library picture of the rockfall site. I flick up the volume a little …
expect delays, an incident related to a missing person
.
I lean in closer. It doesn’t say how the body was found. There’s that same picture of Lorna Lennox, smiling her Ali McGraw smile.
The newsreader is an eternally optimistic girl with black hair and a bobbing head. She’s trying to tone down her lust for life as the picture of another woman fills the screen; she says there might be a link to the disappearance of Gillian Porter. I used to think women who went missing were stupid and should have taken more care, but that was before last Thursday, before Sophie failed to turn up at the Goblin Market. They show old footage of a press conference, a long table, Gillian’s mother tearfully reading a statement. Gillian’s husband leans over to the microphone to add something he has written, his hands trembling. He’s appealing on behalf of their two kids. The four people at the table are showered in the flashlights of a hundred cameras. Then the camera pans out and I see him sitting on the far side, wearing an ill-fitting suit, speaking into a microphone with a voice that could grind concrete; a granite-faced man who has seen everything and been impressed by none of it. His hair was darker, shorter then. The skin was still pink so this was before his liver packed up with the drink. The sign underneath him says DCI W. Hopkirk of Strathclyde Police; he was the chief investigating officer in the missing person enquiry.
The Private Investigator.
Mr Slip-on Shoes.
An hour of Googling William Albert Hopkirk tells me he achieved some kind of status when he found two missing children. Another link to a picture of a girl with dark, corkscrew hair, her murder unsolved. I recognize her: she was killed while she was at Glasgow uni the year before Sophie went, which means she must have been there about the same time as Mary. I recall her name before my eye catches the small print. Natalie Thom. She was murdered as she walked through a Glasgow park at midnight. I thought then that it was a stupid thing to do.
I still think it now.
The voice that answers the phone is raw Woodbine. It’s half seven in the morning. He says one word.
‘Hopkirk.’
I say, ‘McCulloch.’
He doesn’t miss a beat. ‘How are you doing, hen?’
‘Sorry to call you so early.’ Sophie always says politeness opens doors.
‘I don’t sleep. I bet you don’t either.’ I’m listening for the sounds behind his voice – he’s not at home, he’s outside somewhere. ‘We need to talk, you and me.’ Then he asks me if I’m
still up at Parnell’s house.
So he knows that much about me.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Can you get away?’ There’s a muffled tap; I guess the phone has been moved from one hand to the other to check the time.
It’s a Saturday, Mary is in Glasgow. There won’t be a problem. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you meet me today? What about Dunoon? I can get the ferry over, you can drive round. About one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know the Henry the Eighth Tearoom?’ He hears my snort. ‘So you do.’ It’s his first show of humour.
‘The Henry the Eighth Tearoom is full of old gits with bladder issues.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s why I blend in.’
By a quarter to two I am sitting outside the Henry Eighth Tearoom in Dunoon. The little resort town sits right on the Cowal peninsula and is reputed to have the second most vulnerable economy in Scotland. A scabby seagull picks at the leftovers of a fish supper and gets a mouthful of newsprint which has more fibre than any of the locals ever get.
I park Mary’s two-seater silver Merc on the opposite side of the road with the window open slightly. It’s conspicuous but the Polo is still with the police and the Shogun is with Mary in Glasgow. Mary won’t bother; she hates the Merc as much as she hates all the cars Parnell buys her. It’s five to when Mr Slip-on Shoes comes waddling round the corner in his
expect delays, an incident related to a missing person
.
I lean in closer. It doesn’t say how the body was found. There’s that same picture of Lorna Lennox, smiling her Ali McGraw smile.
The newsreader is an eternally optimistic girl with black hair and a bobbing head. She’s trying to tone down her lust for life as the picture of another woman fills the screen; she says there might be a link to the disappearance of Gillian Porter. I used to think women who went missing were stupid and should have taken more care, but that was before last Thursday, before Sophie failed to turn up at the Goblin Market. They show old footage of a press conference, a long table, Gillian’s mother tearfully reading a statement. Gillian’s husband leans over to the microphone to add something he has written, his hands trembling. He’s appealing on behalf of their two kids. The four people at the table are showered in the flashlights of a hundred cameras. Then the camera pans out and I see him sitting on the far side, wearing an ill-fitting suit, speaking into a microphone with a voice that could grind concrete; a granite-faced man who has seen everything and been impressed by none of it. His hair was darker, shorter then. The skin was still pink so this was before his liver packed up with the drink. The sign underneath him says DCI W. Hopkirk of Strathclyde Police; he was the chief investigating officer in the missing person enquiry.
The Private Investigator.
Mr Slip-on Shoes.
An hour of Googling William Albert Hopkirk tells me he achieved some kind of status when he found two missing children. Another link to a picture of a girl with dark, corkscrew hair, her murder unsolved. I recognize her: she was killed while she was at Glasgow uni the year before Sophie went, which means she must have been there about the same time as Mary. I recall her name before my eye catches the small print. Natalie Thom. She was murdered as she walked through a Glasgow park at midnight. I thought then that it was a stupid thing to do.
I still think it now.
The voice that answers the phone is raw Woodbine. It’s half seven in the morning. He says one word.
‘Hopkirk.’
I say, ‘McCulloch.’
He doesn’t miss a beat. ‘How are you doing, hen?’
‘Sorry to call you so early.’ Sophie always says politeness opens doors.
‘I don’t sleep. I bet you don’t either.’ I’m listening for the sounds behind his voice – he’s not at home, he’s outside somewhere. ‘We need to talk, you and me.’ Then he asks me if I’m
still up at Parnell’s house.
So he knows that much about me.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Can you get away?’ There’s a muffled tap; I guess the phone has been moved from one hand to the other to check the time.
It’s a Saturday, Mary is in Glasgow. There won’t be a problem. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you meet me today? What about Dunoon? I can get the ferry over, you can drive round. About one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know the Henry the Eighth Tearoom?’ He hears my snort. ‘So you do.’ It’s his first show of humour.
‘The Henry the Eighth Tearoom is full of old gits with bladder issues.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s why I blend in.’
By a quarter to two I am sitting outside the Henry Eighth Tearoom in Dunoon. The little resort town sits right on the Cowal peninsula and is reputed to have the second most vulnerable economy in Scotland. A scabby seagull picks at the leftovers of a fish supper and gets a mouthful of newsprint which has more fibre than any of the locals ever get.
I park Mary’s two-seater silver Merc on the opposite side of the road with the window open slightly. It’s conspicuous but the Polo is still with the police and the Shogun is with Mary in Glasgow. Mary won’t bother; she hates the Merc as much as she hates all the cars Parnell buys her. It’s five to when Mr Slip-on Shoes comes waddling round the corner in his
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