But even as I said it, I doubted it. Tuesday had been cold and windy enough that surely a young kid would wrap his scarf as tightly around his neck as he could, and he would notice it if it were gone. If it came off during a struggle though…
I didn’t suggest that to Ainslee.
“There is one other thing before I let you go,” I continued as Ainslee choked out a sob. “Would it be okay if I asked you just a couple more questions?”
It took Ainslee several long moments to get control over her voice again. “What is it?” she managed to ask, grief laced through every word.
“We just finished speaking with Mr MacTaberd, Finn’s homeroom teacher. You’ve met, yes?”
“Yes. Several times,” Ainslee answered.
The scarf was heavy in my hand, heavier than that strip of knitted wool had any right to be, as if it had soaked up a boy’s desperation and fear along with all the rain. “He said that Finn’s father called him last year, asking after his son. He mentioned that he told you about it?”
“Yes.” Ainslee hesitated. “Richard... he walked out on us. I could sense him pulling away in those months leading up to it, but nothing I did seemed to make a difference. I thought he left because he realized he didn’t want children.” Her voice trembled, and I wished this was a conversation we could have in person so she wouldn’t have to be alone. “But he was so excited when Finn was born… I couldn’t figure out what had changed. Still haven’t figured it out. I only got more confused when I started receiving money in the mail.”
“He really never tried to contact you or Finn?” I asked.
“He was just gone. It was as if he died.” She laughed bitterly, and her voice took on a sour tone. “I’m embarrassed to say I was excited when Mr MacTaberd said Richard had called. I thought he would come back to me. Obviously, he didn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Fletcher said. “That must have hurt.”
“You have no idea.”
I bit the inside of my lip as I thought over the mystery that was Richard Smith. “If Finn didn’t just get lost,” I said carefully because I knew what I was insinuating. “Do you think his father might have had something to do with it?”
Ainslee gave it some serious thought. Finally, she sighed. It was the sigh of someone who had put all her hope into a bottle and then tossed it into the sea. “I honestly don’t know, Inspector.”
“Thank you for everything, Ms Wair. I know this isn’t easy. I’ll call you as soon as we know more.” I hung up. My phone felt almost as heavy as the scarf still in my hand. “Do you have an evidence bag on you?” I asked Fletcher.
“Not one that big.”
“I think I have one in my car.” I held the scarf between three fingers, trying to touch it as little as possible. “Let’s visit the church before we head back to the station.”
The rain began to let up as we reached my car, though it would no doubt be back before the day was over. I opened the boot and fished out one of the large evidence bags I kept on hand, dropping the scarf inside and sealing the whole thing up.
We hit rush hour just as we pulled out of the school parking lot, and I cursed as I finally managed to squeeze into the left lane. A drive that should have been five minutes took twenty, and Fletcher was dozing lightly in the passenger seat by the time we finally reached St. Stephen’s Church. Its spire shot straight into the air, framing the front door, and gravestones, each tilted a different way like decorations slipping off a too-warm cake, dotted the green grass all around the building. A gravel path marched from the parking lot up to the blue doors while the small stained glass windows struggled to collect any light from the gloomy, cloud-riddled sky.
I nudged Fletcher awake, and she snorted as she jerked upright.
“Sorry, sorry.” She rubbed at her eyes. “Early morning.”
I led the way up the path, the gravel crunching beneath my boots, the wind picking at my coat. The door stuck for a moment, but I gave it a hard shove, stepping back to let Fletcher enter the church first. The room was wide and open, the floor covered in neat rows of pews and thick columns that reached up to the arched ceiling. The dark wooden supports stood out sharply against the light stone, and the altar at the far end was a simple dais sat before a carved cross, framed by stained glass windows that were dim and muted in the fading light. My footsteps rang through the space, though I tried to walk quietly as I followed Fletcher towards the information desk and tiny gift shop.
The clerk smiled at us in greeting, the expression deepening the wrinkles around his mouth.
“We’re looking for Lena Taggert,” I began. “She teaches a music class in the church basement. Do you know if she’s here right now?”
His smile widened, though that didn't seem possible. “Lena, yes, she’s lovely. She teaches here on Tuesdays. Unfortunately, she’s not here today. Why are you looking for her?”
I didn’t need to explain the details of the case to a stranger, so I ignored the question. “Do you have her address or her phone number?”
“Well, no.” The clerk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But she did invite me to her gig tonight. The band she’s in is playing at the Gellions Pub tonight. Eight o’clock, I think she said.”
That was something, at least. “Thanks.” I took five quid from my wallet and stuck it in the donation box, and the man beamed at me.
“Lena’s not in trouble, is
