The Good Girl

By Sinclair Macleod

Craig Campbell leaves his native city to investigate the disappearance of a young woman from St Andrews. Initially, it appears to be a simple case of a girl escaping to start a new life but it soon becomes apparent that there are ominous undertones.

When a woman’s body is found on a nearby beach the case takes an even darker turn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marplesi Books
• Release date: Jun 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780956698346

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The Good Girl

Sinclair Macleod

Copyright © Sinclair Macleod 2011

ISBN Paperback 978-0-9566983-5-3

Ebook: 978-0-9566983-4-6

Sinclair Macleod has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

DEDICATION

For Dad and in memory of Mum,who

taught me to love books.

As always, in memory of Calum,

my wonderful son and inspiration.

Acknowledgements

Many writers will tell you that writing a novel is a solitary pursuit that requires the input of many people. I am no different.

My gratitude goes once again to Kevin Cuthbert and George Mitchell for their advice regarding police procedures and providing the inspiration for part of the story.

Thanks are also due to the staff of the mortuary in Dundee. In particular Alison Beaton and Dr Priyanjith Perera who gave me their valuable time and their knowledge of the procedures used when dealing with suspicious deaths in Scotland. I also garnered a huge amount of information on the changes that a body undergoes after death. I learned more than appears in this book and it will stand me in good stead for many books to come. I also received help from Professor Sue Black at Dundee University’s Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification, for which I extend my appreciation.

My deepest gratitude is offered to Iain Morrison who supplied me with valuable insights into the workings of a vegetable farm.

Any errors that occur in these pages regarding any of these subjects will be entirely mine.

Thanks are due to Andy Melvin, who continues to edit my ramblings with skill and patience.

My love and thanks also go to my wonderful wife, Kim and amazing daughter, Kirsten. I could not do this without them.

Chapter One

The knife slashed across my chest, slicing deeper as it crossed my pectoral muscles; the blood, a crimson waterfall, streamed down my shirt. Stone laughed as he watched me fall. His face was distorted, a rictus grin. The pupils of his eyes were completely red, an ivory skull visible through his transparent skin.

I woke with a jolt with sweat streaming from every pore. It was the first time that the nightmare had gripped me for some time. For weeks after the confrontation with Davie Stone my sleep was disturbed by the same tormenting images, memories grotesquely twisted by my unconscious mind. In the dream I had failed, Stone’s knife had become my nemesis and there was no justice for Rory Kilpatrick, his mother or Mrs Capaldi.

Carol had tried to persuade me to see a psychologist but I dismissed the nightmares as a passing phase. I didn’t want anyone digging around in my head. I knew how much guilt was stored there and exposing it to inspection was not an option.

I thought that they had passed, those nights of sleeping terrors. I guessed they had returned with the thought of a new investigation, an unconscious connection between Stone and the new case I had taken on.

You OK? Carol asked sleepily.

Just a stupid dream, I’m fine. I looked at my bedside clock, seven zero four it read in blue LED numbers. It was time to stir myself from our bed and start the day. I washed, shaved, dressed and filled my bag with some clothes before making breakfast for Carol and myself. Carol still in her nightwear, joined me at the dining table, dishevelled but incredibly gorgeous.

Is it the dream with Stone again? she asked.

Aye, I agreed reluctantly.

Is it this new case that’s troubling you? she asked as we tucked into the mushroom omelette I had prepared.

I don’t think so… maybe… I don’t know. It’s not as if this case is anything like December, it should be pretty straightforward, hopefully. I didn’t know who I was trying to reassure, Carol or myself.

She sensed my unease and rested her hand on mine. A simple loving gesture that I appreciated. The discussion moved on to some inconsequential nonsense while we finished our breakfast.

Fed and filled with my first caffeine fix of the day, I was ready to go. I had already told Carol that I would be staying with my mum in Arbroath while I investigated the new case. Before I began my journey, she gave me a lingering kiss.

Don’t be away too long.

I don’t plan to be.

She watched from the door as I walked down the stairs of the close, waving just before I disappeared from her view.

*

My new investigation had started the day before.

I arrived in the office about quarter past nine. I began by tidying away the papers that were still scattered across my desk from the previous evening.

There was little more for me to do as there had been no work from the insurance companies in the past couple of weeks and I had spent much of my spare time filing, studying policy papers and doing the boring administrative tasks that I normally avoided like it was a fifteen-year stretch in Barlinnie.

The newspapers were covering the fraud trial of New Futures Group executive Frank Maloney and I had read every word. I was relieved that the police had decided not to call me as a witness. There had been a team of specialist fraud officers investigating him since December; their evidence would be enough for the jury to contend with as it was very detailed and would take a long time to present in court. The trial was as complicated as any trial gets and was scheduled to last for four months. His role in Rory’s beating had already seen him convicted but the fraud was what would put him in jail for a long time. There were multiple threads of corruption and bribery that would need to be untangled, it was not only the schools contracts that were crooked.

There was an initial flurry of coverage in the media but as the trial became bogged down in financial components, the column inches were decreasing with every passing day. The goldfish attention span of the public had moved on to more important concerns like the love life of Katie Price or the latest ridiculous creation worn by Lady Gaga.

That morning I had filled the kettle but the office phone rang before I got as far as switching on my computer to catch up with my e-mail and the latest news.

Hello, Campbell Investigations, Craig speaking. How can I help you?

Mr Campbell, I need your help? My friend has been missing since Saturday night. Would you be willing to help me find her? The male speaker had a slight East European accent; the words tumbled over each other as he rushed to communicate his concerns.

Well, give me some details and I’ll see what I can do. I still wasn’t sure about non-insurance work; it was still a little bit out of my comfort zone. However, at the heavily weighted suggestion of some police officers, I had obtained my Private Investigator Licence. No matter how unsure I felt, I found my return to insurance duties to be very mundane and boring compared with the challenges of finding a killer.

The caller’s name was Danielus Petrauskas and he proceeded to give me a quick outline of his concerns. He was keen to tell me that he had read about what I had done in December. In the quiet period around Christmas, the story had been in the headlines for three days; my role in the affair was portrayed in the press as being rather more heroic than the harsh reality of my memories and nightmares.

His praise and belief flattered me, as he urged me to come to the Kingdom to help him. Unfortunately, he had bought into the journalists’ representation of me as the hero of the hour and nothing I could say would persuade him that I was not the man he thought I was. I was acutely aware that I would let him down if I failed to live up to his inaccurate opinion of me. I was still only one man and my resources were on the small side to take on a missing persons case.

After fifteen minutes of his insistent pleading and urging, I agreed to visit him and get some more details, but I offered no guarantees that I would take the case. I told him my fees and that I would see him the following day.

*

An hour after I left Carol, I was riding along the roads of Fife, the spring sun beating on my back. The verdant vista was punctuated by splashes of sunshine-yellow rape flowers and blocks of terracotta soil; the brown fields were waiting patiently for the germination of seeds to bring them out of their winter slumber. The road was ribboned with the saffron gold of the gorse blossom, giving the coarse bushes a temporary cloak of glamour.

The open road was leading me back into the world of the detective and it was invigorating me. My concerns were being pushed to the back of my mind by the freedom of the bike and challenge of a new puzzle to solve.

In the five months that Carol and I had been together, I had spent more time inside a car than on the back of my Ducati but today was different, today I was the lone biker again; the sensation of the two wheels racing over the tarmac banished the images of the nightmare from my mind.

My destination was St Andrews, once capital of Scotland; an ancient seat of learning and the destination for pilgrims from all over Europe in the Middle Ages. Today, the university remained but the pilgrims came from all over the world and wore luminous shirts, loud trousers and golf spikes.

This was no pilgrimage for me; this was a new challenge, a fresh test of my skills as an investigator.

After about an hour and forty minutes of my departure from Glasgow, the Auld Grey Toon came into view. The Old Course Hotel stands on one side of the road like a post-modernist guardian, the brand new university buildings mirroring it on the opposite side. It is as if they are protecting the venerable, ancient, grey edifices at the town’s heart from the onslaught of the 21st century.

I like St Andrews; there aren’t many seaside towns in the world with the anything like the same degree of religious, educational and sporting significance. It had been a regular holiday spot for me as a youngster, summers spent on the fabulous beaches and in the attractive parks. My mum loved this part of the world so much that she had chosen to retire to Arbroath, a little way up the coast. The East Neuk of Fife had been a little out of her price range.

When you visit this venerable town, the past and the significance of the place roll down to greet you; the history of Scotland distilled into a few square miles. It is a serious town, a town of attainment, a town of sporting prowess and a town to absorb knowledge. At the same time, it is both the essence of Fife but somehow slightly apart from the modern Kingdom. It is a town of many contradictions but they all contribute to its appeal.

The temporary residents, the cosmopolitan student body, help to give it a similar atmosphere to my home in the West End of Glasgow. There are bookshops and cafés, restaurants and bars, delicatessens and expensive clothes shops. It is as if Byres Road had upped sticks and moved to overlook the chill North Sea.

I rode into town on Links Crescent, turned into City Road and then found a spot to leave the bike off Market Street.

My recorder, pen and notepad tucked inside my rucksack, I walked the short distance to Bell Street and the Gorgeous Café where I had arranged to meet my client. There was a service counter on the ground floor but the seated area was upstairs and looked more like someone’s front room than a commercial location. There were a couple of traditional café tables and chairs, but the leather couches and large oak sideboard made it appear like a sophisticated apartment. The brightly painted walls were peppered with abstract paintings; a triptych of flowers and a picture of The Buddha gazed down with a serenity I could only dream of.

As it was only ten o’clock, there were no other customers occupying any of the chairs. After removing my jacket, I sat down in one of the comfortable, black leather sofas.

A woman in her thirties, wearing a white apron over her clothes, arrived to take my order. I decided on an espresso to help give me a mid-morning boost, adding to the early-morning kick-start that I had prepared for myself before I left Glasgow. Carol’s attempts at getting me to switch to decaffeinated coffee had fallen on defiantly deaf ears.

The waitress disappeared back downstairs to rustle up my order as a couple of elderly women arrived and took their places at a table close to the stairs. They both looked as if they were on their way to the Kirk in their Sunday best; dressed in hats and soft leather gloves, expensive coats and smart dresses. They sat with their heads bowed over the table, talking in hushed tones, ensuring that I was unable to hear what they were saying. When the waitress reappeared they both ordered tea and scones.

Ten minutes after my coffee was delivered, a man in his early twenties appeared from the stairwell. He was about six feet tall; his build was slight, almost skinny for his height. He was wearing a midnight blue jacket, scruffy brown jeans and a black, woollen hat. His face was tanned, with a sculpted line of facial hair tracing his jaw line down to the point of his chin. His hair had avoided the worst effects of his hat, some magic gel or mousse had kept his fashionable style intact; his trendy haircut was the colour of burnt umber, his eyes were two or three shades darker. There were frown ridges on his brow as he approached me.

Mr Campbell? he asked tentatively.

Please, call me Craig, I replied as I stood to shake his hand.

Thank you for coming. As I had noticed on the phone, his English was excellent, the influence of American TV shows and movies noticeable in certain vowels.

As he removed his outer clothes I asked, Can I get you something?

He thought for a moment before replying, May I have a cappuccino, please?

I was about to walk down to the counter to give the order to a staff member when the smiling woman appeared to take my client’s order.

Can we have a cappuccino, please?

No problem, anything to eat? she asked brightly.

No, thank you, Danielus replied.

What about you, sir? she addressed the question to me.

No, I’m fine thanks.

When his order arrived, we began our conversation, with Danielus occupying the chair that was at a right angle from mine, my recorder rested between us on the small coffee table.

So, Danielus, tell me some more about your friend.

As I said on the telephone, my friend Ah-leets-ya has disappeared. I hope you can find her.

How do you spell that? I asked

A; L; I; C; J; A he replied and I noted it in my pad.

Maybe you should tell me what has happened, from the beginning. I suggested.

I work with Alicja at the Rose Farm, about five kilometres from here. We work together as general farm help, picking vegetables mainly. I have been in Scotland since September 2008; Alicja arrived in February of this year. We are friends since then.

I nodded as I began to take notes.

Alicja went to a party in town last Saturday, she did not come back to the farm after the party had finished. I am worried that something bad has happened to her.

Are you and Alicja a couple?

A shy smile crossed his face before he replied, No, we are just friends. I am gay, Mr Campbell, Alicja does not interest me in that way. I came to Scotland to work, as it is easier to be like me here, there is more tolerance, I think. Do you understand?

I think I do. What makes you think that Alicja might be in trouble?

She is a good girl, she always phones her mother in Poland once a week, every Sunday without fail. Her mother did not get a call this week. Alicja’s clothes and other personal things are still at the farm, she has not been in contact with anyone at home.

Does Alicja have friends or family in Scotland that she could possibly be visiting or even living with?

Her friend, Stefania, came with her from Poland and I think the rest of her friends are at the farm. She may know other people but I’m not sure if they are friends.

Have you contacted the police or the hospitals? In case she’s been in an accident.

Yes, but there is no report of anyone like her in the hospitals. The police say there is little they can do, she is an adult and many adults go missing every day. They say they do not have the resources to find her. How can that be, Craig? How can people mean so little? Is it because she is a migrant worker? There was a tinge of both disappointment and anger in his voice.

I tried to reassure him. No, I’m afraid that what the police have told you is correct. There are many people who decide that they want to start a new life. They abandon everything they know for a fresh start, leaving their friends and family. Some never get in touch again, others find their way home after a while. It is difficult for the police if there is no evidence of anything suspicious happening to her, she is an adult.

Alicja would not need a fresh start, she was working here to help her family back home in Poland. I know she would not walk away from her responsibilities, she is very good to her family. He was firm and positive in his answer.

Do you know where in Poland she comes from?

Grobice, I think it is a few kilometres south of Warsaw.

Have you contacted anyone in Poland?

"No,