Echoes of the Past (4 page)

“Cereal?
That won’t put a heat in your bones. You need a cooked breakfast, you always feel better after a cooked breakfast.”

Jess
smiled. “Thanks, Dad, but I don’t think pancakes shaped like mini mouse are going to help this morning.” Jess stood up and lifted the box of cornflakes from the cupboard.

“Well,
for your information, I was going to make smiley face pancakes.” He handed her a bowl from the draining board. Jess smiled at his attempt to cheer her up.

“What
are you’re plans for today? Saving cats in a tree or finding lost dogs?” She asked as she poured the milk on to the flakes.

“I’m
just looking in to a couple of things; I shouldn’t be too late home tonight. Why do you need a lift?”

“No
thanks, meeting Gemma. She wants me to take her up to Uncle Matts one day after school; she has a fascination for old houses.”

“I’ll
give him a call; he said you could go up and see the horses anytime.” Tom sat at the table to finish the last of his coffee.

“What’s
in the files? I thought you were retiring?”

“Oh
just some cold cases I’m looking into. Missing persons. I haven’t retired yet. I still want to keep busy.”

“Is
it Olivia?”

“No,
honey. It’s old cases. I think it would be best if we left that to the police in Edinburgh. They know what their doing.”

Jess
toyed with the flakes in her bowl.

“Do
you think she’s dead?” she asked.

Jess
had never asked this before. All the discussions they had had over the last year had always been about what had happened to her and where she could be. Tom thought for a moment. He knew Jess was way too clever to be fobbed off, and she could always tell when he was bluffing. A knack she had unfortunately picked up when he taught her how to play poker for jellybeans and toffees. He clasped both his hands around his coffee mug and looked at her. She held his stare; her spoon stopped moving in the bowl.

“Well,
Jess. There has never been any sighting of her since that morning. And you know better than anyone that she wasn’t the type of girl to run away from home. You were her best friend for twelve years. If she had run away, she would probably have come to you anyway. So I think if Olivia was still alive, she would have found someway of getting in touch with you, and her family.” Tom’s tone was sombre. He held his breath for a moment to see how Jess would react to the truth. She looked down at her bowl again.

“I
think so too. I’ve been dreaming about her.”

“The
nightmares, are they about Olivia?”

Jess
nodded still not looking up from her bowl. “I sometimes think she’s here. I feel as though she’s watching me sometimes.”

Tom
stretched across the table to her. “Hey, angel. That’s only natural. That’s just your imagination working overtime, giving you a bit of comfort. It’s because we have so many unanswered questions.”

“Sometimes
it scares me.”

He
put his oversized hand under her chin and lifted her face up to look at him. “If your feeling uneasy, I can arrange for you to talk to someone. But, Jess, there are no such things as ghosts. If there were, there wouldn’t be any unsolved cases. They would solve them themselves.” He smiled at her.

“No,
if I need to talk I’ve got you and Aunt Lee. I could even talk to Gemma. I’ll be fine, I’m just a bit off with not getting enough sleep last night that’s all.” Jess pushed the bowl away from her. “I’ll go get ready.” She walked round the table and kissed her Dad on the head. “I’ll see you after school.”

Feeling
somewhat inadequate as a parent, Tom collected his files and got ready to leave.

*****

John Caulder pulled the apron over his head. It was just after 7am and breakfast started at 7.30am. He only had a few guests; March was never a busy month. And with the weather being so foul and all this year, he had even fewer bookings than normal.

All
the same, it wouldn’t matter how many guests he had he would still have to cook breakfast, smile joyfully, make jokes, and be generally good humoured with them all. This was not an easy task. All the fun had gone out of the hotel. First Samantha. Then his wife. All that was left were he and his son Peter. Not a lot to smile about. Seventy two and still working in a shitty kitchen. If he hadn’t been self-employed, he would have retired seven years ago.

The
smell of toast filled the kitchen. The fat in the pan began to spark, the only thing lively in the place. John cracked in some eggs and stood watching aimlessly out of the window to the beer garden, and the golf course beyond.

“Dad,
Mr Garvie, from room three is down. Coffee ready?”

John
slowly dragged his eyes from the view and nodded toward a pot on the counter. Peter lifted it and disappeared out of the kitchen. After Mr Garvie, there were only the Johnston family of three. Sightseers touring the lochs and villages of Scotland. As beautiful as it was, John couldn’t understand why any one would come up here in March, as cold as the devils heart. And usually pissing.

The
order came for the Johnston’s. Extra potato-scones as usual. Soon breakfast would be done and he could sit in the bar and read his paper. Hide from all these pains in the arse.

He
watched Peter, flitting in and out of the kitchen with pots of coffee and tea and racks of toast. He shook his head in pity. A bloody honours degree in English from Glasgow University, and he’s serving toast. He banged his large fist down on the counter top as another small piece of the large man’s heart began to break.

*****

Tom pulled over at the hotel on the High Street. He glanced at the clock on the dash, it was 8.45am. He knew that if the hotel had any guest staying it would be open. He climbed out of his jeep and looked at the old white building. He pushed the door open and entered the bar. The reception and rooms were through another door at the other side. The bar smelled a little different now, no more stale tobacco. The strong smell of burning wood from the open fire seemed to dominate the bar now. The whitewash walls hadn’t changed in thirty years. The dark oak beams were still the same and the animal heads hung on various walls still created atmosphere. Everything much the same as he remembered, only a little shabbier.

“Bar’s
not open yet.”

Tom
could only see the top of a baldhead at the far side of the bar. He had not even lifted his eyes from the paper to see who it was.

“Hi,
John, I wonder if I can have a word with you?” Tom asked.

John
looked over the top of the paper. “Well, well, DS Tom. How can I help you?” John folded the paper down in front of him.

“It’s
just Tom, thanks.”

“You
want a coffee?”

“Wouldn’t
mind. Black please.” Tom answered.

John
turned and hollered through to Peter in reception. Tom sat down across the dark oak table from him and placed the file in front of them.

“I
wonder if you recognize any of these women, John? Some are going back about 40 years or more.” Tom spread the pictures of the young women on the table in front of him. John tried to lean in a little closer, his ample gut preventing him. His eyes skimmed across three of the pictures and rested on the fourth.

“What’s
this about, Tom?”

“Just
some enquiries into cold cases.”

John
thought for a moment. “Her.” A large index finger banged down on Angela Harrison’s face. “I knew her, so did you no doubt. She brought us nothing but grief that one.”

Tom
picked up the other pictures. “You’re sure you don’t recognize anyone else?”

John
shook his head, still looking at the photo of Angela.

“Can
you tell me anything you remember about her?”

“Not
anything you don’t already know.”

Peter
came in; with a friendly nod, he put the coffee down next to Tom, and walked off behind the bar to clean some glasses.

“What
do you mean, grief?”

The
big hulk of a man pushed himself back in his chair with a sigh.

“I
can’t believe you’re bringing all this up again, Tom. If you don’t like the pace of life here, why not go back to Edinburgh or where ever it is.”

“John,
just tell me what you know and I’ll be on my way.”

John
picked the photo up and stared at it for a moment shaking his head.

“Angela
was best friends with my daughter Sam. Sam didn’t make friends easy, she was troubled.” John took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing up his eyes. “Samantha had been seeing a young farmer called Patrick, no one knew. Not even Angela. Patrick had sworn Sam to secrecy. Anyway, he got Samantha into trouble. He took her to a clinic in Glasgow.” John swallowed hard. Even after thirty-five years Tom could see that the pain was still very real for John. “Anyway, they dealt with the problem and Patrick thought it was better they didn’t see each other for a while. A couple of weeks later he starts seeing Angela. You know how girls are at that age, she asked Angela not to see him; Angela refused and asked why it was so important to her. But Sam wouldn’t tell her why, so Angela and Sam had a falling out. We sent Sam to stay with her aunt for a while in Inverness. But when she came back and saw that Angela and Patrick were serious, she went berserk. You know the rest. She made stupid threats and eventually we had to get her help. She was later diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic.”

“You
blame Angela for that?”

“Yes,
I blame her, and Patrick, it was all the stress that brought it to a head.”

“Is
Samantha all right now?”

John
straightened up in his chair and leaned in a little. “Do you know what paranoid schizophrenia is? It ruins your life, it tears families apart. The drugs alone are enough to drive you crazy without the illness. No, she is not all right, but she gets by. You see that man there?” Tom turned to see a man in his mid fifties behind the bar. “He had a great life in front of him. But he had to move back here to help me when his mother took ill with the stress; it broke her heart, what happened to Sam. She died and I took a heart attack and in the blink on an eye, young Peter’s life is turned up side down. Out of loyalty he gave up any chance at a career and moved back here.” John took a slow breath in. “Look, Tom, I’m sorry for Angela Harrison’s family, but some times it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.” John pushed his chair out and disappeared through the narrow doorway to the reception.

Tom
packed away the file and walked over to Peter at the bar.

“Do
you ever see Patrick around, Peter?” Tom asked.

Peter
smirked. “My Dad barred him over thirty years ago and he has never been in here since. He still has the farm up the lane from Church Street.”

Tom
thanked him and left.

*****

Tom climbed into the Jeep and headed toward Patrick’s farm. It was now nearly 10am. Middle of the day for most farmers.

The
lane off Church Street, was narrow and over grown. The tarmac was old with large potholes showing evidence of the tractors and heavy machinery that had travelled it. At the top of the lane were two farms. Patrick Goyl owned the second one.

Tom
pulled up the long dirt drive past some barns and fields. He stopped the Jeep and climbed out. A skinny man with dark hair turning grey was leaning over a fence emptying a sack into a trough.

“Can
I help you?” The man looked up. His face so weather beaten it resembled raw steak.

“I
am looking for Patrick Goyl?”

“You
found him.”

Tom
introduced himself and extended a hand. He explained the reason for his visit and a sombre look came over the man’s face. He led Tom over to the farmhouse. Kicking off his boots, he walked into the large traditional kitchen.

“I
haven’t heard Angela’s name in a lot of years.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, indicating one for Tom.

“Do
you have any idea what might have happened to her?”

“Well,
everyone here thinks I done away with her. Not bloody true.”

“What
did happen the last time you saw her?”

Patrick
did not show much emotion, he was more resigned to the facts of the case.

“I
went up to see her because she had dumped me. Sam, her mate, had threatened her or something and she was upset.”

“Sam,
she’s the girl you got pregnant?”