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  More pupils streamed through the gates, following the girls and their friends towards the school buildings. Over in the staff car park, doors slammed shut as teachers arrived to begin their working day. Some members of staff did arrive on foot, though, and the kids instinctively moved away from them; engaging in conversation with a teacher was just so uncool. A tall young man, a slim document case under his arm, stopped to ask directions from one of the younger girls. Her face colouring up, the pupil pointed to the main entrance then rejoined her pals amid much sniggering as the man followed her directions. There were always new teachers or students at the start of the autumn term and this one wasn’t at all bad looking, they thought, measuring up his appearance against their favourite pop stars.

  ‘Don’t we have to wait till Manson gives us the okay?’ Kyle asked. The Fourth Year lads were milling around the PE block, sneaking a look down the corridor that led to the place that everyone had been talking about: their Fourth Year common room. It was evident that the boys were keen to inhabit one of the rooms that were given as a special privilege to senior pupils, but still respectful, in a kind of fearful way, of their head teacher.

  ‘Aye, I think we have to have assembly first. Let’s go and see if the team lists are up, eh?’ one lad suggested.

  Kyle let himself be carried along with the others but he kept looking over his shoulder, hopeful of seeing Julie. They’d not spoken since that day in the park, though a couple of text messages had passed between them, and Kyle was anxious to see how she’d behave towards him.

  ‘Hey, you’re playing with us this term, Kerrigan!’ Ali, a whippet-thin Pakistani boy who was the First Eleven’s best striker, clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Let’s see!’ Kyle pushed his way to the noticeboard and looked. Ali was right. His name was there, in the middle of an alphabetical list. For a moment he simply stared at it. He wasn’t all that good at footie, he knew that. Second Eleven was where he expected to be until at least Fifth Year. So what were they playing at? Had he done better last year than he thought? Or had his name been added to this list for a different reason? Kyle listened to the congratulations from his mates with a few insults thrown in for good measure. But while he pretended to be pleased and even faked a grin, his overwhelming feeling was one of puzzlement.

  ‘Off to the bog,’ he said, turning on his heel and heading for the boys’ toilets across the corridor. He left them still crowded around the noticeboard, commenting on names and dates, only Ali looking after him with a strange expression on his face.

  Inside the cubicle, Kyle slumped forward, head in his hands. He didn’t want to be in the First Eleven football team. Didn’t want to be here. And even if Julie was all over him like a rash, Kyle suddenly knew that it wouldn’t change a thing now that his father had come back into his life.

  Morning assembly on the first day of a new term was split into three parts due to the number of pupils that could be accommodated in the main hall. While the juniors were being given Keith Manson’s annual words of wisdom, the other year groups drifted into their year teacher’s classrooms. It would be some time after morning interval before Maggie’s group was taken downstairs for their turn.

  ‘Good morning, nice to see you all.’ She beamed as she closed the door, the bell signalling the official start to the school year. ‘Oh, Jessica, sorry,’ she added, opening the door again to admit a tall girl who glided into the room. Jessica King smiled vaguely and drifted towards the back. Jessica had never been on time for school as long as she had known her and Maggie guessed that it had ceased to bother the girl around the end of Secondary One. Her disrupted education, caused by her family’s many moves from country to country, meant that she was the oldest student in the class yet she remained quite unconscious of having the sort of cosmopolitan glamour that her contemporaries lacked. Maggie watched the girl sail past the desks, oblivious to the boys whose eyes automatically followed her. They couldn’t help it, Maggie thought, nobody could. At sixteen Jessica was everything a teenage boy fantasised about: long dark hair (still damp from this morning’s shower), porcelain skin, huge blue eyes framed in lashes that looked too thick and luxuriant to be real (they were) and a poise that came from a gene pool that had spawned generations of gorgeous women. Jessica (she had not shortened it to Jess and never in a million years would she answer to Jessie) sat at the back of the room next to Amanda Hamilton. Maggie considered them for a few moments; they were like two Arab mares, manes tossed back, bloodlines showing an elegance of breeding. But where Jessica took her appearance for granted, Manda was different. It wasn’t that the red-haired girl craved attention, Maggie thought, more that she enjoyed warming herself in the sun of admiring glances.

  Kyle Kerrigan was sitting on the far side of the classroom, next to the wall. He was leaning his head against it now, eyes on the magazine that the boy next to him had spread over the two desks.

  ‘Timetables,’ Maggie announced briskly, handing them out around the room. ‘You will see that there are a few gaps,’ she paused at the outbreak of cheers and grinned, ‘but they’ll be filled up with plenty for you to do. Remember we’ve got Charities’ Week to organise this year so you’ll need time for all of that, then you have to arrange your own Christmas ball.’

  ‘When do we get into the common room?’ someone asked.

  ‘Later on today,’ Maggie replied. ‘Once assembly’s over the janitor will come up and give you the keys.’

  ‘And can we do anything we like to it?’ another voice demanded.

  Maggie raised her eyes to heaven. The janitor grumbled long and hard about having to whitewash the senior common rooms every year, but he did it anyway, covering each successive year group’s graffiti so that the walls were blank slates for more creativity. ‘Anything within reason,’ she murmured. ‘You’ll still come here for registration every morning after the first bell and I’ll be here if anybody needs to see me.’ She made a conscious effort not to look in Kyle Kerrigan’s direction though she could sense his eyes were trained on her. His face bore traces of bruising, something that might well have happened in the boxing ring but for some reason those scars had made Maggie shiver and wonder exactly who had inflicted them.

  ‘Right, next thing to do is to elect a form captain. Someone who is always at school on time,’ she continued, deliberately looking at Jessica and producing a few grins. ‘Anybody want to volunteer?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Maggie raised her eyebrows then pasted a smile on her face as Kyle’s hand went up. ‘Okay. All in favour?’

  A forest of hands shot up, not one of them going to deny this boy anything he wanted, not even a minor distinction like being Fourth Year form captain. Maggie nodded. ‘Fine. Sorted. Thanks,’ she said, but somewhere deep inside she had a queasy feeling that Kyle Kerrigan had sussed them all out. In fact, now that she looked his way she could see that he was watching for her reaction and, as she caught his glance, she blushed.

  Jackie Montgomery smiled at the man as he raised his hand to say goodbye. Nice chap, she thought absently. Well mannered, too, not like some of the teachers here who treated the secretaries as though they were an inferior species. And such a lovely speaking voice, Jackie mused, watching as he pushed open the swing doors. She could’ve listened to him all day. Pity he’d only come to deliver some papers from the agency. The secretary shook her head and made a face. Probably had a wife and three kids at home, she decided gloomily; all the good-looking ones seem to have been snapped up early. Anyway, now that the Muirpark kids were back she’d have her work cut out with no time to daydream about passing strangers.

  When the morning interval bell rang, Maggie hoped Kyle would stay behind, talk to her as he’d usually done last term, but he was one of the first to leave the room and Maggie was left with the feeling that somehow she’d let him down. Or was Kyle simply trying to avoid any discussion about the return of his father?

  The clatter of feet in the corridor died away as one by one the rooms emp
tied. Maggie sat, relishing a few moments of quietness. Arching her back, she stretched then relaxed, massaging the muscles below the nape of her neck. A glance at her watch showed she’d need to stir herself if she wanted a morning coffee. The English base several doors along had facilities for making tea or coffee but she preferred the buzz of the staffroom two floors below, where she could join her friends from other departments.

  The stairs were empty and her heels sounded distinct and hollow as Maggie made her way down but she paused, mid-stride, when she suddenly heard shouting coming from the floor below. What on earth? As she leaned over the banister, the sounds became louder, more insistent: a girl’s voice screaming abuse, then another voice, one that she knew . . . Maggie moved forward, sensing trouble.

  ‘I hate you!’ the girl cried out, bursting through the door from the first-floor corridor.

  Later Maggie would try to recall exactly what had taken place but at that moment all she saw was an angry, tear-stained face and blonde hair flying as the pupil stormed down the final flight of stairs. Then the door opened again and Eric Chalmers stood there, his face chalk-white.

  ‘No, Julie. Don’t do this!’ he called. Then, stepping forward as if to follow her, the RE teacher stopped dead, seeing Maggie Lorimer standing just above him. The look Eric gave her was one of sheer bewilderment, then, with a shake of his head, he slipped back through the door.

  Maggie hovered on the stairs, uncertain whether to follow the girl. Or should she go in to see Eric? Standing there, dithering, she simply couldn’t decide. Was it any of her business? a little voice asked and, as if in answer, she moved on down, letting her feet take her towards the staffroom.

  Later she would come to regret her moment of indecision.

  But by that time the evil that had been let loose would have seeped into every corner of Muirpark Secondary School, destroying so many lives on its insidious journey.

  CHAPTER 6

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Detective Chief Inspector William Lorimer put down the phone and allowed a grin of pleasure to spread across his face. It was a face that had seen too much human suffering and over the years the frown lines had deepened, making him appear constantly at odds with his world. But the smile changed such an impression in an instant, lighting up the keen blue eyes and softening the determined jaw. Lorimer did not often indulge himself in moments of self-gratification but this one was well deserved. To have news that he was to receive an official commendation was a little bit special, after all. The murder case had almost ended in disaster, and Lorimer was human enough to give a shudder at the memory of facing that mad gunman at close quarters.

  His hand hovered over the telephone again, then dropped. She’d be in some meeting or other. Besides, it would be better to tell her face to face when they were both home tonight. Lorimer’s caseload was as busy as usual but there was no reason for staying on too late. He leaned back in his chair, surveying his surroundings. He’d been DCI in the Division for a good few years now and was comfortable in this room. Too comfortable, maybe, a small voice told him; a voice that reminded the DCI of his wife, who insisted his promotion to Detective Superintendent was long overdue. Lorimer let his eyes wander over the maps of Glasgow and the Van Gogh prints that he’d hung to remind him of a world outside his own, then realised he was searching for a space to put the commendation. He wasn’t a vain man but this was a matter for genuine pride and his team deserved the reflected glory such an accolade would bring. So he would display the certificate, not somewhere in-your-face but – he let his eyes roam around – yes, over there above the filing cabinets. That would do. It was directly behind him so he didn’t have to look at it day in, day out. But anyone who was seated opposite would be reminded that DCI William Lorimer was a hands-on sort of person, not the type of senior officer who wallowed in a morass of administration.

  ‘Sir?’ The voice interrupting Lorimer’s thoughts made him whirl around in his chair. He blinked for a moment then the grin reappeared on his face.

  ‘Didn’t recognise you without your uniform, Annie,’ he joked, making the woman blush. Annie Irvine had recently realised her ambition of joining the CID and now she was standing there in his office, almost a stranger in her smart new trouser suit.

  ‘I see Tulliallan’s worked its magic, then,’ he went on, referring to her recent training course at the Scottish Police College and instantly the tension was broken as his newest detective constable grinned back at him. They were lucky to have kept her, he suddenly thought. Irvine might have been sent anywhere within Strathclyde once her promotion had come through. And now that Niall Cameron had stepped up to detective sergeant, this was just the icing on Lorimer’s cake.

  Then the telephone rang again and DC Irvine stood still, uncertain whether to stay in the DCI’s room or withdraw. Hovering there as Lorimer answered, she saw the change in his face immediately; the laughter lines around his mouth disappeared and the lips became thinner, a bitter line that immediately told Annie Irvine that something grim was being relayed to her boss.

  ‘Right,’ he said, then put the phone down, rising from his seat and turning to Irvine.

  ‘A missing child,’ he said. ‘We need to get cracking.’

  The orange cat looked up expectantly, tail erect, as Maggie emptied the tin of food into its plastic bowl.

  ‘There you are, Chancer, at least one of you comes home in time for dinner.’ She sighed, placing the cat’s food onto a mat on the kitchen floor. It was a humid evening and she had left the back door open to air the place. Leaning against the kitchen counter, Maggie Lorimer gazed out into the garden. The rain had stopped now and a weak shaft of sunlight made diamond sparkles on the grass. Somewhere unseen amidst the trees a blackbird sang, its liquid notes piercing the murky air. The headache that had persisted all day was now a dull throb but listening to the bird’s pure, clear song seemed to soothe all her sore places.

  She’d already prepared all of tomorrow’s lessons so the evening ahead was hers to enjoy. If Bill had been home . . . Maggie gave a shuddering sigh. What hell must that young mother be going through? Somewhere out there a wee girl was lost. Snatched from the pavement outside her own home. A huge number of officers had been deployed in the search and DCI William Lorimer had his own team scouring every likely corner in his patch of the city. It was times like these when Maggie truly appreciated her husband’s job. So what if another night went by and she was left to her own devices? All those lonely hours were worth it if he could do something that would reunite that little family.

  One of the local children had noticed a car draw up, had seen a woman pull the child in, then watched them drive away fast. Maggie shook her head as if to make the image of that moment disappear. There was nothing that she could do about it. Asking herself who would do such a wicked, wicked thing was futile and knowing what lengths a paedophile might go to only compounded her misery. Sometimes being a policeman’s wife gave too much insight into certain crimes, she thought sadly. An over-active imagination didn’t help either. Maggie’s eyes fell on the small pile of books she’d bought at the Edinburgh Book Festival. A good read would take her mind off this matter, at least for a wee while, she decided, picking up one of the new titles that had taken her fancy.

  When the doorbell rang, Kim was out of the chair like a shot, hope making her eyes gleam.

  ‘Ms Fraser?’ Two people stood on her doorstep, a man and a woman. She didn’t recognise them, hadn’t remembered seeing them earlier on, but Kim Fraser knew by that flash of warrant cards that they were plain clothes police. Letting her hands fall weakly by her sides she took a step backwards and nodded. ‘Aye. Come in.’

  She’d been going to ask them if there was any sign of . . . but the words died on her lips as soon as she saw their faces – closed and weary. Kim Fraser had become an expert on reading faces in the last few hours: she’d seen eyes that regarded her with a kind of wary sympathy, and searched them for any sign that told her something, anything about their opinion on f
inding Nancy. They hadn’t found a thing. Kim slumped back into the armchair, her fingers wrapped around Nancy’s rag doll, a scruffy wee toy that was worn with handling. They were saying something but she couldn’t respond, hot tears melting her cheeks, strangling a voice that had grown hoarse with weeping.

  The morning sky was stained with shafts of pink against the banks of grey, a new day beginning when a further search for the missing child could begin. Lorimer leaned against the windowsill for a moment, looking out at his garden. The trees were motionless at this early hour and there was no sign of life. It was that time between night and day when the world seemed to be holding its breath. Then, somewhere from the depth of the trees, a collared dove began its monotone cooing over and over into the cold air.

  She could still be out there, he told himself. With somebody. They’d made little progress during the long hours of darkness but now daylight held a promise of renewed effort. But also the awareness that every minute ticking by meant a growing fear for the little girl’s safety.

  He unbuckled his belt, letting his trousers fall where he stood, and slipped into his side of the bed. A few hours’ sleep were essential if he were to be sharp enough for what lay ahead. Beside him Maggie murmured in her sleep, her body warm and drowsy beneath the duvet. Resisting the urge to caress her into wakefulness, he turned on his side, drew his knees up and closed his eyes. He forced himself into that dark familiar place, letting his mind escape for a short while, banishing thoughts of Nancy Fraser and of what might have happened to her.

  The dream returned and he knew what lay ahead. The tunnel beckoned him forwards and, in the way of dreams, he found himself helpless to resist. As always, the walls were covered in thick green slime that lost its colour as the darkness swallowed him up. And then the sense of terror closed in on him and he was unable to breathe, choking in the dense blackness, panic suffusing his senses, bringing him to his knees where he acknowledged this awful weakness, hiding his eyes from the suffocating walls and roof that were closing in on him, hearing his own voice cry out.