quite a lot in our group sessions. The girls have a daily meeting to share their experiences, when they feel ready. Zoey kept herself to herself when she first arrived, but gradually she started to talk to the others. She’d suffered violence and psychological abuse. Nothing sexual, at least not that she ever told us about.’
‘Her stepfather?’ Callanach checked.
‘Yes,’ Sandra said. ‘Christopher Myers. He once broke her nose because she called him Christopher rather than Dad. Seems he couldn’t bear to be reminded that anyone had ruled the family before him. Zoey had a brother, too, although she didn’t talk about him much. Would you like to see her room now? I’m off duty in ten minutes and I can’t leave you in the property.’
They followed Sandra upstairs, where she opened a door with two different keys to reveal an orderly bedroom with a chair, a chest of drawers and a matching wardrobe. A small en suite with a shower was behind a second door.
‘The bed’s made, all the clothes are away,’ Callanach said to Tripp. ‘Zoey didn’t go anywhere in a panic and there’s a suitcase under the bed. She wasn’t running from any threat she was aware of and it looks as if she had every intention of returning.’
‘And if she was aware of a threat, I’d guess she’d have reported it to someone here as a precaution. Not least to keep the other women safe,’ said Tripp. ‘So was this a random kidnapping and murder? Just an unfortunate coincidence that she crossed the path of an opportunistic killer?’
‘Possibly, but the wounds inflicted have a personal meaning to whoever caused them. Come on. There’s nothing else here, no laptop or mobile.’ Callanach shut the drawers he’d opened. ‘No letters or diary. I guess it’s time to visit the stepfather.’
They walked back down the stairs to find Sandra waiting for them with her coat on and keys in hand. She let them out and followed behind.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Callanach said.
‘No problem. I’ll just stay and lock up. Call if you need anything else,’ Sandra replied.
Callanach and Tripp walked around the corner towards their unmarked car. ‘Do we have Zoey’s medical records yet?’ Tripp asked.
‘Still waiting. Hopefully we’ll get them within the next couple of days.’ Callanach stopped and sighed. ‘I meant to ask Sandra for a copy of the CCTV footage from when Zoey last left the shelter. I’ll go back. You start the car and put the stepfather’s address into the SatNav.’
He turned around and made his way towards the shelter’s back door. He was about to call out to Sandra when he saw a man approach her, kissing her at length before letting go. Sandra laughed, said something Callanach couldn’t hear from that distance and kissed the man again.
The male shouldn’t have been that close to the back door of the shelter, was Callanach’s first thought. Even if he wasn’t a threat, the women living there should be able to come and go without anyone seeing them. Judging by the intensity of the greeting, it looked like a new relationship. People rarely kissed for more than a couple of seconds after the first few months – not in public anyway. Keeping his footsteps light, Callanach walked in the shadow of the property’s rear wall until he was close enough to Sandra to say her name quietly.
‘Oh God, you made me jump,’ she said. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘One last query. Hello.’ He held out a hand to shake Sandra’s boyfriend’s. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Callanach.’
‘This is my boyfriend, Tyrone,’ Sandra answered for him.
‘Tyrone?’ Callanach let the missing surname hang in the air between them.
‘Tyrone Leigh,’ the man muttered. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘DI Callanach’s here about the incident,’ Sandra explained to her boyfriend, before turning her attention back to Callanach. ‘Tyrone knows because I asked him to drop me at the mortuary to identify Zoey’s body.’
‘Sandra shouldn’t have had to do that,’ Tyrone said. ‘This job’s tough enough already.’
‘I agree,’ Callanach said. ‘It’s a terrible thing to ask anyone to undertake, but unfortunately it was necessary. Did you ever meet Zoey?’
Sandra and Tyrone’s eyes met briefly before he answered.
‘We bumped into her once, in the supermarket up the road,’ Sandra said. ‘I was picking up dinner on the way home and Zoey happened to be in there.’
‘Who else other than residents knows the address of the shelter?’ Callanach asked. ‘Have you told any of your friends or family, Mr Leigh?’
‘Did I do something wrong?’ Tyrone asked.
‘Not at all. I’m just covering all bases. We need to know how Zoey was located by her attacker.’
‘Seems pretty bloody obvious to me you should be arresting her stepfather,’ Tyrone said.
Sandra glared at him. If looks were kicks, Tyrone would have been holding his shin, Callanach thought. He raised his eyebrows.
‘I only told him because Zoey was a bit off with him in the supermarket, didn’t want to shake his hand when he offered. I was just explaining that she’d had a rough time of it at home,’ Sandra muttered, red-faced.
‘I understand,’ Callanach said. ‘Probably best in future not to share any of your residents’ details though, no matter what the circumstances. Could you let me have a copy of the security CCTV showing the last time Zoey left the shelter? I’ll send an officer to fetch it tomorrow. Thank you, Miss Tilly.’
Callanach took out his phone as he walked away and made a note of Tyrone Leigh’s name, knowing that a row would be starting behind him.
The Myers household was opposite the bowling club in Broxburn, its front windows affording a view of the river, with neighbouring properties adjoining on either side.
‘This is nice,’ Tripp said. ‘Not quite what I was expecting.’
‘Domestic violence doesn’t only happen in tenements, Tripp,’ Callanach said.
‘I know that, it’s just hard to understand why a man would provide for a family, with a pretty house in a good village, then ruin it all. What’s the point?’ Tripp asked.
‘Control. It always boils down to that. Some people just need to feel powerful, and if this is their only way of achieving that, they don’t care what the peripheral damage is. I asked PC Biddlecombe to phone ahead. They’re expecting us.’
The door opened before they reached it and a short, thin woman opened it, clutching a handful of tissues. The paleness of her face and red eyes needed no explanation. Callanach studied her for signs of recent injury or older scarring, but saw none.
‘Come in,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m Elsa Myers.’
Tripp and Callanach introduced themselves as they wiped their shoes on the mat. Mrs Myers showed them into a pastel-shaded lounge. There were two photos on the mantelpiece, one of a young man in a soldier’s uniform and one of Zoey in school uniform, looking shy as she smiled for the photographer.
‘How old was your daughter in that photo?’ Callanach asked.
‘Fourteen,’ her mother said. ‘Please sit down. My husband’s just coming to join us.’
She looked like Zoey, Callanach thought. There was a frailty about her that had to have preceded the news of her daughter’s death. It looked as if the slightest breeze would bend her. Her wrists were almost skeletal beneath the white blouse she was wearing, and her cheekbones were harsh in her face.
‘Where’s