damp string. The look of irritation on her face vanished as she saw WPC Watson’s uniform standing at the back.
‘Mrs Henderson?’
‘Oh God.’ She clutched at the front of the robe, twisting the neck tightly shut. All the colour went from her face. ‘It’s Kevin isn’t it? Oh God . . . he’s dead!’
‘Kevin?’ Insch looked flustered.
‘Kevin, my husband.’ She stepped back into the tiny hall, her hands all a flutter. ‘Oh God.’
‘Mrs Henderson: your husband’s not dead. We—’
‘Oh, thank the Lord for that.’ Instantly relieved, she ushered them through the hall into a pink, candy-striped living room. ‘Excuse the mess. Sunday’s usually my day for the housework, but I had a double shift at the hospital.’ She stopped and surveyed the room, moving a discarded nurse’s uniform off the sofa and onto the ironing board. The half-empty bottle of gin was swiftly tidied away to the sideboard. Above the fireplace was a framed fake oil painting, one of the ones photographers churn out. A man, a woman and a fair-haired little girl. A husband, a wife and a murdered child.
‘Of course Kevin doesn’t live here right now. . . He’s having a break. . .’ There was a pause. ‘It was after our daughter went missing.’
‘Ah. That’s why we’re here, Mrs Henderson.’
She waved them towards a lumpy brown sofa, the leather covered up with pink-and-yellow throws. ‘Because Kevin doesn’t live here? It’s only temporary!’
Insch pulled a clear plastic envelope from his pocket. There were two pink hairclips in it. ‘Do you recognize these, Mrs Henderson?’
She took the envelope, peered in at the contents and then back at Insch and went pale for the second time. ‘Oh God, these were Lorna’s! Her favourite Barbie hair things. She wouldn’t go out of the house without them! Where did you get them?’
‘We found Lorna, Mrs Henderson.’
‘Found? Oh God. . .’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Henderson. She’s dead.’
She seemed to turn in on herself and then: ‘Tea. That’s what we need. Hot sweet tea.’ She turned her back and scurried away into the kitchen, her towelling bathrobe flapping as she went.
They found her sobbing into the kitchen sink.
Ten minutes later they were back in the lounge, Insch and Logan on the lumpy settee, WPC Watson and Mrs Henderson on matching lumpy brown armchairs, the Family Liaison Officer standing behind her making consoling noises, one hand on Mrs Henderson’s shoulder. Logan had made a big pot of tea and it sat steaming away on top of a coffee table festooned with Cosmopolitan magazines. Everyone had a cup, but no one was drinking.
‘It’s all my fault.’ Mrs Henderson seemed to have shrunk two sizes since their arrival. The pink bathrobe was draped around her like a cloak. ‘If we’d only bought her that damn pony. . .’
DI Insch shifted forward on the settee slightly. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Mrs Henderson, but I need you to tell us about the night Lorna went missing.’
‘I never really believed it. You know: that she wasn’t coming back. She’d just run away. One day she’d just walk back through that door and everything would be right again.’ She looked down into her teacup. ‘Kevin couldn’t take it. He kept blaming me. Every day. “It’s your bloody fault she’s gone!” he’d say. He was right. It was my bloody fault. He. . . he met this woman at the supermarket where he works.’ She sighed. ‘But he doesn’t really love her! He’s just punishing me. . . I mean, she’s got no breasts. How can a man love a woman with no breasts? He’s only doing it to punish me. He’ll come back. You’ll see. One day he’ll walk right back in that door and everything will be all right again.’ She fell back into silence, chewing away at the inside of her cheek.
‘About the night Lorna went missing, Mrs Henderson, did you see anyone on the road? Any vehicles?’
Her eyes came up from her cup, glistening and far away. ‘What? I don’t remember. . . It was a long time ago and I was so angry with her. Why didn’t we buy her that bloody pony?’
‘How about vans, or trucks?’
‘No. I don’t remember. We went over all this at the time!’
‘A man with a cart?’
She froze in place. ‘What are you trying to say?’
DI Insch kept his mouth shut. Mrs Henderson stared at him for a moment and then jumped to her feet. ‘I want to see her!’
DI Insch, put his cup carefully down on the carpet. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Henderson. That’s not going to be possible.’
‘She’s my daughter, damn it, and I want to see her!’
‘Lorna’s been dead for a long time. She’s . . . you don’t want to see her, Mrs Henderson. Please trust me. You want to remember her how she was.’
Standing in the middle of the lounge, Mrs Henderson scowled down at DI Insch’s bald head. ‘When did you find her? When did you find Lorna?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Oh God. . .’ she slapped a hand over her mouth. ‘It’s him isn’t it? The man in the papers! He killed her and buried her in that filth!’
‘Calm down, Mrs Henderson. We have him in custody. He’s not going anywhere.’
‘That filthy bastard!’ She hurled her teacup against the wall. It exploded, raining shards of china, staining the wallpaper with lukewarm, milky tea. ‘He took my baby!’
No one said much on the way back either. The Family Liaison Officer called in a neighbour to look after Mrs Henderson, who collapsed into tears as soon as the large, concerned woman arrived. They left the pair of them weeping on the sofa and let themselves out.
The roads were quiet as the grave as they headed back towards the centre of town: the snow was keeping everyone but the gritters inside.
Eight o’clock. A familiar figure slipped past as Insch swung the car round the Hazlehead roundabout. Peter Lumley’s stepfather, trudging through the falling snow, shouting his son’s name. Logan stared glumly at the soaking, cold figure until they’d left him far behind. He still had that dreadful visit from the police to look forward to. When they finally told him that his son’s body had been found.
Insch checked in with Control and got an address for Mr Henderson. He shared an apartment with his flat-chested supermarket woman in the less salubrious end of Rosemount.
They went through the same painful scene again. Only this time there was no self-blame. This time it was all directed at his stupid bitch ex-wife. His girlfriend sat on the couch in tears as he raged and swore. This wasn’t like him, she said. He was usually such a gentle man.
And then back to Force Headquarters.
‘Christ, that was a fun day.’ Insch sounded completely drained as he shambled across to the lifts. He mashed
