Janet Gemmell looked up into the detective’s gaze, dry-eyed, her stony expression hard to read. Was this a mother disappointed to the extent of bitterness against her daughter? Or had her own life been one of enduring emotional blows until she put up a barrier against any feelings of tenderness? Professor Brightman might have been able to make an educated guess, Molly thought.

  ‘Celia wasn’t what I hoped she would be,’ Janet began, her eyes flitting to a photograph on the mantelpiece where she and a man sat side by side, a small girl between them, looking solemnly out at the camera.

  ‘We brought her up to be a nice young woman, respectful,’ she said. ‘But from the time she was a teenager Celia went her own way. Stayed out late at night, didn’t come home, sometimes.’ She gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘Left home and moved in with a boyfriend till he got tired of her then she came home again.’ Janet Gemmell glared at Molly. ‘That was the pattern till her dad passed on,’ she said. ‘He was the soft one, couldn’t say no to her.’

  But you could, Molly thought.

  ‘I sold the family home and moved in here after I’d had a big operation,’ Janet explained. ‘It’s a decent place to live. Warden on hand if you want her, all the privacy you need.’ She shrugged again. ‘It’s a one-bedroom apartment. All I require.’

  And no room for a daughter to stay over, Molly almost added.

  ‘Did Celia come to visit you before she left her previous lodgings?’

  There was a pause then the woman made a face. ‘Once or twice. I didn’t encourage her,’ she sniffed. ‘Celia was a law unto herself. She’d bring presents for Mother’s Day then I wouldn’t see her again for months. Fact is, last Mother’s Day was the last time she came to see me.’

  ‘No phone calls since then?’

  ‘No, and she never phoned unless she wanted something. We weren’t close,’ Janet Gemmell said quietly, though that, Molly thought, was stating the obvious.

  ‘Did you know any of her friends? Work colleagues?’

  Janet Gemmell shook her head. ‘There was a man she brought here once, looked a good bit older than her from what I could see, which wasn’t much. He chose to sit in his car, never came in even to say hello.’

  ‘Did Celia give you his name?’ Molly tried hard not to sound too eager.

  A frown and a shake of the grey head. ‘I don’t remember.’ Then, for the first time, a look of concern flitted across her face. ‘Is it important? Has something happened to Celia?’

  Molly shook her head and smiled faintly. ‘We have no news about Celia. And you know what they say,’ she added. ‘No news is good news.’

  Janet gave a snort. ‘Never good news where my daughter’s concerned,’ she insisted. ‘And, if she’s got herself mixed up in something she shouldn’t then she’s only got herself to blame.’

  Molly looked at the rising shoulders, noting the tremble on the old woman’s hand. Her words were suddenly at odds with her body language and Molly understood that Janet Gemmell was afraid for her daughter.

  ‘Tell me about her work,’ she continued. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Could have been so much better than a kitchen hand in that school.’ Janet shook her head. ‘She was clever at school, just went off the rails before she could take any exams. Waste of time trying to get her to study.’

  ‘Did she enjoy the job?’

  ‘Shouldn’t have thought so. Wasn’t she always bunking off? Terrible timekeeping. Amazed she lasted as long as she did.’

  ‘But she wasn’t sacked, was she?’

  Janet Gemmell shook her head. ‘They phoned me here, sounded worried, I’ll give them that,’ she admitted.

  Molly nodded silently. Bankbrae Primary School was closed for the Easter holidays but as soon as they could, she and Davie Giles would be questioning Celia’s workmates and the rest of the staff there.

  ‘Anything else you can tell me about Celia? Any indication that she intended to go away?’

  Janet Gemmell turned her head away and stared out of the glass doors. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Was she a keen walker, rambles in the countryside, that sort of thing?’ Molly asked, remembering the wellington boots in that plastic carrier bag.

  Janet Gemmell raised her eyebrows in a look of astonishment. ‘Celia? Walking in the countryside? Not if she could help it!’ the woman scoffed. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Molly explained about the dirty boots the landlord had passed to the police.

  ‘Some mistake,’ Janet muttered. ‘Can’t be hers. She never wore anything like that. More of a designer shoes sort of girl, our Celia, not that it did her any good.’ She sniffed in a disapproving manner.

  Molly tried not to show her disappointment. Had the landlord simply passed her an old bag full of someone else’s footwear? Well, the forensic lab would show up any DNA from Celia’s other possessions and make a match. Or not, Molly thought gloomily.

  ‘Here’s my card,’ she said, laying it on the glass-topped coffee table. ‘If you think of anything else or if Celia gets in touch, please call us right away.’

  It seemed as though getting to her feet was an effort, but Celia’s mother stumbled to the front door, a determined courtesy to show the detective out of her home.

  As the door closed behind her, Molly imagined the old woman scrabbling for her cigarettes and lighter, the bifold doors opening to her sanctuary in the garden. Something wasn’t right. But was it simple anxiety for her daughter? Or did Janet Gemmell know more than she had let on, suspecting that the worst had befallen her only child?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The churchyard caught his eye for a brief moment, the dark red spire looming nearer, cars lining the street so that he had to slow down. A funeral, he thought, noticing the black-clad folk walking towards the church door, a stark contrast to the swathes of yellow daffodils lining the path. An older couple passed by, walking hand in hand, then turned towards the mourners making their way along the footpath.

  A memory flickered in his brain, the picture of another cold churchyard, lines of grown-ups waiting for the coffin to emerge from the church, those white and yellow flowers borne on its surface a splash of almost indecent colour to his young eyes. Nobody had held his hand that day, he remembered, though there had been plenty of small shoves against his shoulder as he was eased forward towards the yawning grave, instructed to toss a handful of dirt on top of her coffin once the cord bearers had lowered it into the darkness.

  He blinked, the image receding slowly as the traffic gathered apace and the church was left behind. Yet a sense of gloom had settled on his soul, refusing to shift even though he had set out with a song on his lips and a feeling of anticipation that was almost excitement. She still had the power to do this to him, he realised bitterly. Even after all those years.

  He switched on the radio and stared at the road ahead, concentrating on finding the correct lane that would take him to his next destination. The radio station was manned by a cheerful young DJ, his Irish tones easy on the ear, the choice of music suitable for all ages and tastes. Wallpaper music, one woman had called it when he’d turned on the radio that day after work. It was a damned sight better than the pounding beat from that souped-up BMW next to him, he told himself angrily, his foot on the brake, stopped at a set of traffic lights. A glance from the window took in a young Asian guy, short-sleeved, windows down, his body moving back and forth with the beat. He hated him on sight, the dark head lifted in a swaying tilt, the casual arrogance in his handsome face. When the lights changed the Beamer tore away, a squeal of tyres leaving him yards behind.

  He clenched his teeth, a silent curse aimed at the back of the departing sports car, his ill wish to see it crashed at the side of the road. Serve the bastard right!

  The moment passed, however, the ballad on the radio station coming to an end and the news bulletin beginning. One hand hovered over the button to turn it off but he listened instead in growing horror as the newscaster relayed the latest items.

  ‘Police Scotland has insisted that the wife of Detective Superintendent William Lorimer is not considered to be at risk from what appears to be harassment from an unknown stalker. The man heading up the double Glasgow murder has told our reporters that Mrs Lorimer is continuing with her book tour and is not expected to be given any special security provision meantime.

  ‘MSPs at Holyrood have been discussing the latest Fisheries Bill—’

  One finger shut off the voice and he stared ahead, rage coursing through his body. Who had been making trouble for his beloved? What sort of person was harassing her? As he drove towards the university town of St Andrews, his mouth was a thin, determined line. No one was going to hurt the woman he had chosen. No one. He would be her guardian angel, protecting her from any sort of harm. With that thought came the image of Margaret Lorimer’s face and the grateful look he would see in her eyes.

  His mouth softened into a smile as the car gathered speed. Soon they would be together and he would be rewarded for his vigilance with the sweetest of all prizes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘Celia Gemmell was last seen on the morning of April second last year,’ Lorimer began, looking around at those officers who had been able to attend the meeting. ‘That was by one of the other tenants where she lived.’ He caught the eye of the officer from whom that morsel of information had come, nodding his approval. ‘Her mother last saw her in March last year when Celia visited for Mothering Sunday. We have noted that she came with a man who stayed in his car throughout that short visit but there was no CCTV footage to show the make or model. He’d parked in a side street,’ Lorimer added, his voice loaded with significance. ‘Had he wanted to keep out of sight? Was he intending to take Celia somewhere? We need to find out who that man was.’

  The room was quiet, all eyes fixed on the detective superintendent, anxious for the bits of intelligence to merge together.

  ‘The bus stations, train depots and airlines have all been scrutinised and we are pretty certain that if Celia left Glasgow then it was by a private vehicle. If she left,’ he repeated. ‘Thanks to our tech team we know that Celia had not browsed any holiday sites nor places to stay. What she had been looking at before she disappeared, however, was linked to her own place of work as a kitchen assistant in the education authority of North Lanarkshire, specifically Glasgow.’

  Lorimer turned to face the officers, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Thanks to our technical staff, we know that Celia Gemmell had taken a particular interest in the stages of dismissal, accorded to a member of staff. Now, whether she was worried about her own poor timekeeping or not, we cannot tell. But she also downloaded items relating to the reporting and suspension of teaching staff members.’ His eyebrows rose as he saw the general reaction. ‘Now,’ he mused, ‘why would she do something like that?’ The question was evidently rhetorical as he continued. ‘To my way of thinking Celia Gemmell wanted to know how to report a person who may well have been troublesome to her. Someone who made a pest of himself, perhaps?’

  A low wave of sound began as the officers in the room voiced their thoughts.

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences and I do not think it is a mere coincidence that Carolyn Kane and Patricia Donovan died during a school holiday nor that Celia Gemmell disappeared in the Easter vacation this time last year.’

  ‘You think she’s dead?’ Davie Giles blurted.

  ‘I do,’ Lorimer replied quietly. ‘We have no evidence to suggest the woman disappeared voluntarily and I think what we must be doing now is searching for a body.’

  There was a small silence following his remark then Molly Newton raised her hand. ‘Sir, there’s a strange anomaly over the woman’s boots. They were handed to us by her landlord and for a while I thought they might not belong to Ms Gemmell. They’re actually a size bigger than her other shoes. But the lab came back and verified that traces of the same DNA were found in all of the footwear so we do know that she wore those particular boots. Even though her mother expressed surprise at the idea of her daughter walking anywhere in the countryside,’ Molly explained.

  Lorimer nodded his thanks. An idea was forming in his mind. It might be a bit of a long shot, but there was one person he knew who might very well help him with this particular production.

  Police Scotland was fortunate to have so many fine specialists amongst the forensic fraternity and the person Lorimer was meeting at Gartcosh was particularly celebrated for her work in soil science. Professor Lorna Dawson CBE from the James Hutton Institute had agreed to travel down to Gartcosh and as Lorimer emerged from the Lexus in the visitors’ car park he looked across to see her walking towards the security gates.

  His long legs caught her up easily and soon they were shaking hands inside the booth, waiting for the security officer to check their credentials and unlock the entry gate. In moments they were walking side by side, chatting companionably about Maggie’s success and how Lorna Dawson had read about the tour in the Press and Journal.

  ‘She was supposed to have attracted a stalker, is that right, Lorimer?’ the professor asked as they entered the main door of the Scottish Police Campus and waited by the reception desk for their visitors’ passes.

  Lorimer made a face. ‘Probably a storm in a teacup,’ he replied gruffly, not meeting the woman’s questioning eyes. ‘Maggie thinks it’s some bad wee kids fooling around. Bored out of their heads during the school holidays,’ he added obliquely.

  ‘What do you think?’ Lorna asked quietly, shifting her stance a little so that Lorimer had to meet her gaze.

  ‘Truthfully? I don’t know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Okay, the press have made a big deal about how she looks a wee bit like those murder victims, but come on, we all know that their main objective is to sell newspapers. Still—’ He broke off with a frown. ‘I don’t like it, Lorna, and that’s all I’ll say to you.’

  ‘No investigation then into who might be stalking her?’

  ‘Not officially, no.’

  ‘And,’ she paused, a soft smile of sympathy on her face, ‘unofficially?’

  ‘Aye, well, we’ll see,’ Lorimer replied. ‘Let’s get this investigation over before I begin to worry about a nuisance caller, eh?’

  Lorna Dawson simply nodded but he could feel the woman was not fooled in the least by his answer.

  It was more than an hour later that they sat side by side in a small room off the curving corridor upstairs, the professor having taken Lorimer through the process that she was suggesting. Janet Gemmell had been asked if her daughter was in the habit of gardening or walking in the countryside, only to be told with a scoff that Celia wouldn’t be seen dead in a pair of wellingtons. And yet, it seemed that she had worn the pair she had kept in her flat, new boots now caked with mud from some place. Could this be a clue to the missing woman? Lorimer had thought so and now Professor Dawson would take the boots back to her lab and begin the painstaking search for wherever the mud had come from. It was a fascinating branch of forensics and had even been demonstrated on television, the professor given a walking boot and then challenged to find the exact spot where a team of presenters had buried the matching piece of footwear. The professor had risen to that challenge, eventually pinpointing the very place where it was hidden, much to the amazement of the television crew and the general public.

  ‘What do you expect to find?’ she asked Lorimer as they prepared to wind up the meeting.

  ‘Who knows?’ He shrugged but then caught the knowing expression in Lorna’s eyes. ‘Well, okay, if she’s been somewhere out in the country once, perhaps driven there by another person, who’s to say she wasn’t taken there again?’

  ‘It’s a long shot,’ the professor answered, not adding that Police Scotland was spending a decent amount of time and money to engage her services.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied shortly.

  ‘But something tells you that she might be buried out in a lonely part of the countryside?’

  Lorimer looked away and nodded. That was exactly what he thought but as yet he could not bring himself to voice that fear.

  Meantime his officers were trying to locate other members of staff from the primary school where Celia Gemmell had worked, though the school holidays was making it especially difficult to track most of them down.

  ‘His name is Steven Dewar,’ Davie Giles told Molly. ‘Been head teacher there for the last fifteen years. Always goes away during the school holidays according to his neighbours in Beith,’ he added, pushing a mug of hot chocolate across the table in the café where he had arranged to meet his colleague.

  ‘I had an art teacher like that,’ Molly mused, opening the slim packet of brown sugar and stirring it into her drink. ‘Got into his car and drove with his wife and kids to Italy as soon as the term ended and came back looking like one of the three tenors. Year-round suntan, he had. Spoke fluent Italian as well, I remember. We went on a trip to Verona with him in Sixth year.’

  ‘Well, this guy maybe does the same,’ Davie murmured. ‘The next-door neighbour says he lives alone, does his garden at weekends and washes his car, the sort of thing most law-abiding citizens do.’ He sighed. ‘Other than that I couldn’t find out much about him. Still, we’ll see Mr Dewar once he has come back from his holiday, I suppose.’

  ‘Have to start with the heidie,’ she laughed.

  ‘Meantime I’ve managed to track down the school secretary, Mrs Bell. She was quite helpful when I explained what I wanted. Told me that Celia was something of a glamour puss and that all the P Seven boys had a crush on her.’

  ‘You don’t think … ?’

  ‘Eleven-year-old lads? No way,’ Davie scoffed. ‘Anyway, this Celia sounds as though she was capable of fending off any nonsense from wee boys. Or big ones, for that matter. Mrs Bell says that she came to work dressed to the nines and that you’d never have known it was the same woman behind the kitchen counter.’