The first thing that struck DI Rob Brennan about the inside of Carly Donald’s room was how unremarkable it was. He didn’t know what he had expected to find in there but the familiarity of the place seemed to dig at his heart. On the small single bed there was a pink bedspread that was covered in little mauve flowers; it looked like something Sophie would have once picked out, before she had entered the phase where she wanted everything to be black. Over the window was a draw-blind with butterflies on the edges and a long pull tassel. Everything seemed so normal, so simple, almost like a film set or from a TV show for teenage girls.
Brennan eased himself in. The place smelled of lavender and vanilla. He wondered if it was a trait of every girl to have a room smelling just like the first floor of Jenners. He eased up to her desk. There was a red organiser for pens and pencils; she had tied red elastic bands — like the ones the postman drops — into a little ball. Brennan picked up the ball, rolled it in his palm and started to squeeze it. The item was a connection to Carly and he felt some strange power holding it.
‘Okay, Carly… What am I looking for?’
Brennan opened a drawer. There was some writing paper in there, pink again, and more pens, felt-tips. He removed the cap from one — it had dried out; the entire collection was probably left over from when she was younger. Sixteen was too old for colouring in.
There was nothing else that caught Brennan’s attention on the desk. He closed the drawer and moved to the wardrobe. A tall, freestanding pine box that looked like flat-pack but was probably more substantial. He opened up and immediately smelled a stronger waft of perfume. It was a different smell, not rose — apples, maybe. He liked it. The first thing that caught Brennan’s attention in the wardrobe was a school blazer. He took it out. The jacket was well kept; it had been brushed regularly and looked in good shape. The braid on the sleeves was yellow and bright. It struck him that dressing children in uniforms was a strange thing to be doing at this stage of human development. It was almost tribal. In Edinburgh, the rich kids stood out a mile in their uniforms, but then, that was the idea, wasn’t it? When you were paying?25,000 a year for your kid’s education, you wanted it to be as conspicuous as the Bentley Continental you drove to work.
Brennan looked further into the wardrobe. A lot of jeans. Simple tops, spots and prints. There were some boots beneath the clothes, grey suede. Brennan thought they were called pixie boots but he was no good with fashion. There were some trainers too, sports socks rolled into a ball and a hockey stick propped against the back. He closed the door.
The DI returned to the bed, sat. He hadn’t found anything worthwhile, but he had found something of Carly. The room had presence, she had put her stamp on it and Brennan drew on that, took it in. She may not have been there in person but Carly had made an indelible impression on him. He felt an attachment now; he understood more about her. She seemed a middle-of-the-road type; some might say plain. Her dress sense was unimaginative, but then she was only sixteen. Had she had time yet to fully form her personality, develop a style of her own?
On a whim, Brennan looked under the bed. There were some magazines, Heat, OK! Closer, and some books on childbirth. He rubbed the cover of one — the pages were dog-eared. There were items in the book ringed in red marker pen. Baby chairs and prams, clothing. Was this the action of a girl who was going to see her child adopted? Carly had wanted to keep the baby, he sensed it, knew it. Brennan replaced the magazines and books, got off the bed and smoothed down the bedspread.
He stood for a moment, stared at the posters on the walls. One of them was a Pop Idol winner, or was it X Factor? He didn’t know, but he recognised her face — Leona something? There was another larger poster of a boy band. Brennan didn’t know who they were — he thought they looked like tossers, though. All the posing and gesturing made him wonder what was going on in their heads. He bounced the elastic-band ball off the poster, said, ‘Come on, Carly, give me a sign here.’
Nothing came.
He stood for a moment longer, turned, went to place the ball on the desk but something stopped him. He felt some kind of comfort holding it, a connection he didn’t want to lose. Brennan held the ball in his hand for a moment longer, stared at it as if there was a message inside. He’d felt this before, a strange channelling from artefacts of the dead, but he always dismissed it as the mind playing tricks. He smiled, shook his head, then put the little ball back on the desk and headed downstairs.
In the kitchen McGuire and Napier were talking over cups of tea. There was no sign of Peter Sproul. When Brennan came in their chat ceased at once.
‘Hello, boss.’
Brennan nodded.
‘Anything?’
A shake of the head. ‘How far is this Thompson girl’s house?’
Napier put down his cup. ‘Just a minute or two away.’ He twisted his neck, raised a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Round that way.’
Brennan fastened his jacket. ‘Finish your tea. I’ll wait in the car.’
McGuire rose and took his cup to the sink. Napier followed him.
In the car Brennan drummed fingers on the dash, held his thoughts in check. There was a call he had to make. He didn’t want to speak to his wife but Sophie was on his mind now. He needed to know she was okay, that she had come home and her antics had all been another attention-seeking prank. He knew his daughter was too sensible to get mixed up in anything that would bring real worry to her parents — she’d been well briefed on the subject — but Brennan couldn’t help his concern surfacing.
He dialled home.
Ringing.
An answer, ‘Hello.’
‘Joyce… it’s me.’
‘Yes.’ Her tone was frosty. Had she kept the mood going all this time? he wondered.
‘Did you get hold of Sophie?’
A sigh. ‘Where’s this sudden concern came from?’
Brennan snapped, ‘Stop messing about, Joyce!’ He had just sat in a murdered schoolgirl’s bedroom and was in no mood to joust with his wife. ‘Is she home or not?’
Joyce’s voice lowered: ‘Yes. She’s home. You can go back to your job now with a clear conscience.’
Brennan hung up. As he did so McGuire and Napier returned, got in the car.
‘Okay, sir… Ready to roll,’ said McGuire.
‘This Sproul character, what’s his story?’ said Brennan.
McGuire took out his notebook. ‘He’s a kind of factotum.’
Brennan shook his head at the DC’s pretentiousness. ‘An odd-job man.’
‘Yes, sir. Got a background in the trades, moved about a bit. Plenty of praise for the minister — says he gave him a job when he was at a low ebb… Sounded grateful.’
‘What kind of a low ebb?’
McGuire put his pencil in the corner of his mouth. ‘Erm, he didn’t really say… Unemployment, I think.’
Brennan turned round in his seat, put fierce eyes on McGuire. ‘Run him through the system.’ He turned round again, addressed Napier: ‘And you can keep tabs on him.’
Napier nodded. ‘Okay, sure. He’s sound though, Pete — plays in the dominoes league down the Lion.’
Brennan snapped, ‘I don’t give a shit if he helps old ladies across the road or rescues kittens. I don’t like the bloody look of him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Napier started the engine, pulled out. In a few minutes they had arrived outside a semi-detached house. It looked to have been built in the seventies — utilitarian architecture for families on budgets. The officers assessed it and then got out the car, walked up the drive. A dog barked inside as Brennan rang the bell. It sounded like a small dog, pitching itself above its size. Napier eased himself to the rear of the group, stepped back.
As the door opened a small white flash dashed past them, a Jack Russell ran into the garden, barking. The animal seemed to have a routine, turning left then right, before circling the group entirely.
‘Penny, get in!’ A small woman in a blue fleece and wellington boots greeted them: ‘Hello, you must be… the police.’
Brennan introduced himself, produced his warrant card. ‘I hope this is a good time to call.’
The woman had very red cheeks. As the dog rushed in at their feet she tilted her head and placed a hand on her hip; she gesticulated with the other hand as she spoke. ‘I just don’t know what the world’s coming to… I really don’t, when something like this happens.’
Brennan looked down the hallway behind her. He saw a thin girl with dark hair held back by a white Alice band. She watched the officers then moved out of their line of vision.
Mrs Thompson continued, ‘Carly and Lynne were like that’ — she crossed her fingers over. ‘Our Lynne’s lost without her. I can’t hardly get her to eat or anything. It’s terrible, just terrible.’ She brought her arms together, crossed them over her chest and touched one of her shoulders. ‘That poor girl, such a good family too… They must be devastated.’
Brennan spoke: ‘Do you think Lynne would be up to talking to us?’
She turned, eyes widening. ‘Oh, yes. Of course… Come through. Can I get you some tea or coffee?’
‘No, we’re fine,’ said Brennan. He could tell the enormity of the situation hadn’t registered with the woman — had we all become so desensitised? Were people inured to murder now? He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t like Prime bloody Suspect showed it on the television.
In the kitchen Lynne sat at a small folding table. There was a fruit bowl in front of her and she stared over it at a blank wall.
‘Lynne, this is the police officers I was telling you about.’ Mrs Thompson turned to Brennan. ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was again?’
‘Brennan… Rob Brennan. Hello, Lynne.’
The girl remained still in her seat, absorbed in herself. She looked fragile enough to shatter into tiny pieces if the slightest breeze blew her way.
Mrs Thompson rubbed the girl’s back. ‘Come on, love.’
Lynne turned to her; still not a word.
Brennan pulled out a chair, sat. He placed his hands on the table in front of them, spoke softly: ‘I hear you were good friends with Carly.’
A nod. No eye contact.
It was something, a start, thought Brennan.
‘In the same class at school?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded forced, too quiet, even for such a delicate frame.
‘Best friends?’
Lynne nodded again. ‘I don’t have any friends now. There was only me and Carly.’
Brennan got the picture: the pair of them weren’t top of the popularity stakes. He could see neither of them had that air of confidence that was required of class favourites. They were not part of the crowd of beautiful people, not performers soaking up adulation; they were followers, not leaders. ‘I know this must be hard for you, Lynne… Can you tell me, is there anyone that you can think of who might want to harm Carly?’
She looked at her mother, then back to the detective. She shook her head.
‘Are you sure, Lynne?… It’s very important.’
She shook her head again, began to pick at her fingernails.
Brennan sat further forward. He glanced at the fruit bowl — the oranges were developing a grey fur. ‘Lynne… did Carly have a boyfriend?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
Another shrug; she turned her head away. A cat leapt onto the window ledge.
‘You knew Carly was pregnant, didn’t you?’
Lynne blushed. Her mother rubbed at her back again.
‘I guess.’
‘So, she didn’t get pregnant by herself… did she, Lynne?’
The girl started to bite her top lip. ‘I don’t know anything.’
Brennan knew she was holding out. He’d seen far better liars than her in his day; the girl didn’t even look as if she was trying. ‘Are you sure, Lynne? You wouldn’t be protecting anyone, would you?’
Mrs Thompson put an arm round her daughter, leaned in. Lynne spun in her seat and buried her face in her mother’s chest, sobbing. Mrs Thompson waved a hand at Brennan, said, ‘I’m sorry, she’s a bit emotional.’
Brennan leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked. ‘I understand.’
‘Maybe you could come back another time.’
The girl sobbed harder. It was all too early for her, she was too delicate to press any further. ‘Of course.’ He rose, motioned the other officers to follow.
In the car Napier spoke first: ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’
Brennan fastened his seat belt. ‘Not at all. We know for sure and certain she’s covering up for somebody.’
‘ Who?’ said Napier.
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be contemplating spending the night in Pitlochry.’ Brennan lowered his window, removed his cigarettes. ‘You can take us to a half-decent B amp;B… if you can find one.’