found has been identified and it isn’t Terri?’
Nora nodded.
‘We’re here because someone else reported a Terri Docherty missing.’
Nora’s hand gave an involuntary jerk, spilling drops of hot tea in her lap. She brushed them off and set the mug on the tray. She pondered for a brief moment, whether it might have been David who called the police, then dismissed the idea.
‘Do you know a Leanne Quinn?’
Nora repeated the name. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
The officer passed Nora a copy of a photograph. It had been scanned, then printed out. The colours were vibrant, almost too bright.
‘Is this your daughter?’
Nora stared down at the image of Terri, taken before cheekbones had become the defining feature of her face.
‘She doesn’t look like that any more.’ Nora swallowed hard. She rose and fetched a small photo from a nearby desk drawer and handed it to the female PC. ‘My daughter is a heroin addict. This is what she lookslike now.’ Nora watched as the constable masked her shock at the contrast between the two images.
‘The drug eats them up,’ Nora said quietly.
‘When did you last hear from Terri?’ the man asked.
‘Nearly a month ago. She said she would be home this weekend.’ Nora explained about the strange phone call.
‘A handbag was found this morning on the Kingston Bridge,’ the man said. ‘It had a mobile in it that had been damaged. Leanne Quinn identified the bag as Terri’s.’
Nora’s hand rose involuntarily to her throat. ‘Oh dear God.’
They waited until she had control of herself.
‘We’re concerned for your daughter’s welfare. We suspect she may have got into a client’s car . . .’
‘A client?’ Nora interrupted him. She watched them exchange glances. ‘Terri was on benefit, and I put three hundred pounds in her account every month to make sure she had enough.’
It would never have been enough. Not to pay for drugs. Nora had known that all along, though she’d never admitted it, even to herself.
PC Connachie cleared his throat. ‘According to Leanne Quinn, she and Terri were working as prostitutes.’
When the officers left, Nora went quickly to the drinks cabinet and poured a large vodka. She swallowed it down before she could change her mind. She didn’t want to get drunk, she just wanted to force her heart to keep beating.
Prostitute. She couldn’t say the word. Dark images of men jerking against her daughter’s thin, wasted body filled her head.
‘My baby. My baby,’ she muttered.
The vodka hit her stomach and came back up minutes later. Nora barely made it to the kitchen, launching herself at the sink, as the regurgitated alcohol burned its way back up her throat.
When she felt steadier, she went outside and walked purposefully to the tree house. At the foot of the steps was a bench where you could rest against the trunk. Nora leaned back and clasped her hands to stop them shaking. The most important thing was that Terri was still alive. She had to believe that. The police were worried for Terri’s safety and were looking for her. A photo would be on tonight’s news.
It was such a small and fragile hope to cling to.
Nora thought of David. How would he deal with his daughter’s face broadcast to the nation, the details of her heroin addiction exposed? Worst of all, how could David cope with the knowledge that his daughter was a prostitute?
12
THE HANDBAG WAS a designer copy. Something you could buy from a stall at the Glasgow Barras for a couple of pounds, made by some poor soul in China for starvation wages. Inside was a wallet, with sixty pounds in four tenners and a twenty note, and about two quid in change. The various side pouches contained a few receipts, mainly for food, a couple of Tesco vouchers, and a snapshot of Leanne Quinn and Terri Docherty, faces squashed together in a photo booth. There was also a picture of a small brown dog, looking inquisitively up at the camera, which looked as though it had been cut
Nora nodded.
‘We’re here because someone else reported a Terri Docherty missing.’
Nora’s hand gave an involuntary jerk, spilling drops of hot tea in her lap. She brushed them off and set the mug on the tray. She pondered for a brief moment, whether it might have been David who called the police, then dismissed the idea.
‘Do you know a Leanne Quinn?’
Nora repeated the name. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
The officer passed Nora a copy of a photograph. It had been scanned, then printed out. The colours were vibrant, almost too bright.
‘Is this your daughter?’
Nora stared down at the image of Terri, taken before cheekbones had become the defining feature of her face.
‘She doesn’t look like that any more.’ Nora swallowed hard. She rose and fetched a small photo from a nearby desk drawer and handed it to the female PC. ‘My daughter is a heroin addict. This is what she lookslike now.’ Nora watched as the constable masked her shock at the contrast between the two images.
‘The drug eats them up,’ Nora said quietly.
‘When did you last hear from Terri?’ the man asked.
‘Nearly a month ago. She said she would be home this weekend.’ Nora explained about the strange phone call.
‘A handbag was found this morning on the Kingston Bridge,’ the man said. ‘It had a mobile in it that had been damaged. Leanne Quinn identified the bag as Terri’s.’
Nora’s hand rose involuntarily to her throat. ‘Oh dear God.’
They waited until she had control of herself.
‘We’re concerned for your daughter’s welfare. We suspect she may have got into a client’s car . . .’
‘A client?’ Nora interrupted him. She watched them exchange glances. ‘Terri was on benefit, and I put three hundred pounds in her account every month to make sure she had enough.’
It would never have been enough. Not to pay for drugs. Nora had known that all along, though she’d never admitted it, even to herself.
PC Connachie cleared his throat. ‘According to Leanne Quinn, she and Terri were working as prostitutes.’
When the officers left, Nora went quickly to the drinks cabinet and poured a large vodka. She swallowed it down before she could change her mind. She didn’t want to get drunk, she just wanted to force her heart to keep beating.
Prostitute. She couldn’t say the word. Dark images of men jerking against her daughter’s thin, wasted body filled her head.
‘My baby. My baby,’ she muttered.
The vodka hit her stomach and came back up minutes later. Nora barely made it to the kitchen, launching herself at the sink, as the regurgitated alcohol burned its way back up her throat.
When she felt steadier, she went outside and walked purposefully to the tree house. At the foot of the steps was a bench where you could rest against the trunk. Nora leaned back and clasped her hands to stop them shaking. The most important thing was that Terri was still alive. She had to believe that. The police were worried for Terri’s safety and were looking for her. A photo would be on tonight’s news.
It was such a small and fragile hope to cling to.
Nora thought of David. How would he deal with his daughter’s face broadcast to the nation, the details of her heroin addiction exposed? Worst of all, how could David cope with the knowledge that his daughter was a prostitute?
12
THE HANDBAG WAS a designer copy. Something you could buy from a stall at the Glasgow Barras for a couple of pounds, made by some poor soul in China for starvation wages. Inside was a wallet, with sixty pounds in four tenners and a twenty note, and about two quid in change. The various side pouches contained a few receipts, mainly for food, a couple of Tesco vouchers, and a snapshot of Leanne Quinn and Terri Docherty, faces squashed together in a photo booth. There was also a picture of a small brown dog, looking inquisitively up at the camera, which looked as though it had been cut
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