Good point.
‘No idea.’ Logan pulled up a web browser on his phone and thumbed in the name. Set it searching.
A link to the Clydebank Herald and Post website came up and he followed it. Waiting for the page to load. ‘Here we go.’ The headline ‘FAMILY’S FEAR FOR MISSING STEPHEN’ filled the screen. Scrolling down revealed a photo of a small blond boy, smiling a gap-toothed smile. Lots of freckles. A dark-purple birthmark spread itself across one cheek and along the side of his nose.
‘“Stephen MacGuire, brackets four, went missing from outside his East Kilbride flat at half past eight this morning.” Blah, blah, blah. “‘A wonderful little boy who lights up every room he walks into,’ said his distraught mother, Janice, brackets twenty-three.”’
Rennie nodded. ‘Any word of a stepdad?’
‘No, but the mother’s partner says, “Stephen would not just wander off, I am sure someone must have taken him.”’
‘There you go – it’ll be him. The partner.’
‘“We are desperate to get our beloved son home. Please, if you have any idea where Stephen is, get in touch with the authorities before it is too late.” Why do newspapers have to make everyone sound like robots? “Before it is too late.” Who talks like that?’
Another nod. ‘It’s always the mum’s new bloke.’
Logan put his phone away. ‘Don’t see how a kid getting abducted in East Kilbride has anything to do with a wee girl snatched from Tillydrone.’
‘All that “Stranger Danger” stuff is a waste of time. We’d be better off teaching kids to run away from their stepdads.’
‘…appealing for any information on missing four-year-old, Stephen MacGuire. Stephen was last seen outside his home on Telford Road at eight thirty-two this morning…’
God, it was a lovely day. Not so nice back home with its wind and rain, of course, but out here? With the mighty Cairngorms rising on either side of the road, purpled with heather? The majestic Scottish sky a bright saphire blue? The sun shining down on natives and tourists alike? Who wouldn’t love this?
‘…distinctive port wine stain birthmark on his left cheek. Stephen was wearing blue jeans, a red sweatshirt with a panda on it, brown trainers, and a light-blue jacket…’
The sign went past on the left, ‘FÀILTE DON GHÀIDHEALTACHD ~ WELCOME TO THE HIGHLANDS’ above a stylised illustration of the landscape, complete with trees and a shining loch.
Lee grinned as his trusty old beige Volvo grumbled past it at a sensible 58 miles per hour: some wag had added a wee Nessie to the loch. Had to love the imagination of these people.
‘…morning. Police are keen to trace anyone who was in the area at the time, especially the drivers of a green Citroën Picasso and a grey Nissan Micra…’
An idiot in a BMW overtook him, even though there was clearly a coach-load of day-trippers coming the other way. Roaring past, then slamming on its brakes to screech back into the left lane. Idiot. It was people like that who caused accidents.
‘…following statement.’
A rough woman’s voice replaced the newsreader’s more professional tones. ‘While we can’t rule out a connection with the disappearances of Ellie Morton in Aberdeen, and Lucy Hawkins in St Andrews, I have to say that it’s very unlikely.’
Aw, bless.
‘We have a considerable number of officers out searching the area as we speak, but I have to stress: if you saw Stephen MacGuire this morning, or have any idea where he is, I urge you to come forward and talk to us.’
It was all rather sweet, really. Pointless, but sweet.
‘Stephen’s family are obviously very distressed at this time, so if you have any information, please get in touch by calling one zero one. Help us bring Stephen home.’
And the newsreader was back. ‘Sport now and Aberdeen are looking to bring home three points from their Ibrox fixture this weekend. The Dons have been riding high since the start of the season and—’
Lee switched the radio off.
A full-scale manhunt – well, full-scale child-hunt – was excellent news. Nothing like a bit of publicity to whet people’s appetites.
He took his eyes off the road for a brief moment and looked in the rear-view mirror – at the pet carrier in the boot, partially covered by a tartan blanket. ‘Did you hear that, Stephen? You’re famous!’
A pair of watery green eyes blinked back at him through the pet carrier’s grille door. Freckles and tears on the wee boy’s pale cheeks. That distinctive port wine birthmark. The chunk of duct tape across his mouth.
‘Isn’t that exciting? All those policemen out looking for you? I bet they’ll have your picture on the lunchtime news and everything.’
Stephen snivelled and cried.
Which was only to be expected. He’d had a pretty big day after all: being bundled into a car boot by a woman he thought was his mum’s friend, then sold on at a disused-petrol-station in the middle of a run-down industrial estate. It was probably quite overwhelming for a wee lad.
Still, that was no reason to mope, was it?
‘How about a sing-song to pass the time? Come on then, all together now: A hundred green bottles, hanging on the wall,’ belting it out, with a smile in his heart and his voice, ‘A hundred green bottles, hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle, should accidentally fall, there’d be…?’
He glanced in the mirror again. Stephen stared back with his tear-stained cheeks and duct-tape gag.
‘Oh, that’s right. Sorry.’ Lee shrugged. ‘Never mind.’ Deep breath: ‘There’d be ninety-nine green bottles, hanging on the wall…’
‘But how?’ DCI Hardie’s voice whined out of the phone, making him sound as if someone was slowly beating him to death with a haddock. ‘How did they find out so quickly?’
The Asda car park was getting busier as workers in Dyce’s industrial estates and oil offices rolled up to buy something for lunch. At least it had stopped raining.
‘No idea, but you know what the press are like. They don’t have to go through official channels, they can just bribe people.’ Logan hunched over the pool car’s boot. Shifted his phone – freeing up his other hand to rummage about in one of the cardboard boxes from DI Bell’s house. Well, ex-DI Bell’s ex-house.
This one was nearly all clothes, suits and shirts and trousers, crumpled and mangled where they’d been rammed in.
‘And he was living in Verti…?’
‘Villaferrueña.’ There were socks in here too. And Y-fronts. ‘There’s probably more info, but Miller’s saving it for the front page tomorrow. Unless we’ve got something we can trade?’
‘I’ll get on to the Spanish cops, see what they can dig up.’
‘The press are having a feeding frenzy outside Mrs Bell’s house, by the way. And from the sound of things they’ve started making stuff up.’ Some ties. A ten-pin bowling trophy sat at the very bottom of the box; the little man on top’s head had been snapped clean off.
‘Wonderful. Well, I’ve got a press conference starting in half an hour. Looking forward to that about as much as my last colonoscopy.’
Should probably go through all the jacket and trouser pockets too.
‘When Rennie gets back, we’re off to speak to Sally