Click. Then a creaky version of some waltz. He was on hold.
Chalmers took them out onto the main road, heading back past yet another building site. The whole place was a breeding ground for sandstone-clad little boxy homes with tiny gardens and garages too small to get an actual car in.
Logan reached into his jacket and pulled out the red leather notebook from the cupboard. Stuck it on the dashboard. ‘Found that, hidden in one of the hollowed-out books.’
She gave a small, one-shouldered shrug. ‘What is it? ’
‘Some sort of witchcrafty journal thing. Got magic circles and things. . . Hello? ’
The voice of Control was back. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes what? ’
‘Yes he was picked up an hour ago by Alpha Three Nine. Was in the Burning Buck, absolutely plastered. They’re checking him every fifteen minutes to make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.’
Chance would be a fine thing.
‘Give it a bit, then stick him in interview room three. We’ll be back in. . .’ Five minutes to traverse Kintore, half an hour to mollify Anthony Chung’s parents, call it another twenty minutes from there back into town. . . ‘Make it an hour.’
Pause. ‘Yeah, you better take that up with the desk sergeant.’ And she was gone.
Chalmers picked the book off the dashboard, weighing it in her hand as she drove. ‘Agnes knows her mum and dad are checking up on her, so maybe she keeps a fake diary in the bedroom where they can find it, and a real one in the cupboard under the stairs.’
‘Read it. And call the Procurator Fiscal: I want a GSM trace authorized on Agnes and Anthony’s mobile phones. Then get on to every hospital in Scotland – tell them to look out for attempted suicides.’
‘Can you imagine someone watching you all the time like that, never giving you any privacy? I’d have run away years ago.’
The last-known address for Anthony Chung – before he ran away to rescue his girlfriend from her demented overbearing mother – occupied a corner plot in a swanky development on the southern edge of Kintore. Big houses with big gardens and big cars parked outside. The Chung residence even had a set of wrought-iron gates, mounted on sandstone pillars, but there was nothing behind them – the driveway was empty.
Chalmers pulled up at the kerb. Left the motor running. ‘Not looking good, is it? ’
Logan climbed out into the sunshine.
The
