them.’
McGuire stayed quiet for a moment, then, ‘Sir, there was something else…’
‘What is it?’
‘Linda was compiling the missing persons list earlier.’
‘Yeah, and?’
‘The girl from Pitlochry…’
Brennan rolled his eyes, sighed, ‘Yeah, what about her?’
‘Well, her parents called up — they saw the item on the TV news and want to come down.’
‘Our girl’s local, Stevie.’
‘Well, what should I tell them? They’re coming down in the morning.’
Brennan shook his head. He had too much to do without playing nursemaid to the parents of a missing teenager. ‘Well, add that to your list. Take them down, lay their fears to rest… Right now, I’d be taking bets on our girl being local.’
Chapter 16
The minister sat facing the train’s window. His wife, opposite, seemed to be gazing at a different landscape. Frieda had always been a taciturn woman, even before they had married and she’d buried herself in the household’s chores. She was never one to express what was going on behind those pale-blue eyes of hers. She had been a calm young woman, a bit of a wallflower, they used to say, but he liked that about her. The way she had seemed uninterested in having a large circle of friends, or socialising even, had appealed to him. They had their own little coterie, church folk and family, and until recently they’d had Carly.
‘What are you thinking, my dear?’ said the minister.
Frieda raised herself slightly in the seat. She looked uncomfortable. It wasn’t a long journey — it was being away from the manse and familiar surroundings she had never liked. Surely a missing daughter rendered all of that meaningless, though; other things were on her mind. Should be, anyway.
‘Do they have a buffet on this train?’ she said. The words came out cleanly and crisply, as though she had been practising them over to herself for some time.
The question wasn’t expected. The minister flustered, ‘I–I don’t believe so.’ He looked over to his wife. She had opened her bag and removed a small handkerchief. ‘There might be a trolley, you know, with sandwiches and the like.’
Frieda patted at the corner of her nose with the handkerchief, then folded up the small white cotton square, returned it to her leather handbag. The clasp made a loud snap as it shut. ‘They’ll be expensive.’
Everything she said seemed unnatural to him. He hoped to God she wasn’t going to break; he couldn’t stand to see that. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She returned her gaze to the window. The minister followed the line of her vision. There was rain falling on the green, open fields. In the middle distance, some sheep were huddling under a copse of trees; they looked wet and miserable. The thought wounded him. For days he had been filled with visions of Carly out in the wider world. The image of the animals — huddled against the harsh elements — seemed to signify his worst fears.
They had made mistakes with Carly, he was sure of it. They were only human, with feet of clay — how could they not? But he did not know what they could have done any differently. Carly had always been a headstrong girl, he thought, but she was stable. She worked hard at school and got good examination results. She was a prefect — they didn’t make just anyone a prefect — so the teachers had to see something in her.
The minister smoothed down the sides of his moustache. He repeated the action three, four times and then he felt conscious of his wife watching him. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re making a habit of that.’
He withdrew his hand, smiled. ‘I’m sorry… I wasn’t aware of it.’
She didn’t smile back. ‘Don’t be doing that when we get to the police station… They’ll think there’s something funny about you.’
For the second time, he was shocked. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Frieda pinched her mouth. She seemed to be wearing more lipstick than usual, or was it a different colour, perhaps? ‘You know what they say about the police — always suspicious.’
The minister shook his head. ‘We have a missing daughter, and they have found a child who…’ He stopped himself. He could feel his breath shortening. ‘I’m sorry.’ He leaned out, touched his wife’s hand. ‘I don’t mean to snap at you.’
She brought her other hand over his, patted it softly. ‘No need to apologise.’
They sat in silence for the remainder of the journey. When the train arrived at Waverley Station in Edinburgh, the reality of the situation suddenly gripped the minister. He took the small overnight bag that his wife had packed for them down from the overhead rack and placed the strap over his shoulder. Frieda put on her raincoat and fastened the buttons. He watched her tighten the belt and admired her cinched waist. His wife was a fine woman. She didn’t deserve this. As he took a slow breath he made a silent prayer that God would spare her any misery, that Carly would not be the girl, the poor unfortunate murdered child they had come to see. He knew at once, as he made his wish before God, that if she was not his child, if it was not Carly who had suffered that cruel end, then it must be another mother’s daughter. He was, in effect, wishing misery on someone else and this was surely no way for a minister of the church to think. But he thought it and prayed to God Carly was safe.
On the station concourse the number of bodies, rushing about, running for trains, made him feel uncomfortable. Pitlochry was a quiet town, peaceful. This was the big city. He did not want to be here. The reason for his visit made this obvious, but it was as if the entire population and every building conspired to make him feel unwelcome. Edinburgh had always left the minister cold, all large population centres had, but he knew he would never again be able to feel anything but unease here.
As they passed through the ticket barriers Frieda seemed to slow at his side. She placed an arm on his own. ‘What is it?’ he said, ‘Is everything okay?’
For a moment she seemed to look blankly at him, and then her arm slipped from his and she swooned forwards. The bag on his shoulder swung round, slipped to the ground as he lunged to catch his wife. She had fainted; without warning she had lost consciousness. The minister tried to hold her up, stop her from hitting her head on the cold tiles. She was surprisingly light in his arms, but as the heavy bag threatened to topple them over he realised he couldn’t hold her up.
‘Can somebody help me please?’
A man in a business suit brushed past. Two young women, chatting, turned away.
‘I’m sorry… Please could you…?’
More walked on. He was losing his grasp. He could feel the grip he had on Frieda’s coat slipping. His knees started to wobble. ‘Please, somebody?’
From the other end of the station a young man sprinted towards them. He grabbed the minister’s wife and eased her onto the ground. He supported her head with his hand, then spoke: ‘Are you John Donald?’
The minister kneeled down beside the young man who was loosening off his wife’s coat. ‘Yes, I am.’
The young man extended a hand. ‘I’m Detective Constable Stephen McGuire…’ He touched Frieda’s brow with the back of his hand. She seemed to be stirring. ‘I think she’s going to be fine — just a wee turn.’
‘She’s never fainted before.’
The DC raised himself on his haunches, said, ‘I’d say she’s entitled in the circumstances.’
‘Indeed, yes.’
McGuire pointed to the car parking area. ‘I have a car waiting… But if you’d prefer to go to the hotel, get freshened up first…’
The minister looked at his wife. She held out a hand, tried to sit up. ‘Frieda… We’ll get you to the hotel, rest up for a bit.’
She pushed the DC away, flagged her husband aside. ‘No. No. We’ll get this over with. Right now.’
The minister took his wife’s hand as they settled into the back of the policeman’s car. Her fingers felt cold; her hand was trembling. He wished there was something he could say, do, but nothing presented itself. There had
