Free 04-Mothers of the Disappeared by Russel D McLean

and the like.’ I thought about his bookshelves, the battered puzzle books I’d seen. ‘Everyone’s got to have a hobby, I guess. And aside from that and his garden, I don’t know what else he does with his time.’
    I downed the last of the Coke. Stood up. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a big help.’
    ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You ever write a book about this, be sure and send one for Mo. She’d love it, you know?’
    ‘I’ll remember that.’

ELEVEN
    L eaving the pub, I felt at a loss.
    What the hell was I doing here? Reopening an old man’s wounds because of a hunch?
    Or worse, was I distracting myself from real problems? Such as Griggs’s attempts to manipulate me?
    I took a walk down to the river, walked the footpath like any other tourist. It was late in the day. I’d wound up hanging around longer than anticipated. Talking to Moorehead’s father had left me feeling restless, uncertain. The drive back seemed long and daunting. Four hours could be an eternity in the wrong frame of mind. What I needed was to unwind. To digest everything I had heard. I thought about the call of a pint at the Coleman Arms. The appeal of a freshly laundered hotel bed.
    Maybe it would be a good idea. Give me time to rest and reassess.
    More important, give me a chance to have that pint. Some things in life can always be eased by a good beer.
    Walking the river, the chirping of crickets erupted from somewhere nearby, along with the call of birds somewhere among the trees. The sounds were unfamiliar to me. Dundee is hardly a metropolis, but its sounds are those of industry and the modern age: the rush of cars, the hum of generators, the beat of music from clubs and pubs. Those were the noises that welcomed my nights. To hear the sounds of animals and the rush of water was unsettling. And, at the same time, relaxing. I closed my eyes as I stood at the edge of the river and just let it wash over me.
    My phone vibrated gently.
    I took a deep breath. Even out here, in a place that promised isolation and calm, there was always something to remind you that society wasn’t ready to let you go. There is always a reminder; a message, an alert, a vibration that recalls you to your duties in the twenty-four-hour, never-sleep culture that we have slowly established since the industrial revolution. You could never really escape. Tied by invisible cords to the rest of your life, no matter where you ran to.
    I checked the display that glowed unnaturally in the dim light of early evening. Unknown number. Clicked to the message content.
    Any thoughts? Offer won’t last forever. S.
    I nearly tossed the phone. Just wanted rid of it. And the rest of my life. Had this urge to run into the trees across the other side of the water. Return to nature completely. Forget about the world, about all the expectations that civilization brought with it.
    But I didn’t.
    What I did was, I pocketed my phone, turned and walked back to the village.
    I woke at 3 a.m., swallowed, still tasting the whisky I’d taken as a nightcap at the bar. The bartender had brought through Mo, his wife, so they could talk to me about what it meant to be a real private detective. They were hospitable and attentive, but all I really wanted was to get to my room and get my head together. By the time I was on my third Talisker, I persuaded them that I needed to do some paperwork before retiring.
    Truth be told, though, I could feel myself getting drunk, reaching the point of no return. And I wanted my head clear in the morning.
    The room they gave me was small, tucked away on the second floor, at the rear of the building. There were wooden struts built into the whitewashed walls. It was the kind of room Sherlock Holmes might have taken when a case required a country visit. The bed welcomed me with a comforting but firm embrace, and I was gone the moment my head hit the pillow. No time to undress or get under the sheets.
    But then, at 3 a.m., I woke.
    My eyes adjusted to the