“DCI MacBain,” I said and showed him my badge. “Do you have a minute?”
“I’m on my way out, but of course. What can I do for you?” Despite his last name, Mr MacTaberd spoke with an American accent, his vowels short and clipped.
“We’re headed outside as well, actually. Do you mind if we walk with you?”
“Of course not.”
Fletcher and I fell in line beside Mr MacTaberd, following him towards the school’s main entrance. He walked quickly, purposefully, and I had to lengthen my stride to keep up.
“What can you tell us about Finn Wair’s parents? We’ve met his mother, but no one’s been able to tell us anything about the father.”
“He called me once, sometime last year,” Mr MacTaberd admitted. “I don’t know how he figured out I’m Finn’s homeroom teacher or where he got my number, but he just wanted to ask me how Finn was doing. Didn’t try to set up a meeting, didn’t ask for any personal information, he just asked how Finn was doing in school. He sounded, I don’t know, sad. Then he asked if I could keep this between us and hung up.”
“Did you keep it to yourself?” Fletcher asked.
“I told his mother. It seemed only right.”
“How did she take it?” We reached the front doors and stopped just inside them as it was still raining outside, and I had no desire to get wet while we finished this conversation. I was still slightly damp due to the walk from the car.
“She didn’t seem like she knew how to take it, just asked me to let her know if he ever called again.”
“And did he?”
Mr MacTaberd shook his head. “I saved the number though, and I tried to call when I heard… you know, but the number was disconnected.”
“We’ll need that number,” I said, and he gave Fletcher his phone with the contact open on the screen. She scrawled it across a fresh page and circled it.
Mr MacTaberd hesitated, squeezing the strap of his satchel in both hands. “Is it possible Finn just ran away? His mother, she’s a lovely woman, but she’s a bit overprotective. Maybe Finn just got overwhelmed and took off.”
“We’re looking into all possibilities. We haven’t found any evidence of foul play.” I didn’t add ‘yet.’ No reason to freak the man out when we still didn’t have all the facts. I shook his hand, and then he opened a large umbrella, hurrying down the steps and out into the rain.
“What now?” Fletcher asked. She had her own umbrella in hand but hadn’t opened it yet.
“Let’s take a lap around the school. Maybe we’ll see something.”
“My socks are wet,” she grumbled.
“Then you won’t notice if they get wetter,” I said with false cheer and pushed her out the door.
She managed to get the umbrella in place before she stepped out from under the building’s awning, though she turned and gave me a look that could curdle milk, and she refused to let me under the umbrella’s reach as we walked down the stairs and began to skirt around the school.
“I looked up the best route to St. Stephen’s church,” she said. “It seems like it’s fastest to go around the back of the school and cut across the alley there.”
“Lead the way.” I doubted we’d find anything. The rain would have wiped away any footprints or tire tracks, but it never hurt to check.
There was another iron fence at the back of the school, but the gate leading to the alley wasn’t locked and swung open easily under my hand as if it were used often. The alleyway beyond was narrow, with barely enough room for a car, the cobblestones dark and uneven underfoot. There were no windows to break up the wall across the way. In fact, it didn’t even look like the building was in use.
“Well, if I were going to nab someone, this is where I’d do it,” I said, looking up and down the narrow walkway with my hands on my hips. A white delivery van puttered slowly past the mouth of the alley.
“Comforting.” Fletcher finally relented and stepped in closer to hold her umbrella over both our heads.
“Let’s take a look around,” I suggested, and the two of us split up.
There weren’t many places in the alley to look, but I made my way over to a set of bins near its mouth. The rubbish was collected every other Friday, so it was possible there was something leftover from Tuesday afternoon.
I instantly regretted opening the lid. Someone had decided to dump a bucket of food waste into the bin, and it had started to ferment at the bottom. I quickly dropped the lid and stepped back, and as I did, my eye caught on a splash of colour on the ground between the two bins. I stooped and reached carefully into the space, retrieving the sodden red and white wool scarf. It was short and narrow. Just like one a child might wear.
Five
“Look.” I held up the scarf for Fletcher to see, and dirty water drip-drip-dripped off the end.
“That could be anyone’s,” Fletcher said, but she didn’t sound very convincing.
“One way to find out,” I replied and called Ainslee Wair.
The phone rang for a long time before she finally picked up, her voice wavering half from the static of the call and half from her exhaustion and grief. “Yes?”
“Ms Wair, this is DCI MacBain. Do you have a moment?”
Fear crept into her voice as she assumed that a call from me could only be bad news. “Yes. What is it?”
“What was Finn wearing on Tuesday?” I put the phone on speaker so Fletcher could hear Ainslee’s response as well.
“His school uniform, his coat. I-- Why are you asking this? Did you find something?”
“Did Finn own a red and white striped scarf?”
“He did. I made it for him. I think he was wearing it Tuesday. Why? Did you find it?”
“In the alley
