Candles and Roses by Alex Walters Read Free Book Online Page A

frosted glass in the front-door. There was a rattling of locks before the door finally opened a few centimetres, held by a chain.
    ‘Yes?’ A woman peered back at them through the door. She was perhaps in her early sixties, but looked older, her hair white, her face lined and worried-looking. She was dressed smartly, in a tweed skirt and white blouse.
    ‘Mrs Scott?’
    ‘Who’s asking?’ she said, suspiciously. ‘Didn’t you see the notice?’
    McKay glanced at the sticker in the upper frame in the door. ‘No hawkers, cold callers or circulars.’ When was the last time anyone was bothered by a hawker?
    He held out his warrant card. ‘Police. DI McKay. DS Horton.’
    ‘Is this about the break-ins? We’ve had no problems, but next door’s said that their shed—’
    ‘No, Mrs Scott. It’s not about the burglaries. May we come in? I’m afraid we have some bad news.’
    ‘Bad news? Well, you’d better—’ The door closed, and they heard the sound of the chain being removed. Then Mrs Scott opened it fully and led them into the narrow hallway.
    The inside of the small bungalow was as McKay had envisaged it. There was a sitting room off to the right, a kitchen straight ahead of them and a row of closed doors on the left. The interior was scrupulously tidy, the decor fussy and old-fashioned. There were shelves lined with porcelain figurines and similar knick-knacks.
    ‘Is your husband at home, Mrs Scott?’
    ‘He’s in the sitting room. We were just sitting down to watch Countdown . Ronnie’s retired now, you know?’ She spoke as if McKay was an old acquaintance who might have failed to keep up with the latest news. ‘Would you like some tea?’
    ‘I think you’d better come and sit down, Mrs Scott.’ Before Mrs Scott could object further, McKay led the way into the sitting room, Horton following behind. Mr Scott, who had obviously been semi-dozing in front of the television, started up in surprise.
    ‘I’m very sorry to disturb you, Mr Scott—’ McKay began.
    From behind him, Mrs Scott said: ‘It’s the police, Ronnie. They say they’ve got some bad news.’
    Scott pushed himself slowly to his feet, looking startled and slightly bewildered. He looked older than his wife, probably late sixties, with slightly unkempt grey hair and eyes that blinked at the world through thick glasses. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and slacks, but looked as if he’d have been more at home in a suit. McKay suspected that retirement wasn’t suiting the man. He could empathise with that.
    ‘Police?’ Scott repeated, as if he hadn’t quite understood. He was staring at McKay as if expecting to be arrested himself. ‘You’d better sit down.’
    McKay sat himself in one of the two armchairs, while Mrs Scott perched beside her husband on the sofa, reaching for the remote to mute the sound of the television.
    ‘As I told your wife, Mr Scott, I’m afraid I’ve come bearing some bad news. It’s about your daughter.’ Ever since they’d confirmed that Katy Scott’s parents were still alive and resident in Culbokie, McKay had been mentally preparing this conversation. He’d been in this position numerous times, and it never became any easier.
    Scott glanced at his wife, then back at McKay. ‘Katy? What about her?’
    ‘I’m afraid she’s dead, Mr Scott. I’m very sorry.’
    He wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been expecting. In his experience, responses to that kind of news varied dramatically and often unpredictably. Loving, close parents sat in apparent calm, while supposedly estranged mothers and fathers threw themselves into unstoppable paroxysms of grief.
    The Scotts seemed closer to the former camp. Scott was looking at his wife, as if expecting her to take the lead. ‘My God,’ he said, finally. ‘Well, that’s a shock.’ It sounded like the response to the death of a family pet rather than his own daughter. ‘What—what were the circumstances?’
    ‘It’s rather complicated, Mr Scott.