“I’ve longed for this moment for nearly thirty years,” he said quietly, enunciating each word in that precise way he had, his cut-glass Scottish accent pure and sharp as the first fall of snow on the mountains of his beloved Highlands.
“Night and day, ever since she went...” The voice trailed off. There was a catch in it. His smile faded away, slipping into the folds of skin around his mouth, disappearing into the leathery contours of a face that in itself told so much of the tragedy that had overshadowed his long life. He seemed to be struggling to regain control before continuing.
“It’s been with me, all of it, all this time, at the back of my mind all day long regardless of what I am doing, and in my dreams every night. And I mean every night. It’s always there.”
He looked at her. His eyes were even brighter now. She thought a tear or two might be forming.
“But you know that, lass, don’t you?” he said gently.
She nodded. Mac lowered his eyes. But she could see that he was blinking rapidly. She had never seen Sean MacDonald break down, not at any stage since Clara had disappeared. He was a tough dour Scotsman, unaccustomed to showing his feelings. She did know just a little of what he had gone through for all those years. She really did. He was right about that.
“It’s like an instinct with me, all of this,” Mac went on. “When I got here and they said you were out, I just thought: ‘Yes, they’ve gone to get him. At last they’ve gone to get him.’ And I was right, wasn’t I?”
Karen nodded again. “Yes, Mac. You were right.”
“And he’s here now? He’s in this building?”
“Yes. He’s here. In one of our cells by now, probably. Locked up where he belongs at last.”
Mac took a deep breath, drawing in a big gulp of air very slowly, almost as if it hurt him to do so. His voice was even softer when he began to speak again.
“I can feel him here,” he said. “I can feel his presence. I knew he was here.”
He reached out, touched her hand with his.
“Can you keep him locked up? Can you do that, Karen lassie? Is he going to go down? Is there going to be justice for my lovely girls at last?”
“Oh, I do hope so, Mac. By God I do.”
“You’re a good person, Karen Meadows, and a very fine police officer,” Mac said suddenly.
She was totally taken aback.
“I know a whole lot of people who would disagree with you on both counts,” she remarked wryly.
“And they’d be wrong. You’re special, Karen. You’re special because you care.”
Karen was afraid she was going to blush. This conversation continued to take her by surprise. She decided not to be clever or flippant. Mac had, after all, opened his heart to her, and she knew that wouldn’t have come easily to him. Strange how when you got a result you had longed for, when something you really wanted finally happened or something you hated finally stopped, that was when you weakened. That was when the cracks began to show. It certainly seemed to be that way, and she thought it might be that way for her too — which was why she had to be so careful. She still felt a certain guilt, a certain responsibility. Still felt there were things she could have said, told the police all those years ago that may just have made a difference.
She forced herself to concentrate on the present again. She had, after all, been only a child when it had all happened. Now she was a senior police officer, and she was also in charge of the entire operation. She could not afford to allow any cracks to show. Not today. Not ever. That was her lot. But she could not stop herself sharing at least some of her feelings with this man whose life had been more or less destroyed, she knew, by what had happened to his family.
“Well, I do care about this case, that’s for certain,” she admitted.
“I know, lassie. Be watchful, though, won’t you. He’s like an eel, that man. You grab hold of him, take him in your grasp, and he just slips away. He’s done it all his life. A catalogue of crimes, some small, one truly terrible, and he’s always got away with it. I know he went to jail once, but that was a light sentence. He should have got at least six years, not six months, for ruining all those people’s lives, stealing their life’s savings.”
Sean MacDonald spat the words out. His grip on Karen’s hand had tightened so much now that it hurt. Obliquely she thought how strong he still was for his age.
“He mustn’t be allowed to get away with it again, lassie,” he said. “Not now. Not when we are so close after all this time. He mustn’t be allowed to get off...” Mac’s voice trailed off again. “To have him arrested at last, just when I’d almost stopped hoping. If he got off now, well, I don’t think I could take it, Karen, I really don’t think I could.”
Karen understood exactly how he felt. The Scotsman was not alone.
“I don’t think I could either, Mac,” she responded softly.
Mac stayed for just under half an hour. He would remain in Torquay until after Marshall was charged, he told Karen, and when he left the station she was even more determined than ever that Richard Marshall would be charged and brought to justice.
There were, however, one or two hurdles to be jumped. Notably the Chief Constable and the Crown Prosecution Service. Both had to be convinced that this time the case was a goer — that at last Marshall could be charged with murder, and that the charge could be made to stick.
However, the evidence, although damning, remained circumstantial, and Karen felt that it was vital to continue to press the investigation and make every possible effort to strengthen the case against Marshall. Anything which could be gleaned from the man himself might prove of immense importance. So even though Marshall’s coolness under questioning was legend, Karen decided that she would interview him herself. At least she would have nobody but herself to blame if no progress was made, she thought caustically.
Also, she somehow felt that she knew the man, knew what made him tick, knew how he would react. And she couldn’t help hoping, although aware that this was an extremely long shot with Richard Marshall, that she might be the one to make him break. She felt so close to it all and had been involved, albeit peripherally, with the case for so long that it seemed strange to her, almost hard to believe, that she had never previously questioned Marshall. So strong was her sense of involvement that it seemed even more difficult to believe that, until earlier that day in Poole, she had never actually met Richard Marshall since she had lived next door to him as a child.
The sense of anticipation developed into nervous excitement as she gave instructions for Marshall to be taken to an interview room. DC Tompkins and PC Brownlow were already there when she arrived.
Marshall didn’t look up, didn’t speak, and in no way acknowledged her entry into the room. She studied him in silence for at least two minutes. Two could play at that game, she thought. Marshall looked sullen more than anything else. If he was nervous or afraid he gave little sign of it. In fact, Karen was afraid that she might be experiencing more nerves than he was. Either that or he was an extremely good actor. Karen hoped that it was the latter. At least that would give her an outside chance of making a breakthrough of some sort, she thought.
With one hand Marshall was playing with a wayward strand of his curly hair. With the other he drummed a silent rhythm on the table. He looked bored. Disinterested. He watched her as she watched him and eventually he gave a little tired sigh and said: “Can we get on with it then?”
His voice was clear and controlled. He really was hard to fathom, she thought, and it was disconcerting. Particularly when you considered his Houdini-like history in his dealings with the law. The expression in his eyes gave little away. His fleshy but still handsome features displayed mild irritation more than anything else.