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  “What’s happened, then?”

  Melville stood up straight. “Boy’s wife didn’t come home from walking the dogs last night. He’s going spare. Got a Family Liaison Officer in with him just now.”

  Vicky looked at the sheet. “Derek Hay, right?”

  “Aye. Wife’s called Rachel.”

  “I’ve got the incident report.” Vicky held up the page before refolding it. “Why did this get bumped to Specialised Crime Division?”

  “We were doing okay on our own. Standard MisPer case, you know how it is.” Melville retrieved an evidence bag from his pocket, a sheet of paper inside. “Then this note came this morning.”

  Vicky inspected it. Classic poison pen style — cut-up letters from a newspaper glued to a sheet of paper. We have your wife. She is safe. Do not worry. Much. She handed it to Considine. “It’s not signed.”

  “I know that.” Melville shrugged. “You think it’s important?”

  “Maybe.” Vicky nibbled at her top lip. “When did it arrive?”

  “Found it with their Courier this morning. The FLO was just wanting to check the Garfield.”

  Considine frowned. “This was folded up in it?”

  Melville shook his head. “Underneath. She got a bit of a shock, I can tell you.”

  “Have you got the paperboy?”

  “Paper girl. She’s giving a statement down the station.”

  Vicky frowned. “Is that Longforgan?”

  Melville nodded. “Aye. We’re Carse of Gowrie out here.”

  “Have you got a trace put on her mobile phone?”

  “Not yet.”

  Vicky nodded at Considine. “Stephen, could you speak to Jenny Morgan? Tell her it’s for me.”

  Melville held out a Post-It note. “Here’s her number.”

  “Fine.” Considine got out his phone and sloped off back to his car, eyes locked on the Post-It.

  Vicky waved at the house. “After you.”

  Melville led inside the house, the grey-harled villa pockmarked with at least two attic conversions, before walking down the hallway, busy with multiple doors and little in the way of wall space, and entering through a door.

  The living room had the bitter tang of filter coffee kept on the heat too long, coming from the adjoining kitchen door. A dark wood mirror sat above a tiled fireplace, a gas fire burning away beneath.

  A man sat on a settee, clutching a mug, scratching at the stubble on his face. He had beige cargo pants on, a plain green t-shirt covering his pot belly.

  A female officer sat on a chair opposite, hat in her lap, blonde hair all mussed up. “These officers are detectives, Derek. They’re going to help find Rachel.”

  Hay didn’t look up. “Thanks.”

  The FLO got to her feet and walked to the front window, nodding at Vicky to take over as she rested her hands against the wide radiator.

  Vicky sat on the now-vacant armchair. “I’m DS Dodds. My colleague DC Considine is just outside.” She got out her notebook and biro, fixing a stare on Hay — treat him as a suspect for now. “I believe your wife has gone missing, is that correct?”

  “It is, aye.”

  “I appreciate you’ll have been through this with my colleagues, but could you go through what’s happened for my benefit?”

  Hay leaned forward on his seat, the springs underneath creaking as he placed the mug on a wooden coaster on the coffee table. “Rachel was out walking the dogs yesterday afternoon, as usual. She didn’t come back.”

  “Are the dogs okay?”

  Hay nodded. “Aye, they ran home. I heard them rattling at the back door, so I let them in.” His fingers twitched as he reached for his mug again, wrapping his thick fingers around it. “I was worried someone had kidnapped them.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Rachel breeds pugs. She was out with the main breeding pair last night and their two sisters. They’re prizewinning, worth a lot of money.”

  Considine entered the room, perching on a recliner next to Vicky. “Where are the dogs now, sir?”

  “I put them in the kennel last night.” Hay got to his feet. “I can show you, if you’d like?”

  Considine nodded. “Thanks.”

  “This way.” Hay took them through the back of the house into a room lined with dark oak bookshelves, a dresser at the back covered in rosettes and trophies. He twisted a key in the French doors and led outside, propping the door with a small gnome, the wind knocking the casing against it.

  The long Victorian garden was filled with ten dog kennels, the pugs sitting in the cages staring at them, their faces lined and creased.

  Hay pointed to the first two cages, two beige dogs sitting up, heads tilted to the side, eyebrows up in the middle and arching down, their dark muzzles almost pouting. “These are the ones Rach was out with last night. Benji and Jemima. They’re her breeding pair.” He waved at the next two cages. “That’s Lucy and Susie, the other two she was out with.”

  Standing in the cold air, Vicky couldn’t look at them for long. She rubbed at her arms. “Can we go back inside?”

  “Sure.” Hay gestured for Considine to lead, the gnome toppling over as he shut the door.

  Vicky sat on her armchair, the wooden arm clunking as she rested against it, the room feeling a few degrees cooler. “What time did Mrs Hay set out last night?”

  “Half four, something like that.” Hay glanced at his watch. “The dogs got back about six? Maybe twenty past?”

  “Does she usually go on such long walks?”

  “Aye, every day. Likes to make sure they get a lot of exercise.”

  “When did you call the police?”

  “Just after half six. I waited a while to see if she’d come back but she didn’t.”

  Vicky noted it down on a timeline. “And you were here at the time?”

  “Aye. It was my day off. I work at Downfield golf course. I’m a greenkeeper there.”

  Vicky turned to a new page in her notebook. “There was a note found with the newspaper this morning. Did you see who delivered it?”

  Hay shook his head. “No. I’ve been on the phone since I woke up this morning, not that I slept much.”

  “Who were you speaking to?”

  “As many people as I could think of. Everyone we know, really.” Hay picked up his mug, lifting the coaster with it, and took another drink, grimacing. “Her friends, her parents.”

  “Has anyone heard from her?”

  “No. They all sounded really worried.”

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm your wife? Any enemies?”

  Hay scratched his neck. “Well, there was a couple who bought a dog from Rach that died of PDE.”

  “What’s PDE?”

  “Pug Dog Encephalitis, I think. It’s like meningitis for dogs. Pugs can be prone to it, hence the name.” Hay tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. “We’ve had a few over the years.”

  “And what happened to this particular dog?”

  “Had to get put down. They were threatening to sue Rach.”

  “How much did the dog cost them?”

  “Over a grand, but they were suing for distress and vet bills and things like that.” Hay took another sip, the coaster dropping into his lap. “We settled out of court. Gave them a refund. They seemed happy with that.”

  “Do you still have their contact details?”

  Hay nodded before reaching over for a mobile phone. “Here you go. Guy called Gary Black.”

  Vicky noted it down before handing the phone to Considine. “Why did you mention them?”

  “They got really angry, started threatening Rachel.” Hay retrieved his phone, clasping it tight. “She’s just trying to make an honest living out of this, you know?”

  Vicky smiled at Hay. “We’re tracing her
mobile number now. It might help.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Was there a set route your wife would walk the dogs?”

  “Rachel’s a creature of habit.” Hay stared at the window. “She used to go through the fields out the back, same route every day. She walks to the end of the village then just keeps on going the edge of the fields and the wood by the motorway. She comes home through the James Hutton Institute.”

  Vicky noted it — would the regularity have allowed for easy capture? “Seems a long route for pugs.”

  “Need to keep them in shape. She took that breeding pair to Crufts last year. Proudest day of our lives.”

  “I see.” Vicky got to her feet and gestured to the FLO, still standing in the window. “I’ll leave you with my colleague here. We’ve got a few avenues of investigation just now but we may be back for further questions.”

  “By all means.”

  Melville led them back out.

  Vicky stopped by the gate and squinted at the house. “Did that tally with what you heard earlier?”

  Melville shrugged. “Well, you asked a few more things than we did but there were no inconsistencies.”

  “Okay.”

  Considine zapped his car with his key fob. “Where next, then?”

  Vicky looked down the long street, almost completely silent save for the cars in the distance and the rustle of the trees in the wind. “Let’s start with the paper girl. This note seems a bit dodgy. She’s probably innocent, but you never know.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not really.” Vicky’s phone rang. She reached into her bag to get it — an unknown number. “DS Dodds.”

  “Hey, Vicks, it’s Jenny.”

  “I almost didn’t answer because of the unknown number.”

  “Sorry. It’s these new Police Scotland phones. You with a DC Considine? Sounds like he fancies himself.”

  “Aye.”

  “Right. He asked me to call you. I traced Rachel’s mobile. Got a last location yesterday afternoon at the back of six just before it was switched off.”

  “Where?”

  “Google Maps tells me it’s near the James Hutton Institute, just by Invergowrie. Place called the Living Garden.”

  “Cheers, Jenny.” Vicky dumped her phone in her bag and nodded at Considine. “Come on, Stephen, we’ve got something.”

  Melville put his hat on. “Want me with you?”

  Vicky shook her head. “Stay here. See if you can call around their family again. Keep on top of it. And let me know the outcome of the interview with the paper girl.”

  Chapter Four

  Considine slowed to a crawl as they rumbled over the gravel, passing a large field segregated into multiple areas, looking like different crops in each. A team of twenty or so people were dotted around the various areas. Nearby, two burly men were locked in conversation, arms folded and brows creased.

  He pulled into the car park, crunching the handbrake on. “See what you were saying about me having a think about whether I’m ready?”

  “I meant you should think about it when you’re not driving. Off duty.” She undid her buckle. “I’m happy to do some coaching.”

  Considine let his seatbelt ride up, a smirk on his face. “What makes you think you can coach me?”

  “You don’t think you need any?”

  “I don’t. I’m ready for it. I told Ennis I was ready and I’m telling you.”

  “Stephen, you actually need to be ready, not just think it.”

  “What about catching that taxi driver last month?”

  “What about it? You were doing your job. Well done.”

  “I did that all on my own, though.”

  “That might be the problem.” Vicky got out of the car. She walked through the almost-full car park, a few steps ahead of Considine, heading for the James Hutton Institute, a low-slung set of dark-brown brick buildings. The doors swooshed open as they approached. She stamped her feet on the strips of mat near the door.

  The receptionist looked up from a magazine. “Can I help?”

  Vicky went over to the desk and flashed her warrant card. “We’re investigating a disappearance.” She showed her a photo Melville had given them. “Rachel Hay. We believe she was abducted near here. Do you recognise her?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “You sure?”

  The receptionist scowled. “Hang on. Is that the woman whose dogs ran all over the garden?”

  Vicky frowned. “Go on?”

  “You’ll need to speak to Marianne about it. Marianne Smith. She’s the curator of the Living Field. It’s just back there.”

  Vicky smiled. “Do we need to sign in?”

  “Not if you stay outside, you don’t.”

  “Thanks.” Vicky left the building and walked towards the field, back the way they’d come.

  A figure knelt at the flower bed nearest them, stabbing a trowel into the earth.

  Vicky cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

  The woman thrust the trowel into the ground and got to her feet, rubbing her wrist against her temple, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

  “We’re looking for a Marianne Smith?”

  “That’ll be me.” Marianne tore off her garden gloves and held out a hand, her skin rough and pale.

  Vicky shook it. She was maybe mid-forties, greying hair in a long ponytail snaking down her back. She wore shorts and a vest top — despite it being late March and in Dundee — and there was no sign of a bra.

  She looked Vicky up and down. “To whom am I speaking?”

  Vicky showed her warrant card. “DS Vicky Dodds and DC Stephen Considine of Police Scotland’s Specialised Crime Division.”

  “How can I help?”

  Vicky noticed a few other workers were starting to look over. “What are you working on here?”

  “I’m the curator of the Living Garden.” Marianne dusted off her hands. “It’s the institute’s outreach project on biology and environmental science. We grow lots of diverse crops and perform safe experiments.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, we now know which plants bees like best, for example. Our work’s helping farmers in the States repopulate their lost colonies.” Marianne chewed on a fingernail, slightly torn down the middle. “How can I help?”

  “We’re investigating the disappearance of a Rachel Hay. We believe she was walking her dogs near here yesterday.”

  Marianne frowned. “The name doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid.”

  “Used to walk this way every day.” Vicky held up the photo. “This is her.”

  “Nope, sorry.”

  “Strange.” Vicky pointed back to the main building. “The receptionist just told us her pugs ran all over the garden.”

  Marianne stared at her for a few seconds, jaw clenched. “Ah, yes, I remember her now.”

  “Did you see her yesterday?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  Vicky held her gaze before nodding and looking away. “What happened with her dogs, then?”

  Marianne sighed then gestured around the space. “They ruined half of the garden. Those little buggers trampled all over a crop. We’d had seeds flown over from Malaysia. It was crucial to one of our PhD students’ projects. Ingrid had to start again from scratch.” She shook her head slowly. “Pugs are the most despicable breed of dogs.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, nothing to do with them per se, just the breeders. I love dogs but I hate dog breeders.”

  Vicky got out her notebook and wrote Marianne’s name, underlining it twice. “Have you done anything to her?”

  Marianne narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t do anything to harm a living creature.”

  “Where were you between four and seven p.m. yesterday?”

  Ma
rianne folded her arms. “I was at my home. In Fife. I’d been doing a talk at the local high school in the morning.”

  “And after that?”

  “I was reading.”

  “Can anyone verify this?”

  “I’m afraid not. I live alone.”

  Vicky made a note then handed her a card. “If anything jogs your memory, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.” She led Considine back towards the car, glancing back at Marianne as they walked. “I wish she’d wear a bra.”

  “I didn’t know where to look.”

  Vicky took a deep breath as she stopped by the Subaru. “I need more manpower on this. This is too much for just us.”

  “Agreed. What about the Three Amigos?”

  “I’ll need to speak to Forrester about it.”

  Considine’s phone rang. “Do you mind?”

  “Go for it.”

  He answered it and walked round to the driver’s side of the car.

  Vicky looked back at the Living Garden. Was Marianne Smith involved?

  Considine ended his call and tossed his phone in the air. “That was Gary Black, the boy who bought that defective dog from Rachel Hay? He can meet us now.”

  Chapter Five

  What sort of name is Perspect?” Finger on the intercom buzzer, Considine shook his head at the brass plate, the purple and lime logo curved almost to the point of illegibility.

  “A bad one.” Vicky looked down Whitehall Street, lined with old townhouses now turned into city centre shops — a bakery and a camping shop sat either side of Perspect. She pointed across the road. The ground floor was stuffed with a range of bookies, pizza restaurants and Chinese buffets. “I remember when that was all Debenhams.”

  “Showing your age there.”

  Cheeky bastard. Vicky nodded towards the office. “You’re leading here, okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  The door clicked open. A tall man in a light grey suit beamed out at them, pale skin shaved close. “How can I help?”

  “Police.” Considine showed his warrant card. “We’ve got an appointment with a Gary Black.”

  “Certainly. He’s expecting you.” The man pointed inside, both hands outstretched. “If you’ll just follow me?” He led them inside, the unit small but almost completely filled with offices, everything gleaming in chrome and glass. He indicated to a glass-fronted room. “If you could just wait in here, Mr Black will be along shortly.” He gave a tilt of his head then returned to a small reception desk.