“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Sam couldn’t believe our father abandoned her. Acknowledging that would break her, so she chose to believe these outlandish theories about the Loch Ness Monster and some kind of shadowy Illuminati organization that she made up. I worried about what these fantasies would do to her, especially if she suddenly realized the truth, so I tried to nudge her gently towards the right path while also humouring her investigation. It was a hard line to walk. “You’ll let me know what Martin finds?”
“Of course. Just don’t be too disappointed when there’s nothing there.”
“Ye of little faith. Okay, I have to go. Say hi to Mum for me when you see her.”
I dropped my phone to my desk, on top of the Wair case file, then closed my eyes and tipped my head back, letting the harsh light of the overhead lights seep through my eyelids. Some days, I wished I could believe my family’s theories so that thinking of Alasdair MacBain would hurt just a little less. But I’d called him the night before his disappearance, needing to talk about how I was struggling at uni, and you’d think he would’ve told me if something were wrong. Instead, he disappeared, left me right when I needed him most, and I simply couldn’t forgive him for that.
Six
I met Fletcher at the Gellions Pub, though we arrived too late to speak with Lena Taggert before the gig began. I did that on purpose, though I wouldn’t tell Fletcher so. I wanted to sit in a dark pub with a drink and listen to some music for a while before jumping back into work. So we found a miraculously empty booth, ordered drinks from the bar, and settled in just as the musicians filed onto the makeshift stage.
The Gellions Pub was one of those old school pubs, full of scratched and tarnished wood. The booths all had dark leather backs that reflected the candles and the dim, yellow overhead lights. Bottles of every shape, size, and colour filled the shelves behind the bar, stretching far above the reach of the bartender, though most of the bottles that high up were expensive and simply there for show. Pictures of famous people seated in booths and at tables hung from the walls, the oldest of them black and white and a little grainy. Tonight, the place was packed, the heat of so many bodies raising the temperature inside to an almost uncomfortable level.
The guitar player began to speak into the microphone, but I was too busy studying the people on stage with him to listen. The piper looked a little put-out as if offended that she couldn’t bring her bagpipes into such a crowded pub. Still, she had a set of six flutes and whistles of varying sizes arrayed around her, adjusting the head on one of them as she chatted quietly with the fiddler. He had a pickup plugged into the fiddle’s body, but he seemed to be having trouble finding the right position for the cord when he placed the instrument under his chin.
But it was the bodhran player that really caught my eye. Where the others were dressed in dark colours or flannel, she wore a brilliantly patterned floral dress, its green colour bright in the stage lights. Her blonde hair fell in easy ringlets to her bare shoulders, framing her round face. She held her drum easily, testing it as the guitar player continued to speak, and the double-headed stick danced in her slender fingers.
The guitar player finished his preamble, and the band launched right into their first tune, fast and free and utterly in sync with each other. Traditional Scottish music was all about freedom. It was improvisation and exploration, and it was the joyous discovery of a culture that stretched back as far as history could remember. It was haunted graveyards and ancient moors and all the sorrow of people lost before their time. It was community, and it was one man lost within the mist, and it was an impossibility written amongst the stars.
The band held the pub in thrall. How could they not? The guitar player’s voice was earthy and deep, like a bard freed from the bound pages of a book, and the whistle floated over the churning fiddle, the bodhran a constant, ever-changing rhythm beneath it all, the drummer drawn so deep into the music that she couldn’t help but sway and dance her feet across the floor in front of her chair, and I couldn’t help but stare at her, enraptured by her joy.
When the band broke for a short break, I was left stunned and a little out of it. Fletcher nudged me out of the booth, and I shook my head, focusing back in on the task. We were there for the job, not to stare at pretty women in dresses. I approached the guitar player as he was settling his instrument carefully onto its stand.
“We’re looking for Lena Taggert?” I asked.
He nodded towards the bodhran player.
Lena Taggert heard her name and looked up, meeting my gaze. There was a light sheen of sweat across her face, and her cheeks were a rosy red. She stood, setting her instrument on her chair, and approached Fletcher and me, her steps a little hesitant.
“Can I help you?” She smiled at us despite her nervousness, and it was the sort of smile you couldn’t help but return.
“My name is DCI MacBain. We’d like to talk to you about Finn Wair. He’s in your Tuesday music class.”
“What about him?” she asked, brow furrowed in confusion as she took a sip from her water bottle.
“He’s missing,” I said.
“Last seen headed to your class on Tuesday,” Fletcher added.
Her expression crumbled even further, eyebrows drawing together, the corner of her mouth folding down. “Missing? I don’t understand?” Her voice wavered just slightly, knuckles white around her water bottle.
“He was seen leaving school. Did he make
