The picture jumped to a press conference: DCS Dickie shared the stage with Helen McMillan’s parents and a senior officer in full dress uniform.
Jane McMillan clasped her husband’s hand, blinking in the media strobelight. She was wearing the same floral frock she’d had on yesterday, her eyes red, nose shiny, bottom lip wobbling. She looked as if someone had taken away her innards and replaced them with broken glass. ‘ I … I want you to know that our Helen was a special girl. If anyone knows who took her: you have to go to the police. You have to. ’
I clunked two huge mugs of tea down on the red Formica tabletop.
The Tartan Bunnet wasn’t that busy for a Tuesday morning – normally the little café would be full of nightshift CID and uniform, but everyone was on overtime: searching Cameron Park, or going door-to-door, or trying to track down whoever lived in the area nine years ago.
Dr McDonald took a sip of tea, made smacking noises with her lips. She had the café’s copy of the Daily Mail laid out on the table: ‘H ELEN ’ S B IRTHDAY H ORROR ’ was stretched across the front page, above a close-up of the birthday card. Helen McMillan, tied to a chair, cheeks streaked with tears.
‘ Please, we just want our Helen back… ’
‘I know they have to put out an appeal and they have to believe it’s going to make a difference, but it really isn’t, Helen’s father was right: she’s already dead, she’s been dead for a year.’
‘What else can they do?’ I settled into the seat opposite, facing the window. The sun was crawling over the horizon making the rooftops glisten. A pair of white chimneys poked up above the surrounding streets – Castle Hill Infirmary’s incinerator, twin trails of steam glowing against the heavy purple clouds.
‘And it’s not like someone’s going to come forward and say, “Hey, I know who the Birthday Boy is,” because no one knows who he is, he’s clever and he’s careful and he’s been doing this for at least nine years, he’s good at blending in with the normal people, that’s why he’s got away with it for so long.’
A man’s voice replaced Jane McMillan’s, not Dickie or the father so it had to be the guy in the dress uniform. ‘ I want to assure the public that Tayside Police are following several lines of enquiry. But we need your help: if you saw Helen the day she disappeared…’
Dr McDonald produced a black Sharpie and sketched a map of Britain on the newspaper, adding two squares roughly where Oldcastle would be, one over Dundee, Inverness, Bristol, Newcastle, Cardiff, and Glasgow, and two for London. ‘Five girls taken from Scotland, four from England, one from Wales. All mainland UK.’
Almost right.
‘ Meanwhile, in Oldcastle, police continue to excavate Cameron Park… ’
She scrawled a rough approximation of the motorway network on her map, joining the squares. Then looked up at me. ‘You don’t have a red pen or something, do you, only if I keep adding stuff in black it’s going to get a bit confusing.’
There was a clatter from the counter behind us, then a gravelly voice. ‘One poached egg on toast. One coronary classic.’
I turned and put a hand up. A baggy-faced woman in a chequered apron shuffled over, carrying two plates. She stood over the table, thin grey hair plastered to her shiny forehead. ‘Who’s gettin’ the coronary?’
Dr McDonald bounced up and down in her seat. ‘Ooh, that’s me, thanks.’
The plate was about the size of a hubcap, heaped with toast, sausages, grilled tomato, streaky bacon, mushrooms, two fried eggs, two slices of black pudding floating on a sea of baked beans, and a mound of golden chips.
I took the other plate. ‘Thanks, Effie.’
‘Sure you don’t want me to do you some chips, son?’
‘Honestly, I’m fine.’
‘Hmmph.’ She hoisted up her bosoms. ‘Well, don’t blame me when you waste away.’ She shuffled off.
Dr McDonald hacked off a chunk of sausage, dipped
Jane McMillan clasped her husband’s hand, blinking in the media strobelight. She was wearing the same floral frock she’d had on yesterday, her eyes red, nose shiny, bottom lip wobbling. She looked as if someone had taken away her innards and replaced them with broken glass. ‘ I … I want you to know that our Helen was a special girl. If anyone knows who took her: you have to go to the police. You have to. ’
I clunked two huge mugs of tea down on the red Formica tabletop.
The Tartan Bunnet wasn’t that busy for a Tuesday morning – normally the little café would be full of nightshift CID and uniform, but everyone was on overtime: searching Cameron Park, or going door-to-door, or trying to track down whoever lived in the area nine years ago.
Dr McDonald took a sip of tea, made smacking noises with her lips. She had the café’s copy of the Daily Mail laid out on the table: ‘H ELEN ’ S B IRTHDAY H ORROR ’ was stretched across the front page, above a close-up of the birthday card. Helen McMillan, tied to a chair, cheeks streaked with tears.
‘ Please, we just want our Helen back… ’
‘I know they have to put out an appeal and they have to believe it’s going to make a difference, but it really isn’t, Helen’s father was right: she’s already dead, she’s been dead for a year.’
‘What else can they do?’ I settled into the seat opposite, facing the window. The sun was crawling over the horizon making the rooftops glisten. A pair of white chimneys poked up above the surrounding streets – Castle Hill Infirmary’s incinerator, twin trails of steam glowing against the heavy purple clouds.
‘And it’s not like someone’s going to come forward and say, “Hey, I know who the Birthday Boy is,” because no one knows who he is, he’s clever and he’s careful and he’s been doing this for at least nine years, he’s good at blending in with the normal people, that’s why he’s got away with it for so long.’
A man’s voice replaced Jane McMillan’s, not Dickie or the father so it had to be the guy in the dress uniform. ‘ I want to assure the public that Tayside Police are following several lines of enquiry. But we need your help: if you saw Helen the day she disappeared…’
Dr McDonald produced a black Sharpie and sketched a map of Britain on the newspaper, adding two squares roughly where Oldcastle would be, one over Dundee, Inverness, Bristol, Newcastle, Cardiff, and Glasgow, and two for London. ‘Five girls taken from Scotland, four from England, one from Wales. All mainland UK.’
Almost right.
‘ Meanwhile, in Oldcastle, police continue to excavate Cameron Park… ’
She scrawled a rough approximation of the motorway network on her map, joining the squares. Then looked up at me. ‘You don’t have a red pen or something, do you, only if I keep adding stuff in black it’s going to get a bit confusing.’
There was a clatter from the counter behind us, then a gravelly voice. ‘One poached egg on toast. One coronary classic.’
I turned and put a hand up. A baggy-faced woman in a chequered apron shuffled over, carrying two plates. She stood over the table, thin grey hair plastered to her shiny forehead. ‘Who’s gettin’ the coronary?’
Dr McDonald bounced up and down in her seat. ‘Ooh, that’s me, thanks.’
The plate was about the size of a hubcap, heaped with toast, sausages, grilled tomato, streaky bacon, mushrooms, two fried eggs, two slices of black pudding floating on a sea of baked beans, and a mound of golden chips.
I took the other plate. ‘Thanks, Effie.’
‘Sure you don’t want me to do you some chips, son?’
‘Honestly, I’m fine.’
‘Hmmph.’ She hoisted up her bosoms. ‘Well, don’t blame me when you waste away.’ She shuffled off.
Dr McDonald hacked off a chunk of sausage, dipped
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