Free The Child Garden by Catriona McPherson Page B

hasn’t got one. Maybe she doesn’t drive.”
    â€œBut how else would she get way out here?” I said. “The buses—” The thought hit both of us at the same time, but it was Stig who spoke.
    â€œWhere’s her car? I know there’s no buses, practically. A taxi?”
    â€œPretty memorable, once someone reports her missing,” I said. “I need to check her pockets and her flat.”
    â€œWe don’t know her address, remember?” said Stig. “We’re stuffed.”
    â€œNo, we’re not,” I said. “Because you told me she was divorced. Married and divorced? Her address’ll be in the system. On the FER. Forward Electronic Register,” I added before he asked me.
    â€œYou can just look everything up from your office?”
    â€œEveryone can,” I said. “Birth, marriage, divorce, and death. The FER is public record. Only, the public have to log in and it leaves a trace. And anyone looking up April Cowan’s address today would be really interesting to the cops, wouldn’t they? But I can look things up and no one will ever know.”
    â€œBirth, marriage … ” he said. It had dawned on him.
    â€œExactly. If Nathan McAllister really committed suicide in 1995, I’ll find the record. Meanwhile,” I said, popping open the microwave door, “I want you to write down everything you can remember about that night and everything before it and after it. Anything at all. Just like remembering April had crimped hair and bad acne. Anything you can get out of your brain. Write it down. Okay? Any questions?”
    â€œJust one. Are you going near any shops today?”
    â€œI could do,” I said. “But only in the village, so don’t ask me for men’s things.”
    â€œPinhead oatmeal and full-fat milk,” said Stig. “And real salt instead of this crap. Why do you make quick oats in a nuker when you’ve got a Rayburn stove?”
    I poured the porridge into two bowls and banged them down on the table beside the semi-skimmed milk and Lo-Salt.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “Ungrateful.”
    â€œI’ll be back at about ten past five,” I told him, “and then out again to the home and when I’m back for keeps, we can discuss everything.”
    â€œSorry,” he said again. “Do you usually stop in here first? Because if not, then don’t. You should stick to your usual routine.”
    â€œI don’t want to leave you that long,” I said. “I’ll blame Walter. Say he needs checking in on. He nearly does anyway.”
    Stig stirred his spoon round staring into his bowl. “It doesn’t feel real,” he said. “It’s like we’re at one of those parties where you get a card: murderer, victim, detective.”
    â€œDetective,” I said. “And listen, speaking of routines, what’s going to happen when you don’t show up for your work?”
    â€œNothing,” he said. “They’ll change the combination on my locker and have someone else in by next week. Won’t be the first time.”
    I wondered then. That didn’t sound like the sort of job BJ Tarrant’s son would have. They were business people, the Tarrants. Bought adverts in gala programmes and donated prizes to raffles. Flash Harry , my mum said, and that leg of mutton he’s married to. I thought Stig would be the boss, unsackable.
    â€œYou’ve not had it easy, have you?”
    He said nothing, just turned away from me and went to stand at the front kitchen window now, resting his head against the net curtain, staring out. “There’s plenty had it worse,” he said. “But honestly, I don’t think I’m up to this. April dead and trying to take me down as she goes? Why? Why did Nod kill himself ? Why did she have his obituary with her? There’s too much and it’s too complicated.” His breathing